Chapter Thirty-Seven
A familiarized honking noise met my ears, as an involuntarily sigh discharged from my lips. Slowly, I forced myself away from the chilled counter, and over to the area above the stairs, where I had dumped my backpack ten minutes prior. Upon seeing the fabric container I would have to heave around school for the next seven hours, I immediately wished that I had never left the warmth of my bed. If it weren’t for Monica’s threats to drench my body in ice-cold water if I didn’t get up, my bed and I would never have parted.
“Bye, mom,” I called, lazily slinging the bluish-green sack over a shoulder.
“Bye, Elizabeth,” she returned animatedly, having already ingested her required dose of coffee.
Unlike me, my mother had the ability take a few sips of steaming, brown liquid, and instantly appear as though she had been up for hours. Some days I could handle mornings, like on the weekends, but when I had school, I was worse than a three-year-old having been rudely woken up in the middle of a nap. Currently, the morning and I weren’t quite on the best of terms with our relationship.
In a haze, I managed to lethargically lug myself down the steps, until I reached the front door. I twisted the knob, exiting the house, not even the frigid air being able to snap me to full consciousness this particular morning. It was my first day back after two weeks of less than blissful vacation, all of which, excluding Christmas, were spent in Italy. We had gotten back less than twelve hours ago, and the fact that I had to go straight to school, no transition time to adjust to the time differences, was absolutely crazy.
My eyes scanned over a dark SUV parked in the center of my driveway, as it usually was in the mornings, but something about today was different. My stomach clenched as I continued to advance towards it, wondering why I couldn’t have just decided at the beginning of the year to take the bus. What was so bad about the lengthened car that was painted a puke-worthy shade of yellow, anyways? Nothing, that’s what. There was no shame in taking the bus, and it was probably a hell of a lot more logical than my mode of transportation to school.
In the afternoons, it differed from person to person. Sometimes, I walked home. The school wasn’t that far in distance away from my house, and I needed the exercise, so occasionally opted for that form of physical punishment on my legs. Most days, though, one of the girls would offer to drive me home— usually Alice or Tara. And then, there were the days that I was stuck seeing a boy by the name of Eric Wilson at both dawn and dusk. Those were the interesting days…
As I apprehensively reached the polished vehicle, I pulled open the door of the passenger’s seat, sliding in, as was routine. Immediately following my entrance, I habitually reached for my seatbelt, and secured it across my chest. My bag had made its way beside my feet as it always somehow did, and I resisted the urge to go completely anti-social by whipping out my phone and headphones.
“Good morning,” Eric greeted, less cheery than usual, as he started the car, backing out of my driveway.
“Morning,” I mumbled, focusing my gaze outside my window, as if the leafless trees and thin layer of snow on the suburban landscape was the most interesting thing I had ever encountered. I decided against debating how the morning couldn’t possibly fall under the criteria of being “good”, but sought against it.
“How was Italy?” he questioned lightly, after a tense few seconds of silence.
“Bad,” I answered, oppose to the typical “fine” I was sure he was expecting.
“Oh? I’m, uh, sorry,” he fumbled, his eyes not daring to connect with mine. He quickly jostled with the notches of the dashboard, until an upbeat pop song I recognized to be one of Taylor Swift’s blared into my ears.
Eric’s music taste always had the ability to surprise me. With most of the guys I had hung out with over the years, they liked to listen to rap music, as they thought it would make them more “masculine” or something, which is how, I suppose, I acquired my musical likings. Then, there was Eric. Every time I had been with him and he turned on music, it was always mainstream, bubblegum pop that was probably at the top of the charts. I wasn’t sure if he was assuming that I, being of the female gender, liked the type of music, or because he genuinely was a fan of it, but it definitely struck me as odd, regardless.
Discreetly, I peered at him from the edge of my eye, and noticed that he was lightly bobbing his head along to the melodies of the country star turned pop, every so often mouthing a word or two. So, he clearly knew the song. I continued to study him as subtly as I could, trying to figure out the musical mystery. As the song ended with the word “trouble” repeated twelve billion times, it quickly faded into yet another cotton candy song that flowed out of the car’s speakers, this one of a faster pace, and the addition of a thick layer of auto tune. I was fairly positive it was Ke$ha.
