I'm Sort of Okay with This

Two: Ian

I'd had plans to go to the movies with Cheyenne, but I told her I had to study. She told me it was fine, and that she'd go shopping with Sasha instead. I sensed she was secretly mad about it. The way she texted was short and punctuated, which was not a good sign. She'd even responded with K rather than okay. Connor once told me that meant a girl was enraged.

Groups of students were spread out on the tables, reading from textbooks and solving math problems. Miss Benson was seated beside a girl I'd never spoken to, but vaguely recognized from English class. I was also pretty sure Connor had made a dirty comment about her when she walked past us in the hall once, called her a freak or something like that.

Her hair was a deep auburn, and her eyes were lined with dark makeup. She wore a baggy denim jacket, which concealed the shape of her figure, and her thick eyebrows were furrowed. She appeared as if she was analyzing me, trying to read my thoughts.

I approached Miss Benson, who beamed when she saw me.

"Hello, Ian. I'm glad you decided to come. Have a seat."

"Yeah," I mumbled.

I glanced at the girl and pulled up a chair.

"This is Abby." Miss Benson said. "She'll help you with your essay. Did you bring your copy of Catcher in the Rye?"

My face got hot. "No. Sorry. I forgot it."

"You can use mine," the girl whispered.

"Perfect. Thank you, Abby," Miss Benson said, before drifting off to help some other students.

"It's nice to meet you," I said. I smiled, trying my best to be friendly. "I'm Ian. I don't know if we've met." 

"Yeah," the girl said dryly, almost sarcastically. "Nice to meet you."

Our words paused. She didn't look me in the eye when she spoke. Her irises darted away from me like I was some kind of hideous beast. Did I stink or something? I was pretty sure I'd put on deodorant that morning.

"So, uh," I said, "what should we do first?"

"Have you started working on your essay at all?" she asked.

"No," I admitted, "I haven't even finished reading the book yet. Reading kind of makes my head hurt."

"Oh," she said, finally turning her gaze to me. "Well, I can read it to you, if you want."

"Okay," I said. "That would be nice."

I didn't remember the last time somebody read aloud to me. It must've been when I was six or seven, at the oldest.

She took her copy of the book and opened it up. Her hair draped over her face as she studied the pages. She began to read. Her voice took on Holden Caulfield's wacky, jaded narration. I leaned in closer as she read, mildly fascinated by the story. I was kind of enjoying it.

"Holden's kind of an asshole, don't you think?" I remarked, after about three chapters.

"It's an act," she said. "He's not really an asshole. It's just that everyone around him is an asshole, so he pretends to be one as a defense mechanism. If you really pay attention, he's actually a pretty sensitive person."

I acted like I fully understood, nodding solemnly.

She went back to reading. My attention strayed from the story, my eyes landing on the several buttons pinned onto Abby's jacket. I assumed they were memorabilia of bands she listened to, most of which I'd never heard of. I did know of Nirvana, though. Living in Washington State, it was difficult not to hear of them. I sort of liked their music, too.

There was something about her that set her apart from Cheyenne. The way she slouched in her seat, her excessive eye makeup, the loose androgyny of her clothes. She was odd to me, so different from the people I usually surrounded myself with.

"You listen to Nirvana?" I asked her.

She stopped reading and her mouth curved into a tiny smile, but she knitted her eyebrows together as if in confusion.

"Do you shit?" she said.

I chortled.

"You like Nirvana?" she asked, as if in disbelief.

"Yeah," I said. "They're pretty great." 

I shifted in my seat. She looked at me like rainbow-colored spiders were crawling out of my ears.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said. "I just didn't think you'd know who they were."

"Why not?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I don't know. You just seem like more of a Justin Timberlake kind of guy."

"What's wrong Justin Timberlake?" I asked with a tilt of my head. I was lost as to what she was implying. I didn't even listen to Justin Timberlake.

"Nothing. It's just... let's get back to work."

I nodded in agreement, but a small part of me wished I could have kept talking to her. I seriously wanted to know what she meant by Justin Timberlake kind of guy.