"We're a train wreck waiting to happen."

-A World Alone, Lorde

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As I walk into the classroom, I make my way to the teacher as everyone sits on tables before the lesson starts. There's a skinny woman fumbling with a pile of paper at her desk at the front, and I approach her uncertainly.

When she sees me, she smiles and pushes her thin glasses further up her nose with a wiry finger. "Hello. You must be my new student. Welcome to English Literature, my name is Ms Harper. What's your name?"

"Olivia Mitchell," I say.

"Olivia, it's nice to meet you, and I always enjoy seeing new faces in my class. Take a seat over there," she says kindly, gesturing to a seat at an empty desk at the back.

I thank her after she hands me a textbook, and make my way to the back of the modest-sized classroom. There is a huge window covering the entire front wall behind her desk, and a view of thick fir trees sits behind it, the morning sun pouring through.

I sit down while a girl in front of me with a designer jacket narrows her eyes, spinning back around again when the teacher begins speaking.

"Today class, we'll be continuing our study on Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman," she informs.

Thankfully, I've read it about a thousand times over. I don't know why. It just makes sense to me.

Suddenly, the door opens and in walks a certain mischievous smile, attached to the perfect, sculpted face of Alec.

"Thank you for finally joining us, Mr West," Ms Harper says with a raise of her eyebrow.

"I apologise for my unacceptable rudeness, Ms Harper, but I just didn't want to come," he says casually.

"Just take a seat, Mr West," she says without a hint of impatience. It's strange to see teachers so lenient with students. In my last school, being late called for after-school detention for a week. But maybe it has more to do with Alec's undeniable charm.

He turns his head to my desk, and when he sees me, his smile grows even larger, his brown eyes shining. Alec sits in the seat beside me and readjusts the black bandana keeping his wild locks at bay, saying smoothly, "Looky who it is."

"Alec, I didn't expect to see you here," I say as he leans back in his chair and eyes me.

"Lessons are a significant part of school."

"Maybe you shouldn't be so late to them then."

"Fair enough."

He watches me closely, and my gaze doesn't waver from his. Not even an inch. His eyes trail over my pointed nose and light pink lips, and back up to the arch of my eyebrows and the green of my eyes.

Ms Harper's voice interrupts our staring contest, "Now, who knows what Whitman's message is throughout the poem? There is no wrong answer, just different interpretations."

A boy wearing a ripped black shirt and a cheeky grin raises his hand, and says loudly, "That poetry is only for old people?"

The class laughs, apart from a few who glare, especially those with designer outfits and perfect hair.

"Not quite, Mr Grant," Ms Harper says gently, while the boy receives unnecessary high-fives from his friends. "Anyone else?"

Slowly, I put my hand up. Alec flashes me a brief look of surprise, but quickly looks away with a smile when Ms Harper calls my name.

Lowering my arm, I gradually explain, "Whitman changes his mind and interpretations of life. One day he says one thing and another day he says another. His message is that it's okay to change your mind. To be one way today and another way tomorrow. Your moods and characteristics can change."

Ms Harper smiles, clearly impressed, and asks, "And his interpretation on death?"

"He thinks it is a part of life," I reply.

She nods, while a few of the other give me questioning looks. "Very good, Miss Mitchell."

As she turns back to the rest of the class, talking about his use of language and structure, Alec leans in to my ear, and I feel his warm breath when he speaks in a hushed voice, "Whitman wasn't afraid of dying. Maybe that makes him just as crazy as the rest of us."

He pauses, and then adds quietly, leaning back. "But you're not afraid of dying either, right?"

"You remembered," I say, surprised.

He leans back in his seat. "I remember what I want to remember. Let's say your speech last night inspired me."

"I told you I'm in Hell. How is that inspiring?"

He lifts his hand into the space in front of us, and moves it to the right as he speaks like he's reading off an invisible sign, "Death is inspirational."

"More like motivational," I mutter, causing him to throw me an amused look.

"Would mean the world if you didn't die anytime soon, Liv. You're growing on me, would suck a lot if you weren't around anymore," he says casually, eyeing Ms Harper at the front, who is talking about Whitman's use of language.

"Why? No one cares about me. About if I live or die. Quite frankly, I don't either," I confess, glancing at my hands sitting on my lap.

He presses his lips together and murmurs, "Think of it like this: school- it's gonna be over soon. And all this pointless stuff they teach you, it probably won't be worth it. But then you can go out to the world and start learning the stuff that really matters. And then living will be worth it."

"Was that supposed to inspire me?"

"It was supposed to motivate you."

"That speech makes you sound crazy."

"Can't get any crazier than I already am, Liv. Now be quiet, I'm trying to listen to the sweet sounds of the pointless English education system."

I smile and turn back to the front.