The bell resonates throughout the room on Friday, and everyone is out the door within seconds. I file out last, of course, and weave my way through the crowd until I reach the landing, sprinting down the stairs two at a time. I've survived yet another day of my junior year but I don't feel any different. With its towering burnt orange buildings fenced off by swinging metal grates, River View high school sort of reminds me of a prison. Surprisingly, though, it's quite the opposite - a "welcoming campus and friendly learning environment," according to our district's superintendent. Everyone takes themselves so seriously here. Extracurriculars and clubs are always competing at a national level because we're just that good, and band parents are constantly bustling about the school grounds, organizing fundraisers and holding bake sales. Our school is well funded and the most prestigious high school in Miami. Most of the time students even seem happy to be here: until the weekend bell rings, that is. Upon reaching the lobby, I fling open the front doors to the school and heave a sigh of relief, gulping in the fresh air.

Normally I'm indifferent about the weekend, but after an entire week of fall finals, I'm eager for a break, so I quicken my pace across the courtyard towards the arts building. As I make my way past the benches and around the fountain, a group of football players pass me whooping and hollering as they jog towards their cars - no doubt, they're excited about the weekend also. I roll my eyes and skirt around them, narrowly avoiding the flower bed as I push open the doors into the band hall. Inside it's cool, and noticeably quieter than the after school rush in the hallways, which is growing increasingly louder as people get ready for the lacrosse game tonight. Knowing our school's sports reputation, we'll probably win this week. Again. I heave a sigh and continue to walk down the hallway.

Once I'm inside the music room, I instantly relax. There's barely anybody in here. A few band directors hang out by the board, and some dance girls practice their flag routine for next year's show; aside from the hip hop thumping through the speakers, it's practically silent. How refreshing, I think to myself, smiling. I head towards my locker in the back room. Squatting to reach my lock, I spin it open and grab my music folder, making a mental note to ask Amanda if she wants to hang out after the game. Amanda is, in a word, strange. She's short, with pale skin and stringy brown hair. Almost all the time, she gets what she wants. I think it's because she's mystifyingly beautiful, and people are simply too stunned by her appearance to tell her no. She's also the captain of the lacrosse team, another shocker, because she's about four foot two and has no visible muscle on her body.

I shake my head, bringing me out of my thoughts, and grab my clarinet. The dancers must be done with practice, because they've turned their music off. I study my audition piece for the musical as I make my way out of the locker room when a low buzzing noise stops me. I perk my ears towards the sound. It's odd, almost like a car engine humming. Curious, I follow the sound along the wall. It sounds like it's coming from one of the back practice rooms. Outside the locker rooms I open the heavy metal door and slip into the percussion area. The sound is clearer now, and I can make out a low strumming pulse; I identify the instrument as a bass guitar. But I thought jazz band didn't practice on Fridays? I shake my head, puzzled, and pad down the long hallway until I reach the largest practice room at the end, its door slightly ajar.

The mellow notes echo under my feet, and I stop in the doorway, shutting my eyes, letting the music wash over me. It sounds so beautiful, too random to be a jazz player - the style is deep and reflective, almost as if the player is strumming directly from their soul. Each note is smooth and cool. I get shivers up my spine. I open my eyes and lean forward slightly, peeking through the doorway. Sitting up against the far wall I can barely make out a boy, his legs stretched out lazily in front of him, eyebrows furrowed in concentration. His fingers glide effortlessly across the frets and his eyes are closed. I stare. He seems completely in his element. For a moment, I consider giving him a compliment, but he looks so peaceful that I think better of it. As I back out of the room as quietly as possible, my bag hooks on the door handle and my music folder slides out of its pocket and falls to the floor with a soft thud. I stop dead in my tracks and my eyes widen. Shit, I think, mentally kicking myself.

He immediately stops playing, and I spin around. The silence is deafening. He stares at me for a moment, stunned. I stare back, my heart pounding, too shocked to even pick up my folder. "Hi," he says finally. I clear my throat. "Uh, hi." I look down at my shoes and pull nervously at the hem of my shirt, waiting for him to say something. Watching him like that was really creepy, Hannah, I scold myself. He probably thinks you're a freak. Without even thinking, I blurt, "You're really good." Keep your mouth shut! my conscience screams. I close my eyes and curse under my breath. He gently tucks his guitar back into its case and snaps the bolts shut. "You think so?" he says, straightening his legs to stand up. I nod, perhaps a little too quickly. "I didn't mean to scare you," I add. "I was just getting my music, and I heard you playing, and I thought it sounded really cool." He shakes his head. "No worries," he assures me, a slightly amused tone in his voice. "I should probably get going soon anyway." I relax my shoulders a little bit. Okay, so he's not mad. Good.

