Returning To You

Daisy P.O.V

It’s been more than a year since I’ve seen that face. Andy Biersack was my next door neighbor from the time I was five years old right up until the day he left town last year. It feels like there has never been a time when I didn’t know that face.

So it comes as quite a surprise to see it splashed out over two pages in the glossy magazine someone from the last class left on my desk. My breath catches in my chest as I stare down at the photo of him. God, he looks exactly the same. A shock of black hair sticks out from beneath a grey beanie. The photographer caught him just removing his black Ray Bans, and his icy-blue eyes are stark against his paleish skin. He’s not wearing his lip ring today, so the little scar I know so well is visible just under his lower lip. I rub my finger lightly over the blemish. I put that scar there with a mishap involving a hockey stick when we were fourteen and goofing off in his driveway.

“All right, people. We’re continuing with our discussion on Keynesian theory today.”
I blink and look up at Professor Bartlet. I almost forgot where I was. I slip the magazine under my notebook and pull out a pen, trying to focus on the professor’s monotone. Macroeconomics is boring enough, and Bartlet does little to breathe any interest into the topic.
And it certainly doesn’t help my concentration to know that a picture of Andy is hanging out right under my notebook. There’s probably an article about him, too. My breathing quickens. It’s so tempting to just slide the notebook over a bit so I could—
“Miss Harris?”

The professor is staring at me, along with about half of the class. The other half are paying about as much attention as I had just been.
“Yes?”

A slight titter ripples through the class. Bartlet’s face tightens, and I feel heat flood my own. I have clearly missed something, and I’m sure I look like a total idiot.
“I asked you to please name the effect that Keynes tells us will magnify small decreases in consumption.”
I stare at him, feeling something akin to panic. I have no clue what he’s talking about. “Uh…”
He turns away from me, clearly annoyed. “Would someone who has bothered to pay attention like to improve their participation grade today?"

A hand across the room shoots up. I don’t bother to listen to the answer. I take deep breaths through my nose, focusing on the blank page of my notebook. My heart rate slows to normal, and I feel the heat fading from my face and ears. I make a conscious effort to unclench my fingers, feeling the sting where my nails cut into skin.

I’m not upset about not knowing the answer. I couldn’t care less about macroeconomics. In fact, if my father sees my complete lack of aptitude in the subject, maybe he’ll allow me to stop taking so many business classes. A bad grade will only help my argument there.
No, the thing that has me so worked up is the way everyone was looking at me. I shiver a little under my thick black hoodie. I hate when people look at me. I should have sat in the back, but I was late, and my normal row was full, so the only choice was the middle of the room.
I spend the rest of the class trying to be invisible. Resisting the urge to slide the magazine back into view, I pull my sweatshirt sleeves down over my palms and sink farther into my seat, determined to do nothing else that will get me noticed for the rest of the class.

We’re dismissed twenty excruciating minutes later. I sigh in relief as I start to gather my things. I know taking the magazine back to my apartment is a mistake, but I can’t help myself. I need to read that article.
“Oh my God,” an unfamiliar voice says to my left. “Is that Andy Biersack?”
I turn slightly, instinctively lowering my gaze to her desk so that we don’t make eye contact. “Uh, yeah,” I mumble.
She sighs. “I love him. Don’t you just love him? He’s so hot.”
Don’t you just love him? I could laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. This girl has no clue. I shrug noncommittally and return to my things, sticking the magazine between the books in my bag before I sling it up over my shoulder.
To my dismay, the girl is waiting for me at the end of the row. She falls into step next to me as I make my way to the door.

Notes