I was contemplating the contents of my locker, working on recalling the Thursday’s schedule and what my upcoming periods necessitated, when Zack walked up next to me. He continued our most recently ended conversation, in which I’d panicked over math and extracted how to properly solve distance problems from him, saying “How was your quiz?”
“I definitely failed it,” I replied, scrunching up my forehead as I focused, eventually realizing that I had PE and science and, therefore, needed nothing. I preferred to retrieve my science materials after gym; pulling notebooks from under the clothes that got tossed on them was inessential and irritating.
Groaning at my idiocy, I slammed my locker shut and tugged on the bottom of my t-shirt, shrugging when Zack countered, “You say that about every test you take.”
“Exactly; if I actually got an F, I won’t be upset, and if I managed to do better than that, I’ll be happily surprised! Win-win,” I explained, examining the bustling students we passed. I noted fractions of disconnected conversations and teenagers who were shoving direly as if they had somewhere important to be, pushing through laughing blockages and other obstructions. Kids strangely liked to congregate in the most inconvenient places possible. Assholes.
Zack shook his head in response to that justification for my pessimism, disagreeing with me. While he may be a jock who exercised in his free time – which confused me, since voluntarily stressing muscles was absolutely absurd to me – Zack was intelligent and maintained all A’s. This was the reason that his intense hatred of some teachers and alarm when he received a C amused me so greatly; there was exactly no chance that any of his instructors didn’t like him or his immaculate grades were in danger of being damaged by an imperfect score.
We definitely had different priorities: he worked for academic and physical excellence, I struggled to not go insane.
Rearranging the books that were stabbing his side, Zack spotted something that caused his expression to change curiously, squinting ahead of us and asking, “Is that Ramsay talking to Vinny?”
Interested, I looked in the same direction as Zack, realizing that, yes, that was Vinny Vegas (stupid name, large ego, excessively loud, unexplainably popular) seemingly joking with Josh Ramsay (socially incompetent, blue-banged, completely friendless, oblivious recipient of teasing). That was irregular, though not extremely shocking, since Ramsay never recognized when he was unwanted. He stuck himself to those who were obviously aggravated by his blabbering. The kid had no companions and was pathetic in his efforts to get some; both lame and amusing.
Laughing, I nodded and said, “When is he going to realize that he’s fucking annoying and there’s a reason that nobody talks to him?”
“Never, apparently,” Zack said, frowning as we turned a corner, the odd combo out of sight. He was nicer than me, too – more athletic, smart, and compassionate. Fuck, I was totally inferior to my closest friend.
Contrarily, compared to Ramsay, even I was amazing. While I was substandard in every subject and reprehensible, I wasn’t him.
It was sad, really, to take pride in something like that, but didn't have any virtues to smile about. Unlike him, though, I did have some people who placed themselves in my company without being forced to. And I’d take that.
More bashing of Ramsay was prevented by the bell ringing, Zack and I calling byes that were obscured by the buzzing of the crowd, him going off to Spanish while I went to the gym. Ramsay and his many physical failures was, funnily, in my PE period. That class was always humorous.
___
The productivity of my brain did not improve over the following hours, causing me to be slumped over a textbook, examining the corner of the open notebook on it, clueless as to what the numbers that I needed to date my work were. Maybe the internal stress on my mind was causing me to forget every somewhat important fact immediately after I learned it. That would make functioning difficult.
Once I’d remembered the time of month, I uncurled my spine, pressing my sore muscles against the back of my chair and turning to Alex, asking, “Is today the fourth?”
He was next to me, legs slung across mine, body slumped with sleepiness and head dropped to focus on the sketchbook in his lap. He’d gotten through a quarter of his history homework before swearing at the existence of the subject and shoving the offending papers into his binder, declaring that the dead Robert E. Lee could go fuck himself and refusing to further study the general. I laughed at my boyfriend and his sudden outrage until he pouted adorably and pushed at my legs so he could swing his over them.
It was when Alex grabbed his sketchbook and fidgeted on me that I recognized his skinny jeans as mine. They were rubbing across my knees when I spotted the red dot on the thigh, a result of my accidentally pushing a Sharpie into the material months ago. I’d tossed them at Alex when he’d refused to go out with me in plaid pajamas during spring break, figuring that they were too short for me and would be perfect for my more petite boyfriend. I was continuously excited when Alex (most likely purposefully) repossessed my clothes. So cute.
He looked up from the squares he was outlining (we were required to depict symmetry for art) smiling at my stupid question and answering, “Mhm.” He paused as I dated my completed science homework, then continued, “Babe?”
“Hmm?” I hummed, closing my books as Alex squirmed.
Pencil flipping through his fingers, Alex pulled his knees up so that his heels hit my pocket and said, “When’s our anniversary?”
I grinned at his assumption that we had to decide that, though I had no proper response. I’d forever been curious about how couples determined when, exactly, their relationship began, yet hadn’t contemplated it in the context of Alex and I. Huh.
“It would be, uh… I don’t know,” I said, thinking back to all the occasions that defined when we started dating. Problematically, there were none.
Alex decided that groping my arm would improve our power to resolve this matter, pulling my hand from where it had been circling shapes on his knee and poking at the freckle in the center of my palm as I suggested, “Maybe when we first kissed?”
“We weren’t together then, though,” Alex dismissed, eliminating that Starburst-produced make out session from the possibilities. Logical reasoning, but that had been quite a lovely happening. Darn.
“Our date at that coffee place?” I offered, cheeks tingling at the recollection of the teasing I’d gotten because of my order.
