Chapter Text
Evan has been staring at Zoe for some time. Not on purpose, or to be creepy or anything, just because Zoe happens to sit at this perfect forty-five degree angle in front of Evan’s seat. He can see the entire side of her face just by looking straight forward, at the teacher, as any good student would do.
He tries to stare numbly ahead at the whiteboard, or even at the continually slow clock on the front wall, but sometimes his gaze strays while their teacher continues rambling about the products of sines and cosines.
Part of Evan really truly wishes that last year had been better, that he hadn’t panicked and had one too many breakdowns during class last year, forcing him to stay behind and retake it with juniors. Juniors like Zoe Murphy.
Zoe Murphy, who is the most beautiful person Evan’s has ever encountered–the most beautiful person Evan thinks he will ever encounter.
And, okay, so he’s still in shock that Zoe–Zoe–is dating him, and has been for a few months now, and likes him, and is also absurdly nice and funny and kind and inspiring and strong and-and Evan could easily talk for at least seven weeks about all of the amazing qualities Zoe has, but he really should be focusing on calculus right now.
Zoe is also immensely bored. She’s convinced that this teacher is as well. The entire class is half asleep. Except for the one, the only, Evan Hansen. He’s been staring at the back of Zoe’s head for roughly 10 minutes, she thinks, probably accidentally. Still, she’s bored enough to take advantage of this. They’re in the back of the room anyway, with a sleeping class and a distracted teacher.
First, she turns to the side, placing her hands in front of each other, her left thumb on her nose and her right thumb on her left pinky. She waggles her fingers back and forth, with no response.
Then, she poses like a bird, flapping her arms up and down. The teacher doesn’t move, or notice, and neither does Evan.
She has to up her game.
Zoe stretches her arms out, posing like Superwoman.
She does every ridiculous pose that’s possible to do while seated, until, finally, she hears a quick gasp behind her. She whips around, still maintaining her current position (which is similar to that of Arnold Schwarzenegger in his prime, but with jazz hands). Evan’s sitting there, his hand over his mouth, trying to hold back a laugh.
She smiles and winks at him, which results in even more giggling. Before she has too much time to enjoy Evan’s amused expression, the bell rings. Zoe goes to gather her things, waiting while Evan does the same.
He coughs. “Um, I wasn’t-I didn’t mean to be…staring at you, it was just…”
Zoe shakes her head, moving towards him, tracing her fingers up his arm, “No, that class it actually the most boring thing I’ve ever experienced, I zone out all the time, too, don’t worry.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you.” And he meets her eyes, then, and she’s suddenly struck with the fact that they’re green. She’s never truly realized that before, somehow.
She’s always enjoyed being around Evan, enjoyed his presence, his…everything. Whenever she talks to him for more than a few minutes, he seems to completely bloom, emerging from his shell. She thinks he’s beautiful, in his own way, with a bright smile and this softness, a softness that’s covered in this hard outer casing, which amazingly melts away whenever she’s around.
He’s funny, too, probably one of the funniest people she’s ever met.
She wishes more people could see him, could see the real him.
He glances up at her again. “Your jazz hands are very impressive.”
“Oh! Thank you, I’ve been working on them for some years now, but I think I’ve finally mastered the art of perfect jazz hands.” She’s smiling, and then he is too.
“I wonder if there’s a World Record for best jazz hands.”
“I should contact Guinness.”
“You should.” The tension is leaking from Evan’s shoulders as he relaxes into her presence. “They could even come to the school, and obviously, that’d give you so many popularity points.”
“So many,” Zoe adds. “I mean, everyone loves jazz hands.”
Evan grabs his bag from the floor, slinging it over his shoulders as they both begin to exit the classroom. “I love jazz hands. Well, not all jazz hands, but…”
Zoe’s face lights up, recalling their first real conversation. “But definitely my jazz hand jazz hands.”
“Of course. All day, every day.” He’s smiling more than she’s ever seen, she thinks. His chin is lifted, too, and Zoe thinks about all the growth he’s had–all the growth they’ve had.
She nudges him lightly as she slides her hand into his. She moves up on the tips of her toes, kissing him chastely, briefly. He squeezes her hand softly, his eyes warm, and they begin to walk to their lockers, hand-in-hand and smiles on their lips.