As artist names went, she definitely deserved a gold star for creativity… or stupidity. Employing a random dollar sign to serve as the “S” in your name—brilliant… or idiotic, depending on one’s views. Personally, I didn’t find it the cleverest of names, but that was just one opinion. I was biased, for I preferred the genre of rap, but when adding a symbol in the middle one’s name, it undeniably sanctioned judgment from others. The person was pretty much asking for it, anyways.
“Liz—” Eric spoke up surprisingly, turning the volume down marginally so I was able to hear his voice. I turned my face over to him, as his eyes lay on the road ahead of us, not wavering slightly. Well, at least he was a good driver. That was a positive thing, right?
“What?” I quipped, harsher than intended.
“Can we—can we talk?” he requested.
“We are talking,” I pointed out, not even caring if my eyes revolved.
“You know what I mean,” he mumbled sourly.
“No, I don’t think I do,” I chose to be difficult, “care to elaborate?”
He let out a breath that I assumed he had been holding, his hands noticeably tightening around the steering wheel. “I want to talk about what happened at Christmas,” he bit the edge of his lip in—dare I say it—nervousness. Eric Wilson was nervous about talking to me. Huh. Imagine that. The quarterback with an ego bigger than the size of his popularity was scared of conversing with a girl he didn’t know could easily beat him in a competition involving anything having to do with basketball. Eric Wilson was anxious about talking to me, Liz Turner—“the new girl.”
“Okay,” I said simply, eyeing the impending school building from my peripheral vision, “talk.”
“Well, that, uh, that guy, uh, that wasn’t me,” he stumbled, surprising me with the lack of ease in his tone.
“Oh? Then who was it, exactly? Were you possessed by a medieval sorcerer— or, better yet, was it your deranged twin you forget to tell me about, who happens to look just like you but lives in your basement?” I radicalized, aware that I probably would’ve laughed at my words if having been in a different circumstance than the one of which I was currently apart.
“No, it was, uh, me, but I mean—” he started again, but I didn’t allow him the opportunity to complete his thought wave.
“Then I don’t understand what there’s to talk about it,” I voiced tautly, as he turned into the parking lot designated for students. “You’re accountable for your own actions, and unless you have some amazing excuse like you happen to know someone with shape-shifting abilities and a personal vendetta against you, then I don’t really want to hear it. You’re at fault here, Eric. You’re reprehensible.”
“I understand that, and I take complete responsibility for my actions, but—” he began yet again.
“Then there’s nothing to talk about,” I crossed my arms firmly over my chest as he pulled into the parking space he had claimed as his own long ago, bringing the car to a stop.
“Liz, please, just let me explain this to you!” he pled, displaying a manner of desperation I didn’t think achievable by Eric Wilson. But, then again, there were a lot of things I would have never thought Eric able to accomplish, though he proved my suspicions incorrect.
“There’s nothing to explain, Eric,” I said, reaching for the handle of the door after unfastening my safety precaution, thinking it about time to make an exit. As soon as my fingers brushed against the plastic lever that permitted me withdrawal, I heard a faint “click!” sound. I disregarded it, pushing on the door nonetheless. It didn’t open. I glanced over to Eric and saw him fiddling with the keys. It clicked. Literally. “Eric, unlock the car, now!”
“No,” he said, bringing back memories of the same exotic word he had used on that irregular night.
“Seriously, Wilson,” I used his last name, hoping it would add emphasis my demand, “open the door.”
“No,” he iterated unyieldingly.
“Eric!” I continued to fumble with door, thinking that he had miraculously changed his mind over the course of twelve seconds.
“No,” he said a third time. “We’re not going until I get a chance to explain and apologize.”
“Look, I just got into this country less than twelve hours ago, I have jetlag, my head feels like watermelons are being rained on it, and I’m too tired to do any real thinking,” I said, as my dear head decided to remind me how much it was aching by hammering a nail into the front of my forehead. “If this were any other time, I’d probably be a whole lot more willing to discuss anything ranging from the meaning of life to what the hell was wrong with you at the party, but, right now, I don’t have the right mentality, nor want. So, please, let me the fuck out of this car.”
