Fucking emo

On his fucking arm

I hadn't seen him all morning, which was strange because he always stood out. But sure enough, he showed up in chem class.

My partner was a girl with badass dreadlocks. His partner was a short, plump brunette who had decided to ignore him completely.

I thought it would be better if we switched partners. I wasn't sure if the two girls would get along, but the plump girl was willing to trade places with anyone.

After giving me a weird look, she did.

Those two hours were the longest I'd managed to be around him so far.

I said hi, and he gave a small nod, which I could have sworn was accompanied by a twinkle of a smile.

That made me uncomfortable. Why would he be happy around me? His smugness only made things worse. So I just sat beside him in silence, right in front of the class. Why didn't he hate me? I certainly hated him... or did I? A few days ago, I definitely did... but I guess I forgave him in the cafeteria. Why didn't I care now?

He sat there on his stool, scribbling something while the teacher explained lab safety procedures.

I had taken this class so many times, I knew what was coming. I wondered who would get picked. Secretly, I hoped it would be him. Actually, I would bet anything it was going to be him.

He seemed calm, completely focused on his writing. He was wearing all black again, with a Gengar on his shirt, and his ripped jeans were heavily distressed on his thighs, revealing his legs clearly. Baby blonde fuzz of hair covered his skin, barely noticeable.

Eventually, the teacher got to the part about the chemical shower. Oh, joy.

The teacher explained how the chemical shower worked, including the lever and the proper course of action. "Now, I need a volunteer to demonstrate," he announced, capturing the attention of the class. I assumed emo kid would be the one to step forward, but to my surprise, some guys raised their hands. The teacher scanned the room before pointing to emo kid who had not moved an inch and was still scribbling on his notebook. I nudged him with my elbow, and he finally looked up.

"Mr. lone artist, you were not paying attention. You'll find out how it works firsthand," the fat teacher remarked with some giggles.

I looked at his face, and he seemed resigned, even sad. Glancing at his notebook, which was now fully visible, I expected some lame skulls or some long journal-like ranting, but it was the house. The empty house. The suicide house. The house you could do anything in.

Then something came over me. I jumped off my desk and sprinted to catch up with him. I stopped him as he was approaching the chemical shower.

"Please, Mr., let me do it," I asked. "He's been with a cold the past few days." Some people booed, but some cheered, and the class was getting out of control. The teacher waved at everyone to keep silent.

"Fine, I don't care who does it. Just get in there so we can finish the lesson and we can all go," he said.

"Go, Nicholas!" chanted one of the girls. I couldn't pinpoint who. But suddenly, I was being cheered. The emo kid was looking at me intensely. I put on my chem goggles and jumped into the large plastic barrel under the shower head.

"Don't forget, kids, you have to get in as soon as you can, had any chemical been spilled, poured, or exploded on your persona," the teacher yelled as people couldn't keep quiet and murmured among themselves in excitement. "No changing, no taking off your jacket, gloves, scarf, brass knuckles, expensive sneakers, or whatever shit you kids wear these days."

He motioned at me. "Go ahead."

I took one look around at the class and at the emo kid still watching me with attention only a few feet away. He didn't go back to his seat.

The overwhelming amount of water covered me in seconds. It was surprisingly not that cold, and people jeered in excitement. My red shirt was a whole shade darker, and my jeans were so heavy I could feel them sagging as I jumped out of the shower, dripping profusely.

As I got out, I went to pick up my stuff before heading to the bathroom to change. The emo kid looked at me, and I reached for his arm, stretching it over the table, I could see recent cuts on his wrists.

"Give me your pen," I demanded.

He handed me the sharpie he was using to draw. I opened it, getting his hand wet, and wrote my phone number in big black letters across his arms and over his fresh cut marks.

"Message me," I said, and then I continued on my way out, dripping everywhere.

☆