three // hideouts, humiliation, and herbs
Slinging my heavy backpack over my shoulder, I rush out of the classroom as soon as the bell rings and make sure to fix my eyes on the white tiled floor as I shove my way down the hall and to the restroom. School is out for the day, and I've managed to go a complete week without running into Skeleton Boy. Because Ms. Broadbent's classroom is the only place where he knows he can find me, I know that I have to sprint to the girl's bathroom before we can make more casual conversation about my most humiliating guilty pleasure. No, that is definitely not happening again. I push and shove as aggressively as I can through a swarming mass of hormonal delinquents, while still trying to obey my number one rule at school: no human contact whatsoever.
Besides accidentally stepping on a girl's ballet flat and rubbing shoulders with a hipster that was wearing a fanny pack instead of a backpack, I am able to make it to my makeshift refuge without breaking the Number One Rule.
Once I'm safe inside the girls' bathroom that reeks of cheap perfume and pee, I set my backpack on the floor and wash my hands. Whenever I hide in the bathroom for one reason or another, I always feel the need to wash my hands in case someone walks in and asks me why I'm just standing around for no reason. That, and the grotesque smell makes me feel like I've been contaminated by some sort of weird bacteria or virus.
After rinsing my hands for five minutes straight, I dry them off on a paper towel and head back out into the danger zone. The hallways are unbelievably empty for it only being ten minutes after the bell rang, but it's usually like this on Fridays. Everyone is eager to leave school so they can party all night or get high or go the aquarium; whatever it is that regular teens do on the weekends.
I, however, plan on playing Uno with Eli and maybe, if I'm feeling rebellious, walk to the creek down the street and have a late-night dip. With clothes on of course. Can't get too crazy or else I'll catch a cold.
I sigh, trying to ignore how pathetic my Friday night plans are and sulk down the hallway to the doors that lead out of the school. Once I'm out in the fresh air, I immediately feel better and take a seat on the bench where I usually meet Ren and Joni. On Fridays, Ren has piano practice right after school, and Joni usually has her mom pick her up in her tiny Mini Cooper, so I have to wait for Jazza to finish chatting with her friends in the cafeteria about who-knows-what before I can get home and start doing nothing in the comfort of my room.
After twenty minutes of staring at the cracks in the sidewalk and wondering how in the world they got there, Jazza pulls up to the curb in her perfect little vintage truck that Dad restored for her when she had turned sixteen. He says I'll get a car when I decide to get my license, which will probably be never, since driving scares the crap out of me and no one is brave enough to go out on the road with a nervous wreck behind the wheel.
"Hurry up, I'm going out with Tanner tonight."
"So? It's only three, you have plenty of time," I reply as I walk around the front of her car and hop into the passenger's seat.
"Just wanted to make sure you don't walk as sluggishly as you usually do, so I can have time to get ready."
"I do not walk sluggishly."
"Yes, you do." Jazza gives me a condescending look, then watches me as I click in my seat belt. "Where's your backpack?"
I unclick it and groan. "I left it in the bathroom."
"And I thought your legs were sluggish, when actually it's your brain that's the problem." Jazza sighs and flings her arm in the direction of the school.
"Oh, ha-ha." I get out of the truck and slam the door to emphasize how not-funny Jazza is being at the moment. Pretending that my legs are stuck in a pool of Jell-o, I meander forward as slowly as possible, just to irriate the Queen of the Goats.
Obviously not amused, Jazza honks her car horn when she notices my purposefully slothful steps.
Satisfied, I finally stride up to the glass door and tug on the handle, but it doesn't move.
"It's locked!" I spin around and call out to my ticking time-bomb of a sister. Only a few more seconds and she'll blow up.
Jazza throws her arms up in the air and calls me a mindless maggot, a nickname she saves for only the worst of scenarios.
"What am I supposed to do, break in?"
Just as I'm about to shuffle back to the truck backpack-less, I hear the door open behind me and find that none other than Skeleton Boy is holding it ajar from the inside.
Really? It just had to be him?
"Um..." I begin, but Jazza finishes for me.
"Thank you so, so, so much!" she hollers from the truck in a high-pitched voice, completely dismissing her previous despair.
"No problem," Skeleton Boy calls back to her.
I'm about to shove my way in while he's distracted by my sister, but he stretches his long, skinny arm out, blocking my path.
"I'm so glad I found you!" He turns to me and drops his arm in his excitement of finally tracking me down. I take the opportunity to awkwardly shimmy past him and speed walk down the hall.
"Hey, wait! You need to tell me how to beat the game!" I hear him call out, then the sounds of his sneakers slapping the floor become louder and louder as he catches up to me. I try to increase my speed, but his legs are exceptionally longer than mine, allowing him to match my pace in a matter of seconds.
