Kristin Rockaway - My Epic Spring Break (Up)

Growing up in New York City is a crash course in the art of self-defense. I dont mean learning martial arts or the proper way to use a stun gun or anything like that. I mean quickly and accurately assessing people and situations for potential disasters so you can avoid them before they happen.

That discounted MetroCard someones trying to sell you on the street? Its a scam.

That guy sitting in the corner of the subway car, making kissy noises and hissing in your direction? Dont make eye contact.

That one lonely cockroach you saw zooming across your kitchen counter the other day? Its never one lonely cockroach. Trust me when I say theres a million more where that came from. Have your parents call the landlord, pronto.

Basically, if you want to survive (and keep your apartment vermin-free), you need to know trouble when you see it.

And I know trouble when I see it.

This morning, trouble takes the form of Jason Eisler, strolling into American History with a goofy grin and an easy stride. On the surface, theres nothing concerning going on here. Just a teenage boy rolling into class, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, backpack bouncing with each step.

But I know Jason too well not to be concerned. Theres a certain subtle glimmer he gets in his brown eyes when hes up to no good. The first time I remember seeing it, we were in second grade, and hed somehow managed to sneak a lifelike rubber tarantula into our teachers top desk drawer. When poor Ms. Chen opened it up, she went paler than Marshmallow Fluff, shrieking so loudly that one of the girls at table two started to cry. Five minutes later, the principal showed up in our classroom, his bushy eyebrows furrowed with disdain as Ms. Chen explained what happened. Jason wasnt fazed, though. He just giggled, eyes glimmering, as he followed the principal out the door.

In the intervening decade, Jasons pranks have become more sophisticated, more interesting, but that glimmer in his eyes is still the same. It dances a little now when he looks my way.

Whats up, Ashley? he calls from the front of the room. People turn to check me out, but I slide farther down in my chair and glare at the scratched desktop. I want no part of whatever hes got planned.

The bell chimes to signal the start of the period, and five seconds later, Ms. Henley closes the classroom door. Take your seats, please, she says. After everyone settles in, she projects a slideshow about the Cuban Missile Crisis onto the whiteboard. Youd think shed go easy on us since its the last day of school before two weeks of spring break, but that has never been Ms. Henleys style.

Today were going to discuss the role diplomacy played in Her voice trails off when the door squeaks open, and I think I see a thin curl of smoke wafting from each of her nostrils. Ms. Henley hates latecomers. Her shoulders hunch toward her ears, and I can tell shes preparing to lay into this unfortunate soul with a tirade about time wasting and personal responsibility. But when she sees who it is, her shoulders relax again.

Its Walker Beech, the opposite of trouble.

He looks appropriately contrite. Sorry Im late, Ms. Henley.

Its okay, Walker. She waves away his apology with a casual smile. We were just getting started.

Only Walker Beech could elicit such a warmhearted response from the iciest teacher at Edward R. Murrow High School.

As Walker slips inside and gently closes the door behind him, I try not to stare. Its no use, though. His bodys like a magnet dragging my attention away from Ms. Henley, whos now gesturing toward a map of Cuba. Shes droning on about the Bay of Pigs, but all I can focus on is Walkers hair, the way his thick brown curls defy gravity. I wonder if he spends a lot of time getting them so flawlessly tousled or if its a natural phenomenon. Probably the latter.

At least Im not the only one distracted by his magnificence. From my vantage point in the middle of the classroom, I can see at least three other peopleChelsea, Yaritza, Marcuswatching his every move. Their heads turn in unison, tracking him as he walks down the fourth row of desks, headed for the empty seat directly to my left.

Omigod.

Hes sitting next to me.

In one motion, I sit up straight and tuck my hair behind my ears, smoothing any flyaways. Not that hes looking at me or anything. As he passes me, I get a whiff of his cologne. It smells like one of those clove-scented oranges Mom sets around the table at Christmastime.

The moment he slides into his chair, hes already engrossed in the lesson, notebook open to a blank sheet of paper, pen uncapped, ready to write. He squints his hazel eyes at the whiteboard, clearly fascinated by Ms. Henleys discussion of geopolitical strife at the height of the Cold War.