crush culture | jean kirstein

chapter one

The school bell rings. You pocket your smartphone in your slim cut jeans and collect the scattered handouts on your desk. While doing so, you clumsily knock off a can of paint thinner under your easel, spilling onto the floor and seeping in through the crevices.

Mr. Berner automatically huffs in his seat, taking his specs off his nose as he frustratedly buries his face in his palms. You mutter a quick apology, afterwards deserting your handouts to handle the mess you just created.

As the rest of the class pile out of the room, you busy yourself in gathering enough paper towels to wipe the paint thinner off the floor. When you bend over to clean up the mess, the boy who sits beside you, Bertholdt, beats you to it.

"Here, I'll help you," he says, revealing a handful of paper towels and a fresh pack of moist towelettes in the other. He takes the initiative to wipe the liquid off the floor and you reciprocate his actions after. Once done, he gives the spill one last wipe before putting the towelettes away and looking at you.

You return his gaze with a smile, a little confused at his actions, and take his hand when he kindly extends it out for you to hold.

"Rough day?" he asks, then hoists you and himself up from the ground.

You shake your head.

"No, just clumsy."

A small laugh escapes his lips, but you don't notice it because he nods and abruptly drops your hand. Afterwards, he goes back to his stool and picks up his backpack.

"Well, I'll get going," he says softly, his happy facade falling apart and being replaced with nervousness. You slowly nod at his words, wave him goodbye, and watch as he sprints out the door.

Weird. Bertholdt was just acting perfectly fine a few seconds ago, but you shake the thought away and proceed to shove it at the back of your mind. Instead, you bend down to grab your bag, toss the wet paper towels in the nearby bin, and leave Mr. Berner's Art room.

»»------¤------««

The way back home is difficult. You have to cross two railroads and go up a hill just to reach your street because the town of Trost was built weirdly for some reason.

Well, to be fair, it is the countryside; when you first moved here with your father, you surely did not expect anything to be like the metro at all, but you guess it does not hurt to at least have a pathway for students to pass through. School and your neighborhood are inconveniently so far apart from each other that you might as well go back to the city and enjoy the luxury of more efficient public transportation.

But no, your family history is fucked just like the terrible area planning of Trost. Dilemmas arise in every reunion and the constant squabbling were more than enough of a sign for you and your father to pack your bags and take refuge in the rural lands.

You huff as you reach the foot of the hill, clinging onto your bicycle and preparing yourself for another leg workout. Because your father is unemployed, he doesn't have the proper finances to purchase a car, so you took the very little money you had left to buy a bike. It sucks, but at least you're forced to go through a fifteen-minute workout session everyday. Twenty-five, now that it's early December and the rocky streets and lands are slowly being blanketed with snow.

"Here we go," you say to yourself like a prayer as you sit on your bike and start to pedal your way up the hill.

Thank goodness the wintry weather hasn't gotten that awful yet. You push on the pedal forward with all the strength you can muster and slowly rise up the slope, cussing under your breath when you exert more strength on the pedal than usual.