Classes started on a Thursday that year, and I had Algebra during fourth period in the upperclassmen building with Mrs. Kensington. I sat in the back with Wyatt, Liam, and a few others from the football team. Mrs. Kensington’s classroom was always cold thanks to the overachieving A/C. This made her classroom a welcome escape from the brutal Florida heat. The old fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, blending with the low murmur of voices drifting in from the hallway. That noise was comforting in a strange way, almost hypnotic.
We were goofing off in the back row when the girl from orientation walked in. She paused in the doorway long enough for me to notice her. The second she stepped in, the vibe shifted. She was making her way towards the back; her style was athletic yet unique, which was hard to do in a Catholic school uniform. She wore a crisp white collared shirt under a navy blue oversized cardigan, paired with the Jesuit Catholic tartan skirt. On her feet were Adidas Sambas, and for some reason, that’s the detail that stuck with me the most.
She carried her backpack slung over her left shoulder, and she was clutching a folder tightly to her chest with both arms. She was tall, around five-ten, and built like a volleyball player, with a short bob haircut. Freckles dotted the side of her nose, and those big black-framed glasses, the kind that were all the rage back then.
“May I sit here?” She asked softly, her shoulders lifting in a small, uncertain shrug. I had saved the seat for Joey, but when our eyes met, I nodded in agreement. Joey could find another spot.
I smirked, “It’s a free country,” and motioned for her to sit just as Joey walked in. He threw his hands up in a dramatic “What the…?” gesture. I figured I could explain it to him at lunch. He’d get it.
“Thank you,” she said, nervously tucking her hair behind her ear and adjusting her glasses with careful precision.
“I’m Blaire,” she whispered, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“I’m Chris,” I replied, just as Mrs. Kensington stepped up to the front of the room.
The entire class, I kept catching glimpses of her. Every time our eyes met, she gave me that same warm smile. The fifty minutes passed in a quiet rhythm of glances and smiles, like a conversation we hadn’t gotten to start.
When the bell rang, I grabbed my stuff and told Wyatt I’d catch up with him later. Joey just shook his head as they headed out. As I stood, Blaire rose too, and for the first time, she noticed just how tall I was.
“Whoa!” she grinned. “How tall are you?”
“Six-four-ish,” I smirked. “Mind if I walk with you?”
“It’s a free country,” she playfully smiled as she pointed at the door. “But watch your head.”
We started down the hall as I felt a comfort with her that had been missing for some time.
“What class do you have next?” I asked.
“Spanish,” she rolled her eyes. “It’s like a slow, painful death by translation.”
I laughed. She nodded. “Do you play any sports, or are you just tall for fun?”
“Football, I guess,” I said, still unsure if I was any good. “You?”
“Softball,” she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear with a smile. “short stop.”
“That’s awesome.” Not sure what else to add.
“See you tomorrow?” I nodded and headed off to weight training.
I didn’t think much more about it until seventh period, when I walked into Mr. Rourke’s class and spotted Blaire already there. She smiled warmly and waved me over to sit with her and a few of her softball friends.
Mr. Rourke was a character, no doubt about it. With his gravelly, pack-a-day-smoker’s voice and his unexpected role as the coach of the girls’ softball team, he was unforgettable. His theology class often felt more like a stand-up routine than a lecture; he had a way of making even the driest topics feel alive. His worn leather jacket looked like it had survived a few decades of high school drama, and his desk was a chaotic mess of papers and books that somehow made sense only to him.
When the final bell rang, we all shuffled out toward the cafeteria for car pickup. I held back so I could walk with Blaire. We were still laughing about something Mr. Rourke had said as her car pulled up. I felt her hand touch mine as she handed me a small piece of paper.
“Call me tonight?” she flashed a smile as she climbed into her mom’s Toyota Forerunner. I rolled the paper in my hand as I walked to the locker room. I wasn’t sure what I was feeling, but I liked it.
The first day of football practice came, and Wyatt and I were late heading to the field. When a senior, Tim Dinforth, ran past me and dropped his shoulder into my back, knocking me down.
“Hey, freshman? Is your sister named Rene Doody?” Tim scoffed as he hopped and skipped, pausing his run. I rolled over as Wyatt helped me up.
“Last Name is Dowling,” I said as I brushed myself off.
“Whatever, Freshman. You know. I banged your sister,” he said, trotting off with a grin and a rude gesture with his tongue.
Coach Smith saw our exchange and barked. “Dinforth! Give me a lap!”
“Dowling, you'd better save it for the field, son!” He barked, his voice sharp but laced with a smirk. He clapped me on the back, hard enough to jolt me forward a step, then trotted off toward the sideline, his whistle bouncing against his chest. The rest of the team was already across the 10-yard line, starting a round of jumping jacks under the fading afternoon sun.
I fell in line, my muscles moving on autopilot, but my mind was stuck on Tim. I stared at him, his smug expression, his confidence. Thirty minutes ago, I didn’t even know his name. Now, I loathed him. The way he smirked when he shoved past me during drills. The way he called me “fresh meat” was loud enough for the whole squad to hear. The way the other seniors laughed like it was some tradition. I didn’t say a word for the rest of practice. I just ran the plays, hit the pads, and kept my head down. My back still burned from where Dinforth had blindsided me during a blocking drill. I could hear his voice in my head, mocking, daring me to react.
At the end of practice, as we jogged off the field toward the locker room, Coach’s voice cut through the chatter. “Dowling!”
I turned, my heart thudding in my chest. He walked up, eyes squinting against the sun. “These seniors are gonna mess with you. Try to get in your head,” he said, tapping his temple with two fingers. He gave a short laugh, then patted my chest, right over the bold letters of my Bench Press shirt. “You earned that. Now show ’em why.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. It wasn’t going to be easy being a ninth grader on the varsity squad.
After practice, I waited by the library for my ride. It wasn’t long before the familiar old VW came puttering around the corner.
I tossed my bag into the backseat and squeezed into the cramped interior of my uncle's Bug. I had the piece of paper in my hand, mindlessly fidgeting with the crinkles and edges. He could see the name on the front, and smiled with a Red More Cigarette in his lips.
“New friend?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied as I settled into the seat. “I think so.”
When I got home, I unfolded the paper. Her number was written in looping, careful handwriting, with a tiny smiley face at the end. I stared at it for a while, and my throat tightened.
Should I call right away?
Maybe, wait until after dinner?
What would I even say?
That night, after pacing my room for what felt like hours, playing out conversations in my head. Practicing ways, I might talk or hold the phone, I finally dialed.
“Hello?” She answered in a soft, curious tone.
“Hey, it’s me, Chris. From school.”
“I was hoping you’d call,” she said.
We talked for over an hour, about Mr. Rourke’s weird jokes, about music, about how she hated math but loved biology. I didn’t realize it then, but that call was the start of something real.