“You promise that you’ll talk to me when you’re feeling better?” he questioned hesitantly.”
“Yes! Just let me the hell out of this damned car!” I whined, jiggling the handle repeatedly until hearing another “click!” and stumbling out of the vehicle in which I had been detained. I recomposed myself after my feet had hit pavement, and grabbed my backpack from the flooring of the car, placing it on its required axis that was my back.
“We’ll talk later?” Eric restated for reassurance, coming over to where I was standing.
“We’re in practically every class together, I don’t really think there’s an alternative,” I replied with more sarcasm than needed be.
“Oh, um, right,” he gulped.
“Thanks for the ride,” I muttered, beginning to walk away from him. Normally, we went into school together, but, today, I wasn’t too invested in that ideology.
“You’re welcome!” I heard him call after me in a haze.
Purging all traces of fervor and vigilance, I somehow managed to amble my way up to the crowded structure I had learned to love and hate that was Madison High, a frenzy of excitement and exhaust encompassing it. The day after vacation was always an interesting one. Most were still longing for the extra hours of sleep they had previously obtained over the break, and others, the deranged ones, were actually glad to be back in school. Though I barely acquired any addition to my sleeping patterns over the respite, but rather a lack of, I still fell under the majority’s category.
“Liz!” someone squealed the second my feet touched the warm innards of the educational institution. Heated air enveloped every inch of my body, contradicting the frosty, January atmosphere that the outside retained.
Slowly, I glanced up, searching for the individual who had called out to me, seeing a girl who looked like Lauren, only with orange skin, oppose her usual, natural shade of pale. Her eyes were wide with vivacity as she neared me, pushing people away with the greatest of ease. When she finally reached my stopped body, a smile overtook her face, as she flipped her silky hair of a straight, mocha color off of her shoulders, so it all fell down her back.
“Why do you look like you took a trip to visit Willy Wonka at his chocolate factory and he decided to give you a makeover between an Oompa Loompa and a cast member of Jersey Shore?” I questioned in the utmost sincerity.
“See, that’s one of the reasons I like you, Liz!” she laughed, clearly thinking my inquiry had been meant as the joke it most certainly was not. I was being serious. “You’re funny. Smart, too.”
I chose to not delve into the fact that I had, indeed, actually been asking something legitimate, dropping it all together. “Uh, thanks, I guess.”
“But, like, actually, I went to Florida. I always do for December vacations,” she gave an explanation about why she and a carrot now, practically, looked identical.
“Oh? Do you have family there?” I asked out of politeness, not truly caring one way or the other.
“No,” she shook her head, scattering the strands of hair that had been placed behind her, “but we have a condo. It has a pool. And palm trees. Oh-my-gosh, Liz, you would love it! It’s really pretty and you can see the ocean from my bedroom window. I love the beach, don’t you?”
“Not really,” I said truthfully.
I had never been much of a beach type of person, really, or anything involving water or aquatics in general. I could swim, Monica made sure of that, but I wasn’t passionate about the clear liquid vital to so many organisms’ lives like some were. When I was younger, and forced into swimming lessons, I was always the first kid out of the pool. While some children threw temper tantrums for five more minutes spent in the chlorine infected H2O, I didn’t. I got out of that cement bowl so fast it was a miracle I didn’t hit my head on a diving board or something. I much preferred sports (yes, I did still acknowledge swimming to qualify as a sport in my book) that involved round orbs that one could clutch and throw—basketball, to be precise.
“Well, that’s okay!” Lauren carried on happily, taking hold of my hand, as she began to lead me through the front entrance of the school, amid the swarm of youths not too keen on being back. “Personally, I love the beach!”
“Oh?” I wasn’t surprised. “Do you like swimming?”
“In the ocean?” her tone led me to believe that I had just asked something along the heinous lines of “Who’s Michael Jordan?” I waited a moment, not thinking it was my time to speak. Suddenly, a spurt of laughter exited her lips as she continued. “I knew you were funny, Liz!”
