Brianne & Dannon

4: the table in the back

Dannon is at Brianne's desk.

She falters in the doorway of the History classroom, her grip on her backpack strap so tight it's a wonder her nails don't carve holes. She blinks, hard. And because he has nothing but audacity, he's still there when her eyes open, at the two-seater table in the back, tugging at the sleeve of his Roslow-grade white polo.

Tch.

She slides into her chair, her spine pressing harder against the plastic backing than strictly necessary. But it's also fricken necessary, okay? Because this table is hers. The one in front of the wall decorated with a world map marking ancient trade routes and dates of colonial invasions is hers.

Is it the only table with a free seat? Yes. Does that give Dannon the right to it? No.

He should sit on the fucking floor.

She doesn't greet him as she tugs out her notebook—handmade, to mimic the luxury cloth notebooks her classmates lug around—and pen out of her backpack. He doesn't try to talk to her, which means he's not totally stupid. But he does smile at her, which kinda makes her want to slap him.

Kennedy saunters through the door, and Brianne straightens, a smile at the ready. But Kennedy barely glances Brianne's way before grinning at a group of girls in the far left corner.

Brianne slouches and glares at Dannon from the corner of her eye.

Yes, Kennedy was acting weird from the moment Brianne returned to lunch with a takeout container. Snippy, distant. But Brianne had already coaxed a smile out of her with the promise of an iced coffee from her favorite coffee shop tomorrow morning. So. This was obviously Dannon's fault.

It doesn't stop her stomach from cinching, though.

"Hey!" Kennedy says to the girls as she settles into her seat.

Dannon's attention veers from his pen. He pauses, sucks in a breath, blinks, and looks away. No tension, no stress. A blank canvas.

So that's how it is. Breaks her best friend's heart, and he can't even muster a single emotion when put in close proximity? Asshole.

Mr. Bouchard strides in, donning a brown sweater vest dotted with white reindeer. He clutches his briefcase in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, and there's a disheveled way about him that says he slept through an alarm or two. He probably did. He tells them so all the time.

Mr. Bouchard catches Brianne's look and squints through his glasses, which sit crookedly on his hooked nose. "Not a word, Nichols."

She holds up her hands. "Nice reindeer."

Her ten—eleven—other classmates laugh. He shoots everyone a betrayed look.

"Excuse you," he says. "My other sweater vests were dirty."

"Did you ever consider," a boy named Garrett says from the table in front of hers, leaning on his elbows and grinning brightly, "not wearing a sweater vest at all?"

Mr. Bouchard scoffs. "I could give you a detention for that."

"If you want an hour after school with me singing every Christmas song with a reindeer in it completely off-key, go for it." Garrett's brown eyes glint mischievously. "I dare you."

Mr. Bouchard wrinkles his nose and sets his things on his desk. He pauses, nods his head from side to side, and brings his coffee to his lips. "Alright," he says after guzzling what has to be half the mug in one go, "moving on from the blatant bullying I'm enduring. Let's start with our morning debate of an important topic featured in the news."