I'm surrounded by goddamn idiots.
The hall is coated with the smell of teenage sweat, so bitter that it could've burned my eyebrows off, I swear. It's cluttered to the point where we're packed in like pigs in a pen, yet people still manage to yell and idle around in small groups. I hear a girl behind me whining to her friend about a grade she got while the other counters it with complaints about a broken nail.
Their voices are more annoying than nails on a chalkboard, the frustration bubbling to the point where I have to grind my lip in protest. If I had the opportunity, I'd stab one in the eye just to stop the insolent chatter.
I smile at the thought. How easy would it be, I wonder, to gut one of them out? To put an end to their childish suffering of bad test scores and acne? I'd probably be put on a pedestal. A saviour among the weak.
"Move it, Tiny Tim," a person says behind me. Before I can check who it is, I'm flying into the opposite lockers. Laughter erupts from that same damn kid and his idiot friends. Tiny Tim. Real smooth.
I stay put against the locker, staring at the kid while I continue to grind my lip. The taste of copper links between my teeth but I don't feel the pain—not exactly. All I can do is stare at the back of his big ass head, the movement in the hall slowing in time.
It would be so easy to do it now. There's a pencil in my pocket; it's the only one I have, but that's okay. I can pull it out now, swift and easy, and just shove it in his ear. Nobody could stop it before it happens. Nobody could stop me.
But then I see him; a god among the black sheep. His hands are in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders jutting inward as he pulls his feet through the hall like it's an effort just to do so. He has a faint smile on his face as the person beside him talks, but I can tell he's not entirely there. His eyes are wandering around the hall, probably thinking of something greater that whatever is spewing in his ear.
We're a dying race, Casper and I.
As he passes, his eyes meet mine. Everything seems to stop in that split second and a wave of understanding passes through us; thoughts and feelings flying at blinding speed between mutual brains. But then he looks away and time moves forward, leaving me breathless and near death against the grey lockers.
He hasn't spoken to me in two weeks, not since the stairwell. There are moments like this where he'd give me a look, a small piece of acknowledgement just to show he hasn't forgotten about me. I'm not on the court, but at least I've moved from the back row. I'm at his sidelines, within reach but not quite there yet.
I lift myself from the lockers and follow his path to the English room. We've always had English together, but I don't think he ever noticed. And even if he did, I don't think he ever cared. There isn't a sense of hostility or hatred around him though. Just absent interest. It doesn't sting as it should since I know I'll win him back. You've got your own special charm, was what he told me. I intend to use it well.
By the time I enter the classroom, the teacher, Ms. Matthews, is slapping stapled pieces of paper on the desktops. It takes a moment for me to realise they're tests, my feet gaining speed as I run over to my own. There's the number one hundred written on it in red pen, a sticker with the words way to go right beside it.
I slip into my seat and flip it over immediately, looking around to see if anyone else had seen. But they're only interested in themselves or their friends as they laugh in amusement or hidden jealousy. Casper sits at the far end of the classroom with two or three people from his swim team, flipping through the test with a look of sheer boredom.
I think about getting up to talk to him about it. Share some answers, maybe. But Matthews makes her way to the front of the room, calling order in the class.
"Why don't we go over the test?" she says in that vexatious voice of hers. "I don't think people understand Hamlet that well."
"That's because we don't need to," somebody yells behind me. "When the hell am I going to break into iambic pentameter in life?"
The woman doesn't react. Instead, she crosses her arms under her breasts, which makes the boy beside me shift in his seat. "True, but he imposes great questions about humanity and living. He brings forth important things we don't really think about—"
"It's all bullshit."
That's from Casper. The class goes silent to the point where you can hear your own breathing, as it usually does when he speaks. Matthews, already used to his outbursts, calmly asks, "Excuse me?"
"That whole to be or not to be thing. It's bullshit. People make a big deal about something that can dull over time. They're just too damn impatient to wait it out. It's like a cut, you know? If you keep picking at it, it'll never heal. So whatever Hamlet's thinking about—whether it's nobler to die or to live—is wasting time. Things come and go, so killing yourself over it is just idiotic."
"But some things can't heal that easily. The death of a father, a friend, a lover...these things don't go away."
Casper sighs like he's schooling her, sitting straighter in his seat. "I'm not saying you should forget about them, for Christ's sake. I haven't been dead before, but I'm pretty sure the deceased don't want the people they left behind wasting tears on them. I think it'll be easier to see them getting by."