“So, I’m taking that as a no,” I nodded, as we made our way to a corridor I recognized.
“Swimming in the ocean…” she mused, shaking her head, “that’s just too funny, Liz!”
“Isn’t it?” I mocked, fairly certain that she wasn’t able to detect the sardonic tone my voice possessed, “Swimming in the ocean—absolutely ridiculous. Who would ever do something so strange?”
“I know, right?!” she agreed, my suppositions proving to be correct as she seemed genuine.
“So, why do you like the beach so much?” I altered my initial query.
“I like to tan, duh!” she gestured down to her body. She liked to tan. Well, that was the shocker of a lifetime. Oh, wait, no it really wasn’t. “I was trying to go for darker, but we were only there for, like, ten days, so I’m stuck with this light tan that’s barely noticeable.”
“Barely noticeable?” I gaped, longing to have a conversation about something—anything else besides what happened when people had the luck to not get sunburns. “Lauren, if you were standing next to Snooki I probably couldn’t tell the two of you apart!”
Yes, I was well versed in my Jersey Shore knowledge. It was a good show—actually, it wasn’t even remotely, and probably killed more brain cells than being dropped on your head repeatedly as an infant, but I liked it anyways. Vinny was cute, and I could totally envision myself being best friends with him and Pauly D. Liz Turner—not quite a name fit for a Guidette, but I’d get a cool nickname. Lizzie T. Well, it definitely worked. Or, I could go for something completely unrelated to my name at all, like The Situation had done. Turner… The Turninator! Oh, that would be so awesome! Liz “The Turninator” Turner—somewhat repetitive, but it was still pretty epic. So, yes, in the limited free time that I almost never obtained, my guilty pleasure was puncturing my still developing mind by watching the exalted form of media that was Jersey Shore.
“Really? Aw! Thanks, Liz! You always know what to say!” Lauren smiled, taking my words as a compliment, as we turned into a room I had grown fond of over the past few months: Room 512.
It was a simple classroom, nothing out of the ordinary. A large white board equipped with erasable markers and a graying eraser to match was deployed at the front of the room, a neatly kept desk meant for a teacher in front of it. Windows overlooking the school’s baseball and soccer fields, in addition to the edge of a parking lot, lined the sidewall, a long bookshelf stretching the length of the glass pains and wall beneath. The ledge intended for reading material held what was expected: textbooks, papers, textbooks, pencils, and more textbooks. Inspirational posters ran along the back wall with slogans like, “Try and You Will Achieve!” and “Anything is Possible!” There was also one about the French Revolution that had a very graphic depiction of a guillotine, and always caused a shiver to run down my spine. The room was one in which the subject of European history was both learned and taught. The last wall, the one that the door was attached to, was a vast expanse of white with only a long timeline of events happening from the Middle Ages onward to the late eighteenth century in Europe hung.
In the center of the room, desks were scattered about in an array of six columns by four rows, amounting to a total of twenty-four places. Like in some schools, the miniature tables that the space was filled with were the type attached to seats, so that there was a thin rectangle of wood with an arm attached to the chair part. The furniture halves intended for sitting were all a mixture of plastic with metal legs and accents. Beneath everything were white titles, specked with red and black, and cropped into squares. On the ceiling, rectangular tile-like installations were fixed, in addition to the occasional light source. As stated previously, the room was nothing unique.
I spent my first twenty minutes each and every day in the room, so it had definitely grown on me, in a way. There was nothing distinct about it, except for my association with it. In the mornings, coming to Room 512 felt like coming home. Lauren, Tara, and Alice were all in it, together, so I felt moderately comfortable. There were other kids in the homeroom too, of course, but I rarely conversed or mixed with them. Everyone had his or her own routine and clique. Some chose to spend the time doing last minute homework, others texted away, the smart ones took naps, only to be woken by the harsh sound of a bell minutes later, and then there was us. We talked.
