What I Couldn't Tell Him

8 - Why Shouldn't You?

ALDEN POV

I walk the halls with my usual confidence and sure-footedness. It's never been affected before, it's always been natural. But right now I feel like I'm acting.

My back pocket bulges with the square corners of a cigarette box. Her face in that window squared it for me. The judgment, the superiority. I have to win this and nothing else matters. I want to hurt her for hurting me like she has.

I spot Jordan leaning casually against the bonnet of his car. He has a cigarette between his teeth and is idly flicking his lighter on and off. He wears black pants that hang loosely on his hips and a white t-shirt. His blond hair falls a little over his eye. This is normal. But it feels like he's a character, like he's acting too. Like someone will yell cut and we'll all exhale and stop being dickheads.

"Hey. Fancy a fag?" He says and I nod. I fight the feeling of unease in my stomach.

I snatch his lighter and breathe in.

A ripple of calmness and something I can't describe.

"What do you wanna do? I fucking hate chemistry, let's stay here."

I actually don't hate chemistry. I find the procedures and calculations to be dull, but the experiments aren't at all. The real reason I'm skiving is to avoid that bitch. I know it's not a good start to my new resolve, but I feel weird right now. I have to be on top of my game when I see her.

"Oh. Let's rate the b*tches." He smirks. This is a game we play way too often. A girl walks past, a number out of ten. Simple, but disgusting. I would have called it a guilty pleasure, but now it makes me feel queasy, not good.

I scan the cracked sidewalks and my eyes drift over faded shop signs and dull flowerbeds, visible outside the open gates.

"There. Brunette, spotty skirt." Jordan points out. I follow his gaze. A girl, a bit over our age, walks a little awkwardly in kitten heels. She wears a spotty skirt, hanging past her knees and a blouse that puffs around her shoulders. Her brown hair is tucked into a frizzy plait.

"Three." I scoff. No fashion sense, no confidence. I'm stomping hard on the voice in my head; the one screaming you don't even know her. you're such a dick.

"Ooh, two." He laughs. His relaxation makes it easier to kill the voice. I have to be better than him; more than him. If this is what he does, I have to do it harder. You can't be the hottest, most popular guy in school if you have your masculinity in a straight jacket.

"Okay..." I trail off. A group of girls walk out of a park, swinging shopping bags on their arms.

"Left to right. Three, four, six, seven." He tells me factually.

"I agree. Maybe a five at the end though." I shrug. He raises an eyebrow.

"Why?"

"Look at her makeup. She's like... bright orange and all shiny." I explain.

"I see your point. Look at that ass though." He whistles. She is wearing a pink pencil skirt and it's not hurting my eyes at all. I laugh at myself.

"Okay, nine, at least." He declares.

I watch the girl saunter out of a coffee shop. Her top barely reaches over her chest and her shorts ride up her butt. She has pin-straight, glossy black hair and heavy makeup. She looks a bit angry, and everything about her looks too done up for me. I don't want to run my fingers through her hair or  dance with her in a rainstorm. I don't think she has that sparkle in her eye. She looks too serious.

Who the fuck am I becoming?

"Four." I shrug. He looks at me disbelievingly, "What? She's not my type."