"But Casper—"
"If you really think about it, pain is only temporary. Sure, it hits and it sucks, but we can always make it better for ourselves, right? But some people are addicted to it and are too afraid to admit that once the wound heals, they break it open again just so they can say hey, look, I'm bleeding. The world is full of idiots like that. But you know what I think? I think the world needs more people like Holden."
Eyes are on me before I can run out of my own skin. Sweat erupts in awkward places and my face is too hot, lungs closing in as if someone's slowly sucking away the oxygen from the room.
Damn him.
"The guy's got it bad," Casper continues, "yet nobody gives a crap since he doesn't vocally complain about it. I hear people whining about stupid shit like how their parents didn't give them allowance for a week and people flock to them like they're the poorest of the poor. And people like Holden are still sitting there without an ounce of pity, but he doesn't moan about it. He probably doesn't even care because he's just living for the sake of living, since that's what people do."
"Casper, I think that's enough," Matthews says, bothered by the obvious. The teachers have a faint idea of what goes on with me versus the others but they never do anything about it. I don't think they ever tried.
Casper stares at her for a moment before leaning forward, a smile playing on his lips. "Alright, fine. Let's talk about you, then. Let's see...you've got a good enough job, and hell, you might even like it from time to time. The school's prestigious so the pay must be good. You probably live in a condo, the kind that has marble floors and a hot tub. Yet when people ask, you complain about how crappy everything is since you couldn't buy that flat screen you wanted, your Mercedes isn't a Porsche, and you're not wealthy enough to be deemed fuckable."
There it is. A bullet right in the head. Matthews stands dumbstruck, her mouth wide open and eyes red around the rims as she stares at Casper. Before she can even yell at him for it, Casper stands like he said nothing at all, picking up his bag and walking out like he's supposed to.
Yet everybody, including me, sits as still as ancient statues, staring at the doorway in awe. I catch glares from the corner of my eye but I'm still smiling, then laughing, then tearing at the amazement of what is Casper Jeong.
***
News about Casper is already around the whole school by the end of the day. People whisper about him in the halls, spreading the information like a parasite or the flu.
Hell, there's even news about me.
It sounds like music to my ears, hearing our names together like that. I mean, it's not entirely good due to what I had done afterward, but it's still something.
I wonder how much crap he had gotten in this time. Right after my little episode in class, Matthews had taken the phone and called the office, demanding Casper to be punished and possibly re-educated. They can't contain him though. No one can.
As soon as I open the doors leading outside, a name travels in the wind. "O'Donovan."
I keep walking.
"Holden O'Donovan. What, are you deaf?"
I turn around then, my breath catching in my throat when I spot Casper. His body seems to fold within itself and makes him look tiny, miniscule. Insignificant.
I slap myself for such a thought.
"Whoa, you alright, man?"
"Huh?" I rub my cheek. "Oh, yeah. I just..." But I can't finish my sentence. Casper stares for a moment before shaking his head, letting it drop.
"Sorry for calling you out like that," he says. "Even if it was true, I didn't know it would make you go that red—"
I was red?
"—and people are telling me how you cracked after I left. Just started laughing like a goddamn maniac." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, over and over. "Well, anyway, I decided to apologise for that. I didn't mean to embarrass you or something."
He turns on his heel, ready to walk away and diminish my last chance to mean something to him.
"You don't think that's weird?" I blurt out, calling his attention. "What others have told you and even what I did right now, you don't think that's strange?"
"Fuck no," he says. "Give me another."
"Alright. You were wrong both times, you know. In the stairwell and in class. Contradicted yourself, even. I do complain about who I am. I hate where I am and the reason I'm living. I hate every goddamn person in this school and their stupid quirks, and I blame them for my condition. It's their fault, not mine."
Casper gives me a considering look. "Would you burn them if you had the chance?"
"Gladly."
"Would you turn into a serial killer? Get rid of all those people with a higher income than you?"
I screw up my face. "That's too much work, don't you think?"
There's a pause in the air before he bends over and laughs, holding his stomach with that smile of his strewn across his face. His hair blows from left to right in the wind as he continues laughing, light brown strands curling at the bottom. I've done it. I'm stepping onto the ball court. The signs are written all over his face.
I'm a keeper.