Tea For Two

25

Disclaimer: This is part of an original work of fiction that belongs to me and no one else. Love you, mean it, don't steal it. x

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Weeks have passed. Uneventful weeks, sleepless weeks- boring, tedious, horrible weeks. I consider myself lucky. Since she left, Sellers has left me alone for the most part. He doesn't ever say anything, but when he passes me in the hall, he stares at me like he can't quite believe that I'm still vertical.

Sometimes, I catch that same expression from myself at the end of the day as I finish brushing my teeth. One glance in the mirror and my eyes become those of the reason I refuse to let myself visibly mope or slow down. I don't even know what he'd do if he knew that I can't even look out my kitchen window at her house, that I feel like crying when I see that a long red hair has weaseled its way into my pillowcase.

I wish I could ignore that she was ever here, so that I can ignore how she's gone, but how he looks at me in disbelief won't let me. He's waiting on my breakdown, and I don't feel like giving it to him. Though part of me does want to. That part is really small, and isn't in charge.

So to distract myself from him, and her, and life in general, everything I need to do gets done methodically and at a snail's pace, with constant mental or murmured self-instruction: "Now it's time to get out of bed, August". I find some sort of inexplicable comfort out of reminding myself that B comes after A and so forth; it gives me a sense of accomplishment. But at night, when all my homework is done, dinner has been eaten, and all there is left to do is sit silently listening to my mother turning the pages of her magazine- that is when my sense of purpose and accomplishment shrivels into another memory, waiting to be fleshed out again tomorrow.

Today, it's Wednesday, and I am kneeling in front of my locker in the hall, less enthusiastic than a wet paper bag about my next class- the last of the day. Just as I begin to think "Now we need that textbook," a long pair of legs leans up against the locker to my left. At first I assume it's Jonathon, but these feet aren't wearing the right shoes, so I neither look up nor acknowledge them as I exhale my next personal command.

"What's wrong, Shoemaker?"

Sellers.

"You look sort of... lonely lately."

I sigh, placing my last book in my bag and closing my locker. Without a word, I turn my back to him and walk away, knowing that it will take a lot to keep me awake for the next forty-five minutes, and I can't afford to waste my class energy on being heckled.

"Oh, you don't want to talk," he says, unhitching himself from the wall of lockers to follow me. "That's okay. I know, I get it. You miss her."

Even though we're on the stairs and doing so causes a disruption in the flow of human traffic, I stop and face him, glancing around to make sure that no one is listening. No one is, and it doesn't take even a second to notice that for once, he and I are almost eye-to-eye, as I am on the step higher than his.

He raises his hands in a faux surrender.

"Hey, don't worry- your secret's safe with me. I don't want to get beat up by your new friends."

Never mind that I've not been spending much time with those guys I was just beginning to call my friends. Never mind that he's refusing to call them his friends. I'm too tired. I just don't care.

I shake my head, sparing him the eye rolling he has certainly earned, and turn my back to him again, continuing to climb toward my class. As I reach the top and begin crossing the commons, he catches up to me and forces me to both stop and face him with one firm hand on my shoulder.

"Look, I'm only talking to you right now to suggest that if you're tired of being lonely, I can fix that."

His hand has slid down from my shoulder to my bicep, and the way he is rubbing it with his thumb makes me feel like I've fallen into the snake pit from Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Oh, hell no.

I shake his hand off, knowing exactly how red my face is. I don't walk away yet, though, because this needs to be shut down as soon as possible.

"No, Sellers," I say, refusing to meet his eyes. "Paris isn't my favorite person in the world, but I would rather scalp myself than wrong her like that."

"Don't worry about her," he says, rolling his eyes and putting his hand back on my shoulder as if the fact that he's suggesting I help him cheat on his girlfriend is no big deal. "She doesn't have to know."

I push his hand off with more force this time.

"I don't give a shit if she knows or not, Sellers," I say, stepping away from him. "What I should have said is that I would rather scalp myself than- get involved- with you."

As I speak, he counters me, stepping closer and smiling. Even though the commons is full and bustling, no one pays any attention to us. I'm used to being looked past, but Sellers has enough friendly acquaintances that he should at least be getting some attention- but he's not. None.

And he will not get away from me.

"See, you say that now," he begins with a disgusting smile, but I cut him off.

"No, I'll be saying that forever, Sellers. This," I say, gesturing to the uncomfortably small space in between us, "whatever the nasty fuck this is, it's never going to happen. So you can stop pretending that I'm interested, and you can take your hand off me!"

Looking like he's been slapped, he does so as his smile slides off his face and he takes a small but appreciated step away from me.

"You know what?" he says. "Forget it. I should have known better than to pick up some chick's sloppy seconds."

Some chick? Just some chick?

In less than the time it takes to draw a breath, I've thrown off my backpack and my fist connects with the side of his face, knocking him to the floor. I have no idea where this energy has come from, and I'm having no thoughts beyond the feeling of my hands on his cheekbones and my knuckles against the bridge of his nose and the sturdy pair of arms that wrap around me from behind, heaving me off my opponent after blows have landed on my ribcage and mouth.

Struggling against the firm grip of this third party I've yet to identify, and gasping for air and swear words I don't use around adults, I barely resist shouting at the useless excuse for a human being in front of me- being hauled to his feet and restrained by the tall Chemistry teacher, Mr. Paulsen, who must have seen it all from his classroom door. Sellers is holding his nose as blood streams from it and a cut on his forehead, trickling into his eyes.

"Get that crazy bitch away from me," he says, playing an unconvincing innocent due to the blood trickling from my badly busted bottom lip.

"Oh, I like this better," I spit at him, attempting to loosen the faceless arms around my soon to be bruised ribs. "I'd rather be a crazy bitch than sloppy seconds."

"Jesus, will you stop?" mutters a voice in my ear.

I turn to investigate, and find that all along, it's been Aiden's arms holding me back. This forces me to soften, not wanting to hurt him, and for the first time I actually feel the ache in my face and my split knuckles. And I see how many of my classmates- whether they know me or not- have stopped to watch me break, surprise splashed on their faces. And I stop struggling, and breathing hard, and I stand on my own shaky legs. I don't try to shove my anger away, but instead let it flow at an even pace from every pore.

Aiden doesn't remove his arms from my stomach- whether to prevent another attack on Sellers or because he's unsure of my steadiness of standing, I don't know- so I rest my hands on them, where I know they'll be safe. 

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AN: 

Much love