I leave at precisely 8:04 every morning. The route to school is deliberate, the longest one, designed to land me just before first period—8:30—unless I linger.
There are days I arrive late, earning a sharp glare from Mr. Harrison and sidelong glances from other students. But generally, I time it perfectly. 8:32. The same time Elliot strides into the classroom.
Mr. Harrison doesn’t seem to notice—or perhaps chooses to ignore—that I wait for Elliot in the hallway before entering class. Maybe he sees me, lingering just outside the door, knowing I’m present even if I’m not yet *in* class.
The mornings unfold with a predictable rhythm. I lean against my locker, watching for the bell, for Elliot to speed-walk through the nearly empty halls. Most students have early classes, starting at 8:00 or before. I, thankfully, am slotted later.
I shut my locker just as Elliot passes. It’s become a habit, almost involuntary, to call out, “Good morning, Elliot!” as he walks by.
Sometimes he’ll return a smile, or murmur a quiet, “Good morning.” More often, he simply nods in my direction, then heads into the classroom, me following closely behind.
Mr. Harrison greets us with a subtle, almost imperceptible glare.
The first time I was two minutes late, I was held back. Mr. Harrison knew I was there, lingering. I shrugged when he asked about it.
The second time, he noticed I waited for Elliot every morning. Again, I shrugged, dismissing it as coincidence.
The third time, he knew better. “You’re making sure Elliot’s on time,” he said, his voice sharp. I conceded, explaining I was simply ensuring Elliot didn’t arrive late. Mr. Harrison accepted the excuse and never mentioned our tardiness again.
The truth is, I looked forward to seeing Elliot. Even if it meant arriving a few minutes late. I cherished the small interaction, the occasional flash of his smile.
And by the look on his face, he enjoyed it too. Either that, or it amused him. Every morning, as he walked through the corridors, he’d grin—a small, private smile—before passing me. He even seemed to slow down slightly, just to hear my greeting.
This had been our routine for months now. Waking up, rushing through my morning, and heading out the door at exactly 8:04.
Elliot and I have never really talked—not beyond these morning exchanges.
I remember the first day of the semester. I skated to school, whizzing past Elliot. We were both late.
I slowed down beside him. He looked at me, smiled. I smiled back, asking if he had Mr. Harrison first period. He nodded. I stepped off my board, letting it roll to a stop.
We walked side by side to school, asking each other questions, talking until we reached the classroom.
Walking down the hallway, he turned to me and said, “You could’ve gotten here on time. Why’d you stop?”
I shrugged. “If you’re late, I will be too.”
“Why?” he asked simply.
I looked away, searching for an answer that didn’t exist. When none came to mind, I said, “I don’t know. I felt guilty skating past you like that. And this way, we both get in trouble.”
We walked into class, somehow avoiding detention. Elliot’s face flushed red with embarrassment, and I laughed, saying, “But it’s our first day, sir!” And somehow, we got away with it.
After class, Elliot caught up with me and laughed. “I can’t believe that worked!”
That was almost the last real conversation we had. Beyond the times Elliot had been late and apologized to our teacher and me. Or when it started raining as I skated by, so I dismounted and walked with him, pulling our bags over our heads for shelter.
I stopped skating to school, which is why I started waiting by the lockers.
The first time I skated and didn’t see him, I assumed he’d be late. So I waited, leaning against my locker—across the hall from class. A few minutes later, he appeared.
And that’s how our routine fell into place. I stopped skating, waiting for him by the lockers instead.
This is probably why we stopped talking so much. But I always said, “Good morning.” Because it made him smile. And that’s my favorite thing in the world.
Elliot’s smile.