Page 2 of The Truth About Love

That’s her name.

I learn it when our anthropology teacher calls it out during attendance and proceeds to humiliate her by forcing her to stand in place and introduce herself to the class using three “interesting” facts about herself. For a supposed expert in human behaviour, Mr Hanson is oblivious to her discomfort.

But I recognise the slight tremor in her voice when she begrudgingly does as he demands. I zero in on the way her hands clench into fists at her sides, the blush that creeps up her neck and the tightness of her jaw as she speaks. It all betrays her façade of confidence that she’s working so hard to maintain even if I’m the only one in the room to notice.

She doesn’t like to show weakness, that much is clear to me already.

“Yeah, hi,” she says, gaze fixed on a random spot on the whiteboard at the front of the class. “I’m Summer, forget about the Raine part, it’s stupid. Um, I played the harp when I was little but can’t anymore, my favourite flavour of ice-cream is pistachio and I think the Beatles are overrated.”

She sits down before she’s even finished talking and rubs furiously at her hands on her lap beneath her desk. I only know, because she’s sitting two desks adjacent to me and the one between us is currently vacant. It means I can watch her from my periphery while pretending to listen to whatever Mr Hanson is saying.

“Very good, aside from the practical blasphemy at the end of your introduction there.” Mr Hanson clutches his heart with his hand and feigns a gasp. “Though I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Miss Taylor, we will be looking at the Beatles in quite close detail when we get to the ethnomusicology part of the curriculum later on in the semester. Considering music in its social and cultural contexts is an integral component of anthropological study.”

Summer-Raine offers him a short smile, but doesn’t respond. She’s saved from further mortification when Marlowe Eriksen, a mousy girl with thick-framed glasses and braided hair, bundles through the door to the classroom and successfully distracts Mr Hanson long enough to put a stop his tirade about millennials and their disrespect of “music that isn’t complete drivel”.

“You’re late, Miss Eriksen.”

Marlowe, who until now has never arrived late to class in her life, blinks repeatedly and visibly shrinks in on herself. “S-sorry, sir. Won’t happen again.”

He assesses her down the length of his hooked nose and sniffs imperiously. “Tell me your favourite Beatles song and I might just let you off without a detention, only so long as I approve of your answer.”

Marlowe’s eyes widen in bewilderment before she stutters out, “Hey Jude, sir.”

“Hmm.” He sniffs. “It’s not what I’d have chosen, but I suppose it’ll do. You could have chosen Yesterdayand then you’d have really been in trouble. Then again, you might have said the Beatles are overrated and then I’d have had no choice but to have you removed from my class altogether.”

The class snickers. My eyes shoot to Summer-Raine, who scowls at the man like she’s trying to kill him with the power of her gaze alone. Marlowe looks to and from them both in confusion.

“I’m only joking. We’re all entitled to our own opinions, no matter how wrong they might be. Sit down, Miss Eriksen and close the door, will you? I know you weren’t raised in a barn.”

Thankfully, the rest of the hour passes with no further mention of overrated 1960s British pop bands. Mr Hanson busies himself by telling us what to expect of the curriculum this semester, Summer-Raine stares out the window and I watch her watching raindrops roll down the misty glass.

She’s not in any other of my classes for the rest of the day.

When the bell finally rings for the end of school, my eyes are dry from searching for her in the hallways. I look for her in the parking lot and scan the rows of cars for a flash of golden hair, so distracted that I walk straight past my truck without realising.

“Dude, what’s up with you?” Freddy asks, frowning at me as I double-back on myself, climb into the driver’s seat and buckle up. “You’ve been super weird all day.”

“What? No, I haven’t.”

“It’s the new girl, isn’t it? You’ve been all distant and shit since you saw her in the hallway earlier.”

Jesus, the man can be so annoyingly perceptive sometimes.

“So what if it is?” I steer us out of the lot and drive us home along the beachfront. The rain stopped hours ago, the humid late summer air having dried up any trace of it, and the sand glistens like treasure in the mid-afternoon sun.

“I’ve never seen you lose your head over a girl before, let alone one you only just laid your eyes on. Even when you lost your virginity to Lana Sanders in junior year, you remembered where you’d parked your truck in the lot the next day. Have you even spoken to this girl yet?”

“You know her name. Use it. But no, I haven’t.” I frown. Truth be told, I have no idea what I’d even say to her if I had the chance. Something about her has me so hypnotised, I can hardly remember my own name around her.

“Well, now could be your chance,” he says, motioning out the window. “That’s her, isn’t it?”

I look to where he’s pointing. The unmistakable shine of her hair has my heart beating double time. Why do I react so strongly to her when I don’t even know her at all? I don’t believe in love at first sight, but if I did then I might just be convinced that’s what this feeling is.

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“Pull up then, man. Look, she’s heading to the beach.”

“What? No, no, I’ll just see her at school.”

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