“Elizabeth Turner!” someone exclaimed upon our entrance. I looked up and saw Tara teetering her way over to us, her feet forced into heels that should’ve been illegal with their height. As I continued to slowly walk in, Lauren by my side, Tara slammed me into a tight hug as if I had just come back from war (which wasn’t actually that far off as a comparison—the fashion world was pretty brutal). “I missed you so much! How was Italy? Tell me everything! Did you see any cute clothes? What about the boys? I was there when I was, like, twelve, but I want to hear about what you did!”
“Hi,” I said slowly as she released me from the firm envelopment, “how are you?”
“I’m great, actually! We went skiing in Utah and it was so much fun!” she rambled.
“You ski?” I questioned hesitantly, hoping it wouldn’t lead to another laughter caused by my “ignorance.”
Tara blinked at me for a second, giving me the same, bewildered look Lauren had given when also asked about physical activity, and then she smiled. “Yeah, I do! I love it! The mountains were great and everyone was so nice!” And to think, I only thought that Utah had Mormons. I guess it had snow and ski resorts too.
“That’s great,” I said, wondering why everyone was so unnervingly cheerful and awake for the time of day.
“Now, I want to hear about Italy! What’d you do? Where’d you go? Tell me everything!” Tara’s eyes were wide with interest as Lauren pulled out her phone after a sudden buzz. We had somehow relocated to an assembly of desks that Alice was already seated at, her head laying on the desk, covered by her hands and a hooded sweatshirt, so that the only thing visible to me were the edged of her honey-colored hair.
“I saw a lot of fashion shows and ate food,” I tried to keep my voice neutral. “We spent a lot of time in Milan and Rome, and a few days in Tuscany and Sicily. The architecture was nice.”
“Fashion shows? As in Italian fashion shows?” the excitement that her tone retained made me want to crawl up in a ball and cover my ears. She was too energetic for the morning— everyone was. It wasn’t healthy.
“Well, I was kinda in Italy, so, yeah…” I trailed off.
“That’s so cool, Liz! I wish my mom worked for a big fashion company! That is just so awesome!” she cried with a longing gleam in her eyes and a sigh.
“I guess,” I shrugged.
Suddenly, an odd sound met my ears. It was the noise used to indicate the changing of classes, though, if my gage on time was correct, we still had a good fifteen minutes before the periods of boredom rivaling the act of watching bonsai trees grow commenced. I looked between Tara and Lauren, Alice still concealed within her own, somewhat anti-social bubble, wondering what was happening. The two girls I had silently requested an explanation from possessed expressions almost as perplexed as mine.
“Attention Madison High School students, attention, this is just a reminder that prom queen and king nominations are due by the end of the day today,” a voice came from a speaker in the corner of the room that I hadn’t noticed before the announcement. “Again, prom queen and king nominations are due by the end of the day today; any later will not be eligible. Thank you, and have a nice day.”
My face had grown even more puzzled than it previously was, if possible. Though I was stuck in a state of bafflement, Tara and Lauren appeared to know exactly was happening, and were trying to contain their utter delight from oozing out and exploding. Alice was still playing dead, not even glancing up to meet the sheer elation in her friends’ eyes.
“What was that?” I asked slowly, assessing that I would probably earn myself yet another stare of uncertainty from the girls.
To my surprise, Lauren didn’t look traumatized that I had no idea what was going on, but rather sympathetic. “You just listened to the same announcement that we did, you tell us,” Lauren said, studying my face.
“Something about prom king and queen nominations,” I shrugged.
“Nominations,” Tara breathed dreamily, her eyelids fluttering with a sigh.
“Nominations?” I echoed.
“At Madison, like in most high schools, we have a prom. With me so far?” Lauren began. I nodded at a delayed pace, mainly due to my level of fatigue. Why couldn’t I have just had the day off? That was all I needed. One more day to sleep. Spending over eight hours on a plane called for that, right? “Well, anyways,” Lauren continued, “we also have the prom king and queen—Madison royalty. Eric Wilson is going to be the prom king, no questions asked, because he’s Eric Wilson. Heck, the second that boy stepped foot in this building freshman year he claimed the title!”
“Besides the king, there’s also the queen,” Tara interrupted, continuing the elucidation. “Being the prom queen at Madison is an honor. You get your picture taken and tacked up on a wall with all the past queens, and it’s just a really special thing!”
