Of Love and Other Tragedies

2 | checkmate

XENA

Oz and I have been through thick and thin together, having met in the second grade. He had just moved from the other side of town and didn't know anyone.

The seven-year-old came into class all nervous and antsy, his leg bumping up and down all during class. It wasn't until partner time that I, sitting behind him, tapped his shoulder to get his attention. Asking if he wanted to be friends, and partners, he gratefully agreed, taking up my proposal.

From then on, we were inseparable, and only got closer when we decided to learn Spanish together, although neither of us were of Latin descent. The accent was the toughest bit, but we picked it up through hours of study and practice. The reason behind our curiosity was to have a language of our own, being in a community where the ethnicity was slim to none.

The real fun, though, began when we confessed our mutual romantic feelings to each other. And by then, you would think we'd be a couple, the type that held hands and does PDA for a living, but no. We both decided to play a game, a sick one of cat and mouse, to see who gave up first. The pact, I might add, was created in the eighth grade and now we were high school seniors.

So all these years, Oz and I participated in a sport of jealousy, playing with each other's feelings for the thrill of it because we shared that twisted humor no one could understand. Still, these days I'm simply counting down the minutes 'till we end the charade. As much as I love a good game, I would also love Oz off the radar, just for safekeeping, of course.

Sitting in the library during lunch the day following my disaster date, I could feel Oz's gaze on me as I read, urging myself to not look in his direction for the time being. With my luck, he had joined me in an aisle and sat across from me, his legs lying just next to mine.

Just as I was about to break, my phone buzzed loudly in my lap, surely grabbing Oz's attention as I picked it up to see a text.

'Hey, do we have to do textbook pages for AP Chem?', it read. The sender was Andrés, a guy I'd partnered with in the one class we shared, AP Chemistry. Ironically, it was a period that Oz wasn't in.

I replied back, setting down the cellular device for a moment before my eyes caught Oz's.

"Who's that, amor?" His eyes narrowed, his lips parting as he racked his brain for an answer, I'm sure.

"No one, Ozzy," I got out when my phone buzzed again.

'Okay, thanks'

Biting back a grin, I continued the conversation with, 'So how's your mom?' Andrés had confided in me that his mom recently had a minor accident in which she fell off a ladder, a conversation topic I had not forgotten.

I couldn't help the smile that peeked out when he responded with, 'She's doing better, thanks for asking'.

"Xena, who is it?" Oz's tone shifted into a whine, his lips turning into a frown. A crease was between his eyebrows, chocolate brown skin glowing despite his growing confusion. "Better not be no man trying to take you out."

"Ozzy, please," I shoved my forgotten novel into my backpack, zipping it closed, then dragged myself over to hover by his face. "You know you're my one and only, cariño." Pecking his lips just as the bell rang, I reached out to grab my backpack, but Oz snatched it up before I could do so.

The walk to journalism class together was filled with the chatter of those around, yet silence lingered between us, Oz still moping.

In the quiet of class, about fifteen minutes in, my mind remained on my laptop screen, my fingers typing word after word on my latest article.