Weird boy

The fluorescent lights above our heads hummed that familiar tune of boredom that only a Tuesday afternoon history class could produce. I was slouched in my chair, half-listening to Mr. Henderson drone on about the Treaty of Versailles, my chin propped on my hand. My pen was doodling little flowers in the margins of my notebook, each petal a tiny rebellion against the crushing monotony of the lesson.

Then I felt it. That prickling sensation at the back of my neck, the one that means someone is staring. I didn't have to look up to know who it was. Leo. Leo Davies, who sat two rows behind me and one to the left. He wasn't just looking; he was *gazing*. It was a heavy, proprietary kind of stare that made my skin feel tight and my stomach clench with a familiar mix of annoyance and unease. He'd been doing it for weeks, ever since he'd started going through that weird, quiet phase.

He used to be just another boy, loud and clumsy, but lately, he'd gotten… still. And watchful. His eyes, which used to dart around the room, now had a unnerving habit of settling on things, on people, and just… holding. I'd seen him staring at Sarah Jenkins's chest in the cafeteria last week, his lips moving silently. A moment later, the top button of her blouse had popped clean off, right in the middle of her laughing. She'd just blushed and fumbled with it, thinking it was old and loose. But I'd seen Leo's tiny, satisfied smirk. I'd seen his lips move.

Mr. Henderson's voice faded into a distant drone as my focus narrowed. The air in my corner of the room felt different, thicker. I risked a glance, not a full turn, just a slight shift of my eyes. I caught his reflection in the dark glass of the window at the front of the class. He was looking right at me, his head tilted, a faint, calculating smile on his lips. His mouth was beginning to form a word.