"Are you always angry?" asked a voice from behind me as I chucked a knife into the bullseye from thirty yards. I turned around to see a tall and muscular boy with blonde hair and glossy brown eyes I'd seen around somewhat but couldn't put a name to.
"What are you?" I scowled. He laughed lightly.
"Clove Kentwell, right? Fourth Year, Fourth Level Trainee?" he asked. Damn, I wasn't even wearing my name tag (since it was bullcrap anyway). How'd he know that? "I pay attention," he added, answering my unasked question.
"Stalker," I muttered. He looked momentarily embarrassed, but regained composure quickly. "Anyway, what are you?" I repeated.
"Excuse me?"
"Fine, if you're a manners person, who are you,kind sir, and to what do I owe the pleasure?" I asked sarcastically. He gestured dramatically to his sterling nametag. "Cato Hadley, Sixth Year, Fourth Level Special Trainee," I read aloud. "Special something," I scoffed. He rolled his eyes. "Impressive, anyway," I drawled.
"Thanks," he grinned.
"S-A-R-C-A-S-M," I spelled out. "Sarcasm. Jesus." He chuckled. "Lord, why do you laugh at everything?"
"Life isn't a promise of forever. Laugh while you can," he said.
"You mean before you're dead and have no one to laugh with because you're all alone in a coffin?"
"Damn," he murmured. "Anyway."
"So," I said slowly, "you're one of those people who tell people to laugh while they're still alive only so you can laugh at them because you think that's funny, right?"
He nodded. "Pretty much. But are you ever happy?"
"I still think you're a stalker," I said.
"Answer the damn question," he spat.
"Okay, jeez. Um, yeah, sure I am."
"Because I've never seen you smile."
"And you're a stalker, so you'd think you would have."
"You'd think," he chuckled darkly. "But seriously, tell me the last time you were genuinely happy about something."
I didn't understand why he's interrupting my training for his stupid reveries, but I'm trying to make that one as clear as I can, although he's not picking up. (Then again, he's a total dumbass, I'm surprised he even knows his own last name, let alone mine.)
Anyway, I couldn't think of a time I was really happy. I supposed I liked training, but what was the point of throwing knives like a killer when you're grinning like a fool? And school was just a hell on Earth where adults got paid to torture kids for six and a half hours (I still don't know how that's legal), so I wasn't exactly grinning my ass off there either. I didn't really have friends, other than Bellamy, who I occasionally called to complain about all the trash I lived through every day, but neither of us were party animals, to say the least, so we didn't really go out.
"I can't," I told him.
"See," he explained, "if you stop making your life so miserable all the time and actually try-"
"Maybe I do try, huh? You ever think about that? Maybe my life is just a load of garbage and I don't have anything to smile about, no matter how hard I try. Maybe I didn't get a fabulous hand of cards to play this round."
"Oh, well don't go all philosophical on me," he said sardonically. I bit my lip to hold back a smile.
"Damn, are you smiling?" he asked, grinning at the thought.
"No, shut up. I hate my life and your whole it's up to you idea won't change that," I said, still fighting the urge to break a smile.
"Just trying to help," he replied coolly.
"Stop talking like that, people might start to think you care about someone other than yourself," I warned.
'Wouldn't want that," he cracked in response. Whatever this is, it's the most fun I've had in a long time, and we burst into simultaneous giggles, his low, rough chuckle and my high, clear laugh blending in sweet harmony. His eyes met mine in a collision of brown and blue, and I can tell he liked the sound as much as I did.
"There you go," he smiled, running a hand through his hair. "How long has it been since you laughed like that?"
"About fifteen seconds," I said, still recovering. He raised his eyebrows, and I could tell he was serious. "Okay, fourteen years?"
"You're fourteen years old."
"That's the problem, I guess."
"That's depressing," he said.
"You don't say."
"Chin up, Clove, it'll come around."
"What will?"
"Something to make you laugh like that."
"Sure it will."
"Who knows? It could be right in front of you, and if you look between the lines, you might see it."
"Uh huh."
He pauses this time before talking. "You know, compared to what people have been saying, you aren't so bad."
"What have people been saying?"
"You know, you're the knife-girl, all psycho bitch and stuff. That I shouldn't come to talk to you."
"So you've been wanting to?" I asked in disbelief, considering that what people have been saying pretty much summed it up.
He snorted. "Hell yes. Like I said, I've been paying attention, and I think you're interesting."
"Like you said, you're a stalker who thinks I'm interesting. No that's not weird at all," I said, holding back a smile.
"Of course it's not," he agreed coolly. His eyes met mine again and hot damn. I like them. They're soft, sort of. They kind of rebel against his macho man build. And he was funny, easy to be around. I just don't like boys. Or anyone, really. I'm not a people person.
"Have you ever, um, you know, liked someone?" he asked awkwardly, as if he could see through the flesh, skull and tissue right into the thoughts traveling trough my neural pathways.
"I don't have time," I replied stiffly.
"I don't buy that. Have you ever dated anyone? Liked anyone, even?"
"Nope," I said, as stiffly as before.
"Would you consider it? Even just casually going out with someone every now and then?"
"I mean, I suppose, if they didn't suck. I guess I never really thought about it. Emotions aren't really my thing." That's putting it simply.
"What do you mean, emotions aren't your thing? Everyone has emotions."
"Not me," I told him. "I bottle them up as soon as I get them because they're too much for me to handle. When I let myself feel something, it swallows me. So I don't. I don't let people in, I don't laugh, I don't cry. I don't even live. Exist, sure, but not live. I'm too scared to get hurt." Damn, I just opened up to someone. That conversation went from a 1 to a 200 in seconds.
Cato stood there thoughtfully for a few moments. "That's rough. But, um, do you, maybe, I mean, would you, um, like to, um, you know, grab a, um, coffee or something tomorrow after training? Together, I mean?"
"Oh," I replied in surprise. "Um, yeah, sure."
"Cool."
"Cool."
Cato smiled and walked away. I rolled my eyes, but I could feel the corners of my own mouth turning up. I decided that, for the first time, feelings may not have been so bad, and I let myself feel excited, and maybe, just maybe, a tiny, little bit, kind of, sort of, quite, very happy.