“But,” Lauren spoke, “you have to be nominated by someone else. Even though the prom’s not until April, voting happens in February, and then we find whom the king and queen are in March. They eliminate all the suspense on prom night, everyone already knowing for over a month. It’s confusing, I know.”
“Yes, that most certainly is on the rather complex side things,” I was barely able to comprehend what she was saying, “but that’s nice, I guess.”
“It’s so exciting!” Tara exclaimed, as another, irritating bell rang. I glanced over to a clock positioned on the wall, my sense of time not as proficient as I had thought. Sure enough, it was time for our first class, mine happening to be English with Alice and the one and only Eric Wilson.
I exhaled deeply, moving over to Alice’s limp body, and tapping her shoulder lightly, as to not suddenly wake her if she had been sleeping. “Hey, Alice, we have to go,” I said gently.
Slowly, she raised her head, looking over to me. Something was wrong. While her face was usually made up in the perfect amount of make up, not too much to look like Barbie, and not too little so it was practically bare, now, it was void of all product. Normally, Alice was the one completely put together, not a single aspect of her appearance out of place even marginally.
The headband that usually held her hair back in place, off her forehead, wasn’t in sight, her uncharacteristically frizzy hair falling all over parts of her cheeks. As she stood, I noticed that instead of wearing a skirt or colored jeans like she typically did, gray sweats covered her legs. A baggy sweatshirt was placed on her torso, and flip-flops were on her feet, oppose to the shoes that held a strong resemblance to the ones required of a ballerina to wear. This wasn’t the Alice I knew.
The Alice I knew was the girl who appeared to have every facet of her life neatly in place, and was on a path straight to the Ivy Leagues. She was the one who was always aware of what was occurring in the past, future, and present. Even her fingernails were normally polished neatly and coated in some pastel color. She was peppy, preppy, and a perfectionist— seeing her, as she was, was unnerving to say the least.
“Are you okay?” I asked, trepidation radiating off of me.
“Never better,” she said, a chill to her voice I didn’t recognize.
“Seriously, Alice, what’s wrong?” I pressed, as she unhurriedly stood.
“I’m just tired,” she shrugged.
Not believing her words, I tried yet again. “What’s wrong?”
“I told you, I’m just tired,” she gave the same excuse.
“Liar,” I accused rather ironically.
“How would you know?” she scoffed, as we leisurely made our way out of the room, after having hitched both our backpacks to their designated spots on our bodies.
“Takes one to know one, as the expression goes.”
“What on earth would you lie about?” she rolled her eyes, stuffing her hands inside the oversized hoodie she wore.
“If you only knew…” I said cryptically, receiving yet another eye roll. “But, actually, what happened, Alice? What’s the matter?”
“I did a bad, bad, bad thing, Liz,” she closed her eyes as we stopped before a room in which we would be held captive for the next fifty-five minutes of hell, assuming the teacher didn’t go into overtime with his lesson.
“You’re one of the nicest people I know, Alice, what the hell did you do that you qualify as being ‘bad’?” I inquired skeptically. The girl practically puked rainbows. She wasn’t one to speak up and generally played the part of the follower and easy-going one rather well. What was the worst thing she could’ve done? Killed a fly? Ran over an ant with her car? Taken the last cookie from the cookie jar? She did charity work in some of her spare time, and was pretty much on her way to being the next Mother Teresa. “Bad” wasn’t a word that should’ve been in her extensive vocabulary.
“I…” she looked up to me, visibly gulping, before speaking faster than one of those actors on a Spanish soap opera. “I-kissed-Alex.”
I understood what she had said, despite the speed at which it was delivered, but was confused. Why would it have been a “bad” thing if she kissed Alex? Assuming of course it was Alex Campbell to whom she was referring. “So?”
“He had a girlfriend, Liz!” she cried in angst.
“What do you mean ‘had’?” I asked, as we entered the room, almost bare of occupants.
“He broke up with her—that girl, Casey. You met her at his house,” she shook her head.
“So, they broke up, what’s the issue?”
