Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

09 | Mismatched Engines

MARTES
8:56 AM

Reid Harlow

She's left-handed.

That's all I could fucking think about as we're sitting in physics class, taking notes on Calloway's PowerPoint.

He clicks on a button, and the slide moves to the next. He turns away from the screen and faces us, proceeding to go deeper into detail about the laws. I'm jotting down the notes I find necessary—more of them on his lectures than on the previews—and I notice from the corner of my peripheral vision that Dahlia got distracted, again.

She was staring down at her notebooks, the words mixing with scribbles and doodles. Her dark brows pull together in thought. It wasn't until Calloway clicks on the next slide that the sound snapped her back into reality, forcing her to pay attention to the lecture.

She heaves a sigh, picking up a pen as she proceeds to write down the notes on the PowerPoint. Her elbow immediately bumps with mine, and my lips fall into a scowl.

It was annoying, but I wasn't pissed off.

It was just a habit.

She glances up at me, before returning back to her notes, scooting herself closer inwards—taking the least possible space. "Sorry," she mumbles, her cheeks growing a tinted pink. I haven't seen her since the day in the park, but that excludes our shared classes. Our three shared classes.

I don't say anything in return, momentarily fazed by her. I couldn't help but think back to that moment at the bench, where she uncharacteristically snapped at me for smoking. It pissed me off, granted, but it was in that one simple moment that made me reconsider what I thought I knew about her.

If I live or die, I would remain nameless as I am now.

Me too.

"You should start writing with your right hand," I declare, my voice boasting with impassiveness. "it'll work better with me sitting next to you."

I waited, wanting to see if that would cause her to snap. She shakes her head, her black hair flowing over her shoulders and covering her face. She pushes them back with a hint of irritation, but that was about it. "I can't." She whispers softly, delicately.

"Why not?"

"It takes me way too long to write with my right hand," she glances up at the board, reading the displayed presentation, before scribbling the words onto paper. "I just can't do it."

"It's pissing me off." It's not. I'm trying to test you.

She doesn't say anything, just as Calloway takes on the next slide. I return back to my own notebook, jolting down the notes I needed. I listen intently to Calloway, ignoring his casualties at getting the class to be interactive, and it took a full slide before I realize.

We aren't bumping elbows anymore.

I turn to her, seeing how she adjusted over to her right hand without saying anything. I thought she would be more resistant, but she wasn't. I could tell she's trying to perfect her handwriting to be legible, but her strokes were extremely slow.

A pang of guilt passes through me, and for a moment, I consider telling her that I was joking and she could return back to writing with her left hand.

But I didn't.

She huffs in annoyance, pushing her hair back once more. She stops for a second, dropping the pen as she decides to pull her hair into a handful—only for her to twist her locks and hope it stays.