Page 2 of Heartbeat

I knew what she meant, of course. It was just such a shit question.

“You’re starting a new school in the middle of your senior year. Are you having any anxiety or apprehension because of it?”

“Not really, no,” I told her.

She raised a single brow at me.

“I don’t feel stressed,” I assured her. “I’m pretty emotionally absent, to be honest, which is a good thing—”

“How is that a good thing?”

“Well, that’s my biggest problem, isn’t it? Feeling too much? So it’s good that I don’t at the moment. It’s a nice change.”

“It’s a common reaction to the drugs you’re taking.”

“Well, who said drugs were bad?” I smirked.

“As your body adjusts to the new dosage, this feeling—or lack thereof—will most likely subside.”

I didn’t say anything. It was clear she wasn’t enjoying the fact that numbness was something I actually welcomed.

“Can I ask something of you?” She tilted her head and took a deep breath before continuing. “Try making friends.”

“I’m not really good at that.”

“I’m just saying, if the possibility arises, don’t push people away. You’re good at that.” She was spot-on as usual.

“I have enough friends.”

“No one has enough friends,” she said, to which I rolled my eyes. “Be open to the new, Thomas.”

I scoffed. “‘The new’?”

“What have you got to lose?”

“Time? Effort? Patience?”

She had no answer for that.

*

My first day at Grant Academy went pretty much as I had expected. The school was smaller than I was used to. Either that or I kept running into the same people—at least that was what it felt like. They seemed nice enough, I guessed. Overall. Though within three minutes of sitting down at the last desk of first-period English lit, I got a text.

Are you the psycho kid?

You bet! Wanna see me snap? I answered.

I didn’t know if it was because I’d readily replied or because of what the reply said, but that was the first and last unknown text I got while attending Grant Academy. What was even more pathetic was I was able to identify the culprit almost the very second I wrote back.

It was from a jock (of course). Some red-haired, six-foot, muscular dude sat a few rows to my left, by the window, casually chatting with an equally tall, brown-haired guy with blue eyes I was certain I’d seen somewhere before. He turned to me as soon as his phone went off, looking rather puzzled.

“Don’t mind Dean,” someone softly said.

I turned to my right and found a black-haired girl with red lipstick and blue eyes smiling back at me.

“Sorry?”

“Dean,” she said. “He’s harmless. Sure, he can be a prick when he wants to, but he’s not a bad guy.”

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