“We kissed when they were still together. Over the break. Then he ended it with her,” she said, guilt flooding her vocal chords. “Do you know what this makes me, Liz? Do you?” I didn’t, so remained silent. “Well, I’ll tell you, it makes me a cheater! Alex cheated on that girl with me, Liz! Me! I feel so awful and I’ve been depressed ever since I realized what had happened. And that was the worst part, Liz! It just… happened! We’re neighbors, as unfortunate as it may be, and he came over my house to ask for an extra snow shovel. Then, as we were walking to my garage, he just pressed me against a wall and… kissed me! I feel terrible!”
“Well, you shouldn’t,” I said, hating that I would have to be the supportive one in the situation. I had always sucked at consolation.
“But I am, Liz! I really, truly, completely, and utterly do feel awful! And you want to know the part I feel worst about? Do you?” She didn’t give me a chance to respond, as she continued to rant. “I liked it. I actually liked kissing the idiot. He was cheating on his girlfriend with me, Liz, and I liked it. I’m disgusting.”
“Firstly, no, you’re not, and, secondly, if you liked it and think that it felt right, then there’s no issue. Maybe he just wasn’t meant to be with this Casey chick. Alice, he likes you, and you clearly like him. Where’s the problem?” Romance advice was also not a forte of mine.
“He cheated on a girl, and I helped. I feel like crap because I made her feel like crap too. It wasn’t fair, what I did,” she buried her face in her hands, and she collapsed onto a desk.
“So, that’s why you’re dressed like you just got out of bed? Because you feel bad for making someone else feel bad?” She nodded, not looking up at me. “Well, you’re officially the nicest person I’ve ever met, and I can assure you that everything will work itself out with time.”
“No, you can’t!” she wailed, as I noticed that a steady stream of water droplets had fallen from her tear ducts. She didn’t deserve the internal pain being thrown at her.
“Uh, Turner, can I talk to Alice?” I glanced up at the addition of a new voice, averting my gaze away from Alice’s dejected one.
As my eyes landed on a blonde boy who was ordinarily all smiles and laughs, he was neither smiling nor laughing, and didn’t look as though the two actions would be on the agenda today. His expression mirrored Alice’s, the only variation being that he looked slightly more pained, if possible. How was it that two of the happiest, most carefree people I knew had suddenly transformed into these emotional balls of depression? When I was flying back I must’ve entered some bizarre, alternate reality.
“Why are you here? Don’t you have class?” I questioned, the edge of my sight trained on Alice as she tensed, refusing to look up.
“Mr. Reynolds isn’t here to today. You have a free, and I always have a free during this block,” the boy explained, his own scrutiny absorbed with Alice.
“How did you know that I have a free?” I quirked an eyebrow up in confusion, as it seemed to be the sentiment of the day today for me. Lazily, he pointed a finger to the front of the room, to the white board. I followed his gesture until I finally understood. “Mr. Reynolds is out. Enjoy your free period!” was scribbled on the board in loopy writing. I would’ve claimed it to be a blonde moment, but considering the individual who had pointed it out also possessed yellow hair, the argument didn’t seem like it would be all that effective. “Oh.”
“So, do you mind if I talk to Alice alone?” he huffed.
“I don’t know, what does Alice want?” I replied haughtily.
“To talk to me,” he answered without even getting so much as a grunt from the “tired” girl. “Besides, you can take the opportunity to go talk to Wilson. He said he screwed up or something and wants to apologize again.”
“What the hell would you know about all that, Campbell?” I demanded.
“Quite a lot, actually,” Alex replied easily, sensing my irritation. “I’m his best friend, Turner, he tells me everything. You should talk to him. He likes you a whole lot and I think-I think should just talk to him.”
“Nice to know your opinion on with whom I should converse,” I snorted.
“Liz, just shut up and go talk to him,” Alex said. Anyone else would probably perceive his words as being hostile and rough, but they weren’t. He was being sincere, and telling me straight up, and knew that I would take it the right way.
“Not right now,” was all I said.
“Soon,” he locked eyes with me, making me silently promise that I would follow up in talking to Eric. I nodded in confirmation.