Alex smiled, honey eyes stuck on my forearm as he continued running lines over my skin, reminding me, “’You got hot chocolate.” Noticing the defense I was about to eject, he revised, “You don’t like coffee, I get it. It’s cute.”
I ducked my head with his statement, bangs flopping into my pink face, mouth stretching into a grin. Fuck, did I adore him.
Deducing that Alex’s ignoring of my previous proposal meant that it was incorrect, I pressed on and said, “Ok, how about when you yelled ‘of course’ at me in art when I asked you if we were going out?”
Pausing in copying the my blue veins to connect our eyes, Alex happily stated, “You remember the weirdest things. Seriously, you don’t know today’s date, but you know my exact answer to that?”
I remained quiet, giving Alex a smile and refraining retorting sarcastically. While I could not physically make myself respond seriously to unneeded questions, I did my best to not be a total rude jerk to Alex. I cared about him enough to actually be pleasant with him.
“That was the right before winter break, wasn’t it? Which was…” he released my arm to tug out his phone, likely clicking through its calendar and declaring, “December twentieth. There we go.”
“We’re making our anniversary the day that I was informed that we were official? I’m not smart enough for that much responsibility,” I objected playfully, Alex rolling his eyes at me and sliding back into his bad posture.
Returning to rubbing touches over my radius, Alex repeated, “December twentieth.”
And that was that. It’d be interesting, definitely, Alex’s birthday and our anniversary happening almost consecutively. I’d go insane producing three different presents in the same month, as well as totally moneyless, but I was oddly unconcerned by this.
My nerves tingled with Alex’s sensitive caresses, and I turned to watch him manipulate my arm so that my wrist was exposed, knuckles pressed against his thigh and muscles relaxed. He was observing my skin with absurd concentration, head tilting as his nails scraped delicately over the Y under my veins. My shoulder jerked, instinct to protect my scars tightening my tendons.
Alex glanced up at me through his messy hair, meeting my boring eyes before refocusing on my weirdly shaped defect. It had faded to a translucent pink, divided from the rest of my flesh by blurred edges and a rosy hue. I’d liked it more when it was defined and red.
My arm rolled over in Alex’s grip, his fingers moving to run across the product of my original cuts, sliced with scissors and since bled of its color. Blood to blush to shining white, now only discernible in direct light.
I hadn’t expected that to so permanently disfigure me, and Alex had the same thought, quietly saying, “You scar easily.”
“I’m still not sure if that’ll ever go away,” I replied, Alex pushing against the offending line, feeling its elevation and ironically perfect covering.
Tiring of my scars and instead lacing our hands together, examining how the bones slotted between each other, Alex said, “You’ve had that… what, six months? It won’t.”
It was depressing, that he knew that.
Alex exhaled, air puffing out of him as he released my limb and uncurled his back, nose scrunching up. Having his spine curved for such an extensive period of time must make correcting it unpleasant.
His sketchbook flopped onto the table, pencil tumbling to the ground as Alex righted himself. He was indifferent to this, rolling his eyes at the bang of his pencil and reaching out to grab my chair over my right shoulder. He pulled himself into my lap, legs somehow maneuvering to be on either side of me, thighs pressing into my hips and arms connecting around my neck. I was continuously impressed by Alex’s usual clumsiness, yet extreme coordination when making his body fit with mine. Expert when required.
“You’re amazing,” I declared, expressing my reverence of him.
Alex smiled, kissing me with curled lips, sweet and appreciative. Some foolish section of my brain noted that school work often led to making out when we were together.
My hands slipped across Alex’s shoulder's as his hair flitted against my cheeks, sliding down to the top of his (my) jeans and hooking through the belt loops. He pressed closer to me, humming against my tongue and tucking his fingers under the collar of my shirt, hot pressure sparking my flesh.
Alex’s back pockets were pressed under my palms when concrete clunked outside, the sound of my dad’s truck rolling into our cracked driveway. Alex tugged my lip between his teeth when he pulled back, grinning cheekily at me as I sighed.
He got off me, collapsing into his seat and slinging his legs across mine once again, repeating his earlier position as keys jingled and the door audibly opened. My dad stepped into sight exactly as Alex continued his outlining, wrist flicking across the page.
“Hi Bassam,” he called, welcoming my dad more politely than I did with my wave and repressed frown. Dad clomped through in his weighted boots, saying ‘Ello!’ and bustling off to deposit the contents of his arms in the kitchen. I jabbed at Alex’s ankle and grinned at his giggle.
Alex had met my family already, awkward introductions being made after May walked in on him kissing my neck with hands in my pockets in the kitchen and convinced him to stick around until my parents returned. May, luckily, laughed at this instead of gagging and ridiculing me. It was Alex, actually, who was flustered by that, flushing pink and giggling deliriously against my chest.
I busied myself with discovering cute reactions from Alex, knees jerking, legs kicking, or thighs spasming if I poked him correctly. Eventually, Alex gave up on his symmetrical picture and yanked me off to my bedroom, sucking the laughter from my lips and stopping my teasing. I continued to plummet.
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I was really good at updating weekly for many months, and I have recently lost it. These chapter's are getting progressively more pointless and I'm not sure what's happening any more. My only excuse for not updating Sunday is that I saw FOB Saturday night and have been emotionally damaged since, so I couldn't quite do anything properly until right about now. Next chapter (if it's written by then) will be up a week from Saturday (I would post it on Sunday but I'm seeing YMAS then). Sorry, again.
xoxo
Rose
(P.S. I'm pretty sure last chapter got 100 votes and wow I don't even.)