Blue Howard (boyxboy)

What date is it?

Sorry for the short chapter, but I'm busy-busy. 

I hope you still enjoy it. I do my best to update. 

Until next time, lovelies x)

Chapter 23 – What date is it?

It has been two weeks. I write in the corner of my notebook. I cross out days on my left hand wrist. Four stripes vertical, one slices them diagonally; again, four stripes vertical, one slices diagonally. Then there are two stripes. The pen I used to write on my skin doesn’t work anymore.

I’ve been living with Jocelyn for almost two weeks. We made each other write a letter complaining about love, then we burned them. It reminded me of how we did it together, the four of us. Now, I haven’t spoken to Anton, and I think Jocelyn is slowly pushing Emma out of her life. I don’t know why. Since I don’t have glasses with her, I don’t see her, either.

Jocelyn’s dad visited her. Well, he sent two guys at her house, one driving her brand new car. Then they left. She says we can go to town whenever we like now, even during school days. I am okay with that. We need to do the grocery shopping more frequently anyways since there are two people in the house.

We used to eat in the dining hall, but now it seems better to be alone in the house. We can cook for each other and it will be fine, we don’t even have to see the people that hurt us. And we don’t have to remind them of our existence.

“Temple,” professor says, “would you care to read out the poem?”

I mumble a ‘yes’, and push myself up. I clear my throat, take the paper into my hands and start reading. The class falls silent, and I don’t like the attention, but maybe I am doing a good job; maybe they want to hear what I have to say. It isn’t such a bad thing, is it?

When the class ends, a girl comes to my desk. She’s clutching a book to her chest. “I really liked your poem,” she says.

I look up at her and raise my eyebrow. “Thanks. I didn’t exactly write it. I just did what I was asked.”

“No, I know you didn’t,” she blushes. “I meant I liked the way you read it. You have a great voice.”

I glance at her, unsure of how to respond. “Thanks? Or maybe you should thank my genes...or puberty.”

“Wow, you’re making it really hard to compliment you,” she looks away.

“Sorry. I’m not used to it,” I say and sling my bag over my shoulder. She follows me out of class.

“When someone compliments you, it’s polite to say thanks,” she explains. “I mean, it took guts from me to even approach you.”

“But I didn’t bite, did I?” I ask, smiling.

“You didn’t exactly pull me into an embrace, either.” She pushes the lock of hair behind her ear. “Anyways, you did great.” She looks up at me. “See you later.”

Just then, Anton walks past me, and the girl turns around. “Anton!” she calls.

He stops and glances over his shoulder.

“Don’t forget our date!” she smiles innocently.

I take it back, I might just bite. But before I bare my fangs, I rush the opposite direction, far from her, far from Anton. Where is a coffin when you need one to hide from sunlight? I slip into another corridor and furiously throw my bag in the air. I want to punch the wall. I don’t.

Stomping my feet, I go and pick my stuff up from the floor, sling the bag over my shoulder and carry on walking.

I feel terrible, it’s terrible.

I have one more class to survive, and it’ll be okay. Then I get to go home and read or drink or convince Jocelyn to go into town to distract myself. Whatever is good, whatever goes. Until then, I have to cage the rage and suffer through a class.

I design the edges of my notebook. I create patterns and get angry at my pen for not cooperating. I keep whispering “your only job is to write, so why do you keep fighting me”.

The professor asks us to write an essay on how details affect us most. So I focus on the noise the papers makes when someone’s skin brushes against it, the quiet sounds that come from the outside, the breathing, and suddenly I can’t concentrate anymore, so I write about that, how being aware of small sounds makes you crazy, and affects you to the point where all your brain can do, is make those noises louder and louder, and you can’t stop it, can’t put an end to it.

Then the bell rings and I hand in my essay. It is messy, and I know she will take points off for it, but I don’t care, it came from the heart, and if she doesn’t appreciate what my soul has to say, then it’s her problems. I have bigger things to worry about, than focus on the small aspects of a single hour spent in class.

And I have the right to exhaust my brain with problems that don’t have a solution.  

I go home and let my bag fall on the carpeted floor. Jocelyn is reading on the couch. I sigh loudly and sit next to her.

“He has a date,” I say, and she looks up from the pages. “He’s going on a date with a girl.”

Jocelyn quietly closes the book and keeps her eyes on me.

“I guess I’m just sad...disappointed,” I continue. “I’m mad at myself. Like I have failed.”

She puts the book down. I inch closer and rest my head on her shoulder. Her hair is up in a bun which is new. It’s usually wild and free.

Her hand snakes around my shoulders and her hand caresses my hair. Her other arm takes me into a half-embrace. I close my eyes and let myself be sad.

“He still loves you,” she whispers, and even though I hurt him, and he shouldn’t, I want to believe what she said. Even in the most hopeless of situations, people still find hope.

“He shouldn’t.”

“I want to punch you,” she smiles. “You can’t tell people they can’t love you. It makes us feel like we’ve done something wrong, when in reality, we haven’t. We have simply been grateful that you are alive and we know you. Don’t make anyone who loves you feel crappy. They have done nothing wrong, you just have to believe them and believe in them. That’s what magic is all about. You believe it, even when you don’t know why.”

“There’s no magic in this world, though,” I disagree.

“That’s because nobody believes in it. So you’d better start now.” She pushes me to sit. “Come on now, I’m making us tea.”

“I’ll only drink it if it’s magical,” I yell when she goes into the kitchen, and laugh.

“Okay, fine! This time I won’t put any sugar into yours! How about that magic!”

I am so aware of the time. I wonder if she’s getting ready for the date. I wonder if he’s nervous. I wonder if she’s going to wear a dress. I wonder whether he’ll like it. I wonder if he never liked me. I wonder whether I was just a phase.

I drink one tea cup after another. At first with no sugar, then with half a teaspoon of sugar, then with a full teaspoon of sugar, then with every cup I add a bit more.

Jocelyn brings out crosswords and we solve them, or at least try to. She spills some tea onto the scribbled words and the ink gets smudged. We laugh.

“I don’t know about you, but I would like to try that new engine out,” Jocelyn says after she’s cleaned up the tea spills.

“Wouldn’t mind, if one’s honest,” I reply and run a hand through my hair.

“Let one be completely honest,” she smirks.

“One really wants to go away from campus,” I say, and she nods.

“A trip to the town it is, then. Let’s explore.”

“Whatever makes me forget what date it is,” I add.

“Day, you mean?” she asks as she grabs the keys.

“No, date. I meant date.”