Cinthia. Her beauty needs no announcement; it drifts with her, like a perfume that does not seek to please and yet does. She walks down the avenue with an almost studied lightness. The small curls settle on their own when the wind touches her, and she allows the moment to linger, as one grants a privilege.
She knows the effect. Gazes surround her, cling to her passing. Everyone holds the same gesture: a faint blush, almost shameful. She answers with a small smile, docile, crafted to seem spontaneous.
Losers, she thinks silently and smiles. But she thinks it without hatred; it is like stating the weather, something evident.
The street slopes toward the school entrance. The gate rises, white and disproportionate, with an arch that seems older than the city itself. The students cross with their senses still drowsy.
Cinthia stops. She contemplates the word written high above.
Nigella.
Mysterious and colossal. The most prestigious place in the city.
She accepts it. It is the least the world can offer her.
The great front courtyard. Disproportionate.
It could be a small city on its own: pale buildings, long corridors, gardens tended with great dedication.
The entrance to the building lies far away, as if it had been designed so the walk would keep us silent.
Among the crowd, she searched for a single recognizable form.
She finds it.
Blonde, beautiful in every sense. A light that goes out in the deep darkness of her eyes.
Cinthia runs toward her and clings to her arm with an almost childish naturalness.
—Lía!
The blonde receives her with the same affection. But dimmer.
—Late again.
They walk together without disturbance. The surrounding gazes tilt, discreet yet constant, as if the current of people parted by pure reflex.
It is not something they provoke. It is something that simply happens.
The corridors are wide, as if designed so no one could walk without feeling the brush of a presence behind them. The alarm marks the start of classes, but there is no rush. No one needs instructions. Habit is enough.
—Hey… wait for me in your classroom when everyone goes to the courtyard… I have to tell you something… —said Lía as she stopped.
And so they parted.
The day began.
The class began with the same weariness as always. Cinthia leaned on her elbow, expecting nothing.
Then two slender youths entered. They stopped at the front, motionless a second too long.
Cinthia thought they were the exact image of what Lía had warned her to avoid. A reckless one and a weak one.
The first wore a strange garment on his head, and large locks that covered his eyes. The crooked smile, the insolent gaze. He seemed to enjoy the attention, or to pretend that he did. He had something on his back. It was wide, covered in incomprehensible drawings.
—My name is Gary —he said, with too much force.
His voice betrayed him more than his gesture.
Some students watched him with suspicion. Others only with slow curiosity.
Cinthia decided it was not worth paying them any attention.
The second was different. More reserved, though not shy. Disheveled hair and unusual pigtails that made anyone who looked at him raise their eyebrows.
He spoke late, as if the words had to pass through something before coming out.
—Rudy.
That was enough. He offered nothing more. No one asked.
Gary moved first. He already seemed to know where he wanted to sit. He dropped into the seat with a confidence that had no foundation.
Rudy walked more slowly. He watched each classmate, searched for reaction in eyes, in shoulders, in the way a gaze turned aside. He did not fear; he simply understood.
He chose the desk farthest away. He understood the message: he was not welcome.
There was something almost imperceptible about Rudy: he did not take his eyes off Cinthia. He watched the long lashes that showed in her profile, the slight sway of her small curls as she moved. Perhaps her beauty was simply hard to ignore.
Gary, for his part, slid the object under his seat with a quick, almost defensive gesture.
The students powered on their laptops, preparing for the start of class.
When two tall figures crossed the doorway. They were refined, striking. One carried an almost cold seriousness; the other radiated a measured kindness. The latter cast a glance toward Cinthia, who answered with an immediate blush.
—Roy and Oliver…
Someone murmured it, and the name stirred the room: nerves among the girls, contained whispers, an authority that did not need to rise.
Both leaned against the teacher's desk.
—Today we will not have tutors either —announced Roy, with an even voice.
—It's been several weeks of the same… —came from the back.
—We tried to speak with the directors. None of them respond.
The unease spread without sound. Rudy and Gary seemed not to fully understand, while Cinthia remained trapped in the crossing of gazes with Oliver, as if they shared a sentence no one else could hear.