"I'm in a hurry, can't talk." Debating whether are not to throw in an apology, I keep my mouth slightly open as I briskly walk forward, but then promptly shut it. Why should I say sorry when he's the one ambushing me?
"Why?"
None of your business. "My sister, she needs to go somewhere."
"Then why are you still in here?"
Ignoring his question, I run into the girl's bathroom, locate my backpack that is hunched in the corner, and take a quick glance in the mirror before exiting. I'm about to tuck a loose strand of hair back into my attempted messy bun, but stop myself. I don't care what I look like around him, he's just a dumb kid that can't even beat a game made for twelve-year-olds. But he's got a really cute smile.
No.
I scold myself for thinking such a ridiculous thought, then painstakingly ignore the stray hair, refuse to wipe away the smudged mascara on my left eyelid, and disregard the suspicious white blemish on my new, navy blue t-shirt.
I march out of the bathroom feeling confidently hideous, and avoid eye contact with the boy as he continues to follow me back down the corridor.
"That was fast. Did you even wash your hands?"
"Excuse me?" I stop in my tracks and look at him incredulously.
"I'm joking." He puts his hands up in mock-surrender, and silently chuckles to himself at my horrified reaction.
I huff indignantly and proceed down the hall, my head hanging low in humiliation.
"Are you sure you don't have a few minutes? I really need to finish that game. You see, my brother and I had this bet that--"
We walk outside and I catch myself before I can wail from utter frustration and bash my head against the brick wall. Jazza's truck is nowhere to be seen.
"Did she leave you?"
I nod and despairingly sit down on the curb.
"I can give you ride if you want," he offers and takes a seat next to me.
His long stick of a leg is unacceptably close to touching my own, so I scoot over a couple inches and shake my head. "Not allowed to get rides from strangers."
"Hm," he puts his finger to his chin. "That is a feasible issue, but I think I fix it." He extends his hand towards me, his long fingers outstretched and firm.
After a few seconds, I reluctantly shake it in the most awkward way possible, by lightly grabbing his fingertips and giving them a quick tug.
He grins and begins monologuing."Hi, my name's Basil Olivier. My mom named me after the herb because she's kind of a psycho botanist-slash-cook. Olivier is French. My dad is French-Canadian and loves for me to tell people that, even though he was raised in Vancouver. I lived there for a while when I was little, but we moved to Washington when I was a three and I've lived here in Cobalt Bay ever since."
He glances up at the tall pine trees surrounding us in admiration, then turns to me, the smile never leaving his face. "So now that I am no longer a stranger to you, tell me about yourself. What's your name, to begin with?"
I squint my eyes at him suspiciously for a couple of moments. How can he be so direct and enthusiastic with someone he doesn't even know? "Beverly."
He nods encouragingly. "Hi, Beverly."
"Hi."
"Continue," he presses, then chuckles at my hesitancy.
"Um, well--I guess you know this already, but I really like mystery stuff, I guess." I drop his gaze and stare down at my shoes.
"You must be really good at solving puzzles if you could beat that game so easily." I can feel him studying me as he talks. "I consider myself a pro, and I can't even figure it out."
I shrug.
He is silent for a second. "You don't like people much, do you, Beverly?"
I shake my head. "Not a people-person, no."
"I love people. Talking with them, hearing their stories, figuring out little quirks about them." He gives up on trying to get me to make eye contact with him and turns back to the pines again. "So what else is there for me to know about you?"
"Not much." I sigh, remembering my colorless plans for the weekend.
"Whatever. Everyone has at least three notably interesting things about them. That's what I've found in my attempt to become Sherlock Holmes." Basil hops up off the curb and pulls a set of keys out of his pocket. "Do you have to get home right away?"
I consider telling him that yes, I do have plans, and that no, I do not feel comfortable riding in a car with him just because I now know that his Dad is French-Canadian, but a heavy feeling weighs on my mind, urging me to just do something spontaneous and unexpected for once in my life. The impulse is hard to ignore, and there's something about the way that Basil smiles at everything that makes me not only trust him, but want to get to know him better.
"No," I am shocked to hear my own voice say, "I'm free tonight."
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I finally updated!! Yay! I hope you guys are becoming as attached to Basil as I am, especially since I decided that he looks like a sixteen-year-old version of the perfect Mark Pontius, the insanely adorable drummer of Foster the People (look him up, you will not be disappointed)
this chapter is dedicated to @hovers for being so supportive on this story and always giving me such amazing feedback that makes me want to cry tears of joy
I also want to give a shoutout to the rest of you lovely people for reading and commenting and just being amazing readers
love you all!
xx beth