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You were walking in the hallway outside your fourth period class, comforted by the fact that you had forty-five minutes of leisure and food at your mercy. The October air coming through the hall windows was cold and sharp, a welcome contrast to the classroom stuffiness, and you felt a little at ease.
Your eyes lit up. Ahead of you, in the stream of students flowing out of 408, you spotted a familiar faded maroon sweater and a head of brown hair above it. You picked up the pace.
Soon, you had caught up to your best friend. He, however, didn’t notice you walking right next to him. Tsk. Paul always had been a daydreamer.
“Boo,” you said, and he jumped a little. You snorted.
Paul gave you a wry smile. “Hi there.”
“Hey. So… how’d you think of that test?”
There had been an exam in 408 that had been gaining infamy. “Eh,” he shrugged.
You raised your eyebrows. “That’s respectable.”
You had reached the stairs, and Paul stopped for a moment, eyes trained on the downward steps.
“... I’m fuckin’ stupid,” he muttered suddenly.
“What - you’re not stupid!” You exclaimed, starting ahead of him in hopes that he’d follow. He did. “Chapter 8 was hard, even for Wang’s class.”
Paul laughed. “No, not that. I was - I was thinking of something else.”
“What?”
“Uh...”
You both were on the ground floor now and heading for the already staggering lunch lines.
“I almost got myself sent to the office again. First period.”
“... Oh.”
You knew Paul had a history of acting out. This had been a huge surprise to you at first because Paul hardly seemed like a miscreant; to you, Paul was very mild-mannered and even sweet. But there were moments; some days, you’d hear him cursing under his breath in class or staring daggers at the teacher. It made your heart hurt for reasons you didn’t quite know.
You shook it off and gave him a smile of sympathy. “Well, at least you didn’t actually go.”
Paul sighed. “Guess ‘m not really a morning person, heh. I don’t know - I get really bitchy.”
“I would be bitchy in the morning too, if I had your sleep schedule.”
“Nah... I don’t agree.”
You gasped dramatically.
“Are you calling me nice, Paul Leskowitz?”
He was grinning.
After a little more screwing around, the lunch line had dwindled with surprising speed and the two of you were up next. The menu of the day was hot dogs. Paul punched in his ID.
“Ketchup or mustard?” Asked the lady behind the counter.
Paul pondered this for a moment.
“Both, I guess.”
You chose neither. While you and Paul trekked to your usual lunch-eating location, he told you a little about what had happened that morning.
“I don’t even remember what I said, but I guess - I guess it was a cuss. I mean, I was kinda pissed off ‘cause of the pop quiz. Plus, it was first period.”
The corner near Paul’s weird lone locker was empty as usual. With a grunt, Paul sat down, wedging himself between the locker and the wall. You sat down too, against the adjacent wall.
You clicked your tongue. “Elmore’s a high school teacher. In 2010. Why is he so strict about curse words?”
Paul took a bite out of his hot dog and shrugged. “Fuck knows.”
You grinned. “Yeah, fuck those fucking tightass fucks.”
“... It doesn’t sound right when you say it.”
You choked on your naked ‘dog.
“What? Fuck off!”
“Sorry,” Paul was full-on snickering now. “It - it just doesn’t.”
“You’re an ass, Paul. A real motherfucker.”
“Oh my god.”
“Fuck you. Fuck you so hard.”
He looked like he was having trouble breathing. You took offense.
After an infuriating amount of time, Paul finally slumped against the wall, spent.
“Holy shit, I’m lightheaded.”
You shook your head exasperatedly. “Do I really curse that little?”
“I mean, yeah. Teachers like you a lot more than they like me. You’re, uh, a better student, definitely.”
Your hot dog was getting cold, so you set it down in your little cardboard tray. “Tch.”
“You get better grades, you actually focus in class, you're actually, y'know, smart…”
“Well, Paul, you’re… intuitive. That could be better than being smart.”
Paul laughed. “I hardly even know what that means.”
“Like, you know. You have a good… sense for things. You know how something’s going to go before it happens.” You paused. “Yeah, maybe I don’t know what it means either. But I think that's you.”
Paul’s brown eyes weren't trained on anything, yet they were stormy with contemplation. “... Like a… gut feeling?”
You blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, exactly.”
There was a silence.
“Uh… I have... I do have a bad feeling. Sometimes.”
“... About what?”
He closed his eyes. “Nothing - nothing in particular. Or maybe it is, I don’t - I can’t remember. That’s the thing. It could be a room or a door. Or some kind of piano music. But the feeling... it’s very, very real. And it freaks me out. Does... does that make sense?”
You’d been Paul’s friend for three years. He was a sleep-deprived teenage guy with a cat who liked games and mystery books. His parents weren’t around much, but he was fine with that. He called you every night.
On the surface, there was nothing to indicate he was anything out of the ordinary. But - and maybe you had good intuition too - you had a feeling about him. Maybe it was that lost expression he wore sometimes. Maybe it was the cursing, or the way he tugged at his bangs, or the way he switched his pencils from hand to hand. Maybe it was the three shovels in his garage.
“I think so,” you said, half-lying.
He looked relieved.
The bell rang.