He grabs his guitar and slings his backpack over one shoulder, making his way over to me. As he gets closer, I can see his facial features more clearly. He's tall, with radiant bronze colored skin and soft chocolate brown eyes, his shoulders broad; he carries himself so gracefully, like a model. I feel my heart melt a little bit. I was not expecting this. His hair is a deep mahogany color, and it's slightly tousled over his forehead; his eyebrows arch perfectly over his angular face. He reaches the door where I'm standing and I stare at his chiseled jawline. I've never seen him before. I think I would remember someone so... so gorgeous. He bends over to pick up my folder, but I'm too stunned to move. I can see his arm is flexed slightly while he carries his guitar case. The outline of a tattoo peeks out from under his shirt sleeve. "Wow," I breathe.

He extends his arm to hand me my folder. Hands shaking slightly, I accept it, and shove it clumsily into my bag. My heart is pounding. I don't usually talk to guys, or people outside my group of friends, for that matter, so this is very nervewracking. I have no idea how to behave. Of course, my friends only consist of Amanda and a few band kids, but I'm still nervous out of my mind, and it doesn't help that he looks like a god. Get a grip, Hannah, my conscience scolds. I'm about to leave the room when I feel his hands on my shoe, moving to tie my shoelace. When I jerk my foot back in surprise, he laughs. "Whoa there, just trying to help out," he grins up at me. His teeth are perfectly straight and glistening white. I think the word I'm looking for is "dazzling". I let out a little sigh.

When he finishes tying my shoe, he stands up and meets my eyes. On any given day, I'm the tallest person in the room, but he towers over me, giving me a smoldering look, his eyes dancing with amusement, making me feel small.

"Are you in band?" he asks in a low voice. Resisting the urge to whimper, I mumble, "Yes." Then, clearing my throat, I straighten up a little, and say, "I play clarinet. Wind ensemble, actually." I don't even know how I managed to get out a full answer; he's so intimidating and beautiful, dark and light, soft and angular. My stomach lurches. I can't even identify how he's making me feel. "That sounds exciting," he gives me a small smile. "I've always loved clarinet." I nod as he turns to walk towards the lockers on the back wall. My mind is a blur. He's so beautiful, I can't even think straight. "Wow," I whisper again. What is happening to me? Focusing on keeping the conversation going, I pick up an extra chair and stack it in the corner, hoping to stay with him as long as possible. "Are you planning on playing in the musical?" he asks from across the room, busying himself with his locker. As he talks, I notice he has a slight accent to his voice. It's intriguing. Sexy, even.

I shudder, suddenly extremely attracted to this boy. Clearing my throat again, I answer, "Um, yes. My audition is next Friday. You?" He shuts his locker softly and comes back with an armful of tangled cords, which he tosses in a crate by the door. Scrunching his face slightly as if in deep thought, he crosses his arms and says, "I don't think so. I love to perform, but I'm more of the songwriting, rock band type." His eyes cloud over as he talks, and his accent thickens with passion. It's obvious that he's a music lover. I frown. "So you're not in jazz band, then?" He shakes his head. "I like to come in here and practice sometimes. It's quiet." How charming, I smirk. My mind races. I have a million questions I want to ask him but I can't get my mind off his voice. "New Zealand!" I exclaim suddenly. He raises an eyebrow and shuffles his feet a little, studying me. "Your accent, I mean," I add sheepishly, suddenly feeling embarassed.

"Kiwi, actually," he says, suppressing a smile. "But good guess." His eyes are afire with interest as he continues to stare at me. I get a little uncomfortable and my cheeks flush, but I hold his gaze. He's so captivating. Why can't I stop looking at him? I wonder. "My sister and I moved here about a year ago," he adds. "I guess that's why I haven't seen you around before," I say, eyeing him carefully as he picks up another chair and stacks it next to mine. "I guess so," he brushes off his hands and shoots me another grin. A thought occurs to me. What if I'm getting on his nerves? I have to make a good impression. He's probably judging every move I make. I pinch the palm of my hand sharply and decide that I should leave before he gets tired of me, if he hasn't already. "I'm really sorry for bothering you," I mumble.

He laughs a little and steps past me, holding the door open. "Really, it's no trouble at all. It was really fun talking to you," he says. "I don't get around much so it's nice to make friends." He sees me as a friend? I highly doubt he enjoyed me that much. As I leave, I stop in the doorway. Extending my hand, I smile at him. "Hannah." He returns my smile, and taking my hand for a gentle shake, he replies, "Calum." My heart flutters. Calum, I swoon internally. "I guess I'll see you Monday, then?" I try to conceal the hope in my voice. He meets my eyes and his gaze pierces me. "Absolutely, Hannah. Monday." I stiffen at the sound of my name rolling off his lips. It's so hot. He sweeps past me and I watch as the door swings shut.

I stand there for a moment, savoring his promise, and wait for my heart rate to slow, if it ever will again. When I turn back to watch him, he's gone.