—And the exile exam? —someone asked, with a thread of urgency.
—As for that… —he paused—. I promise we will do everything possible so you are not harmed. Just be patient.
—And what are we supposed to do until then?
—What if they never answer?
The murmur grew dense, as if something essential hung by a thread.
Then Oliver intervened.
—Hey… you two.
The gazes shifted to the newcomers.
—When recess comes, stay here.
Gary frowned.
—Huh? Why?
Oliver kept his tone kind, firm.
—We just want to ask you a few questions. Nothing complicated.
—Fine —said Rudy, without delay.
—You just accept? —Gary replied, though he straightened immediately—. Fine, me too.
The two boys headed for the door to leave.
At that moment, Cinthia's laptop vibrated. When she looked up she found Oliver glancing at her, giving her a brief smile before leaving.
Something shifted out of place in her chest. She did nothing. She only waited for the day to move on. Something new was hinting at itself, a minimal crack. That was enough.
Recess arrived like a held breath. Everyone went out to eat something, to scatter through the corridors. During class they had done nothing, but they had been required to remain there, seated. Habit and obligation.
Cinthia decided to stay a moment longer. To wait for the classroom to empty. As Lía had told her.
But the newcomers remained as well.
She turned her face toward the window, avoiding them. There was no interest. They were inferior. The room sank into an uneasy silence: a silence that breathes between bodies that do not seek each other.
Then the string vibrated, brief, improper. Cinthia lifted her gaze by reflex. The sound came from the object that Gary held with clumsy dedication. He caressed the taut strings as if they might break.
He tried to make music. There was no melody, only an irregular groping. Nothing like the flat voices of the official broadcasts, polished until they lost human shape. This was different. Raw. Imperfect.
Gary lost himself and returned to the beginning, again and again. The mistake persisted. The repetition too.
It could have been tiring. And yet Cinthia kept listening. Novelty exerted its own pressure.
Rudy did not even pretend interest. With his face resting on his elbow, eyes half closed, he seemed to know that sound from before, or to expect nothing new from it.
Gary improved. It took shape. Cinthia stayed where she was. Something light, almost uncomfortable, moved in her chest. She did not think to name it.
But.
The door burst open. Lía cut the music off at the root. The silence fell heavy.
The three of them looked at her. In her eyes there was a sealed tension.
She did not speak. She advanced and took Cinthia's hand urgently. She offered minimal resistance, more by reflex than by will, before following her.
Before the door closed, both boys saw the exact flash in Lía's eyes: a clean contempt, directed only at them.
Cinthia moved in jerks down the empty corridor. The silence there was hollow: the central courtyard had absorbed everyone.
—Is something wrong?
The soft voice stopped Lía. She turned stiffly.
—What did I tell you about that kind of people?
—The new ones? I know they're losers, I was just waiting for you.
—Losers? They're something worse than that.
Annoyance filtered into Lía's gaze, into the way she breathed.
—Sorry… one of them brought something strange and did… something… I don't know…
—Don't get involved with them.
—Why?
—Just listen to me.
Lía moved on, closing the conversation.
Cinthia stopped for a moment, as if trying to think. She blinked and followed her.
—As you say…
Back in the classroom, Rudy and Gary were still there.
—You shouldn't bring that —said Rudy, low.
—Problem?
—You saw how she reacted. It might be forbidden.
—And what does it matter?
Rudy sighed.
—It's your problem, not mine.
The classroom filled again with nothing but the melody.
Rudy listened a few seconds more.
—"El ultimo beso," right?
Gary stopped for a moment, surprised. The progression slowed.
—Huh? You know it?
—A friend had it in his repertoire —said Rudy, dragging the words as if they weighed on him.
—Was he a musician too?
—No… He was the one who found the cassette. He collects them.
Gary blinked, baffled. He took a step toward him, almost childlike in his wonder.
—Wait… is your friend Miguel?
The arrival of Oliver and Roy cut the sentence short. The atmosphere turned rigid. Gary went back to his seat with annoyance. They kept their pleasant demeanor.
The day died like this: questions, observations, veiled propositions.