“I think I’m going to go take a nap while you two, uh, talk,” I said quickly, not having any amount of interest in continuing the dialogue in which I was participating.
“Liz! Don’t leave me here with him!” Alice’s head shot up, recognizing Alex’s existence for the first time.
“He won’t bite, I promise,” I reassured her, slowly inching my way away.
“Don’t promise things you can’t guarantee,” Alex smirked, a crestfallen aura still about him.
“Don’t bite people,” I fired back over my shoulder with a smirk of my own. Before any more objections could be made, or I had the off chance of running into a certain boy whose name started with an “Er” and ended in an “ic”, I left the area where learning generally occurred.
Still barely awake, I meandered my way down a hallway, searching for one of the wonderful objects marginally less long than I was tall. The school itself, Madison High, wasn’t a bad school. The location was right in the middle of suburbia, meaning that there were a lot of soccer moms, strip malls, and money. It was a well off area. Anyhow, despite the fact that the school was good, the best part, by far, were the benches.
Benches. The school was full of them. There were at least five in every corridor, placed throughout in randomness. It was an odd thing to glorify about a high school, but it was just a personal preference. I liked the benches. It was nice that there were spaces for individuals to rest, and I had definitely taken advantage of their presence many a time.
As one of the elongated seats came into view, void of any inhabitants, I zeroed in on it, and dropped the carrier of my materials on the ground beneath. Lowering myself down to a prone position, so my calves fell off the edge, I rested my hands on my stomach, allowing my eyes to bolt shut. I so should’ve stayed home today.
I took a silent gulp of air in, allowing it to exit equally as quietly. I needed more sl—“Why is it that I always find you sleeping?” the smug words met my tired ears. Well, so much for my original plan.
“Because I’m always tired!” I whined, snapping up in aggravation. I could’ve been sleeping right now, but, no, I had to get disrupted.
“You’ve been on vacation for, like, two weeks!” the individual said incredulously.
“I just got in last night and I’m still adjusting to the time difference! I had just gotten used to the one Italy! Why the fuck is everyone so damn enthusiastic this morning?” I groaned.
“Please watch your language, and I got back last week, and spent the rest of my vacation sleeping. It was great,” he rubbed the variable of slumber in my face like dangling a piece of bacon before a dog, only to viciously eat it before them.
“Shut up!” I rolled my eyes at his liveliness. Awake people sucked.
“Do you want to get out of here?” he questioned abruptly, the phrase no stranger to me when coming from his mouth. I had become used to the brash expression, as it had made its way into our conversations quite a couple of times.
“Why is it that I always find you asking that, Dylan?” I returned his own words to him, somewhat amending the last part.
“Because I like spending time with you, I don’t really want to be here right now, and I’m pretty damn sure that you don’t either,” he explained like it was no big deal.
“Watch your language,” I muttered.
“I’ll talk how I fucking want to,” he disregarded my warning. “So, what do you say?”
“You look like Vinny,” I stated, unsure of where the thought had come from. I guess that I had Jersey Shore on the mind from earlier, and the more I looked at him, the more his appearance reminded me of Vinny’s. Sure, he wasn’t on a path to get skin cancer from tanning so much (though, Vinny was pale compared to some of the other cast members), but there were definite similarities to the two boys’ looks. It was probably the short, dark hair and earrings.
“What?” he scrunched his face in confusion, not making the connection my clever mind had.
“Forget it,” I sighed.
“So, I’ll ask again, do you want to get out of here?”
“Do I want to skip a day of school to do something with you that could potentially be illegal?” I mused about for a verdict. “What would we be doing?”
“Nothing illegal,” he said, quickly adding, “unless of course you count skipping a fake day of classes to be a criminal offense.”
“Would I get to sleep?” I probed as a fitting yawn escaped, a demonstration of my utter enervation.
“Yes,” Dylan nodded. A grin emerged on my face, as I exhibited my first trace of even an inkling of stimulation for the day. I had make the wrong decision in the past, always regretting it less than I had thought I would. Currently, I could barely think, so the enticement of sleep was compelling enough to forgo any other rationalized deliberating.
“Fine.”