Chapter Text
The fashion people wear, the way they make themself up, can say a lot about them, at least I think that's true in high school. Maybe it's only something you start to notice when you look for long enough. You train yourself and start to notice the patterns that are overlooked. Pattern that others rarely think about but that can whisper their secrets to someone who listens.
Take the person that sits at this empty lunch table with me for example. Her hair is cut at a simple mid-length and always looks hasty brushed creating a brown flair around her face. She's always wearing an army green jacket that is old and worn. Patches cover ripped seams that peek out around her elbows with hasty stitchwork sealing them together. I always seem to spot a new tear each day that shows the inner lining of the jacket. The smaller tears remain un-mended unless they rip larger and warrant fixing. That amount of tears allude to a life of hardship or clumsiness. The dark brown-red spots that speckle the front of the jacket bolster evidence towards the latter. The pants and undershirts she wears rotate through simple blank shirts and worn trousers. She's someone practical, never wearing accessories just what's necessary to stay warm in the fall coastal winds. She's just trying to get by to get out of high-school, same as me.
We both sit here unbothered on this ancient wooden cafeteria table. It's probably been here since Bay Ocean High opened, and I honestly don't have a clue as to when that would have been. The table has a few areas where the table is scored by signatures of students who have graduated most likely decades ago. Sometimes she speaks up, but it's not directed to me, maybe someone on a phone, maybe it's something else. I'm sure she thinks the same of me, but we sit alone warding them off together.
Anyways as I was saying, once you see the patterns you can start to use them to your advantage, kind of like animals do. Creating your own amalgamation of patterns and colors that tell a story, or send a warning, like those tropical frogs. I think they are from South America, or maybe the Amazon, maybe both, they are brightly colored and usually covered in dark spots and patterns. The colors and patterns tell predators to say away, a warning sign that if they try, they will meet the same prey. In this case, the frogs make a toxin or something from the bugs it eats; a frog can be toxic enough to kill like ten men.
They use their "fashion" to keep other animals away. I think I use my fashion the same. Cladding myself in blacks to keep as many people away as I can. Bundling in the large puffy rain jacket my dad got me, not only fending off the chill of fall but extending my small frame. Sometimes I'll throw in some texture to an outfit with a mesh undershirt. Sometimes some color to match the purplish sun shaped birthmark around my right eye, but usually I try to cast myself in gloomy shadow. I draw that shadow on my face, under the eyes, the illusion of a scowl. I adorn myself with jewelry and chains with spikes to ward off touch. The way I pull my normally wild black hair back with greases is the only part I do truly for me, a tribute to styles passed. I carefully craft an outfit each day so that I can be overlooked. To keep people away. From hurting people anymore.
Luna was a master at the opposite, they drew people in. Always clad themself in bright colors. Baby blues, pastel yellows, pinks, and greens still adorn their closet. They just sit untouched now, slowly collecting dust. Luna says they don't mind if we donated them but I'm still not ready for that. I don't think mom and dad are either. They were always brightly dressed confidently, no care for gender norms and wearing an even brighter smile. A social butterfly with a wallflower of a twin, now trapped as an after image.
The chime of the bell starts to release people and asking me back into myself. Different clicks begin to stand. I watch the crowds looking for someone that stands out more than others in the sea of hoodies, one girl a bit taller than the rest fits the bill. Her afroed hair with white streaking through the middle making her only taller. She wears a seafoam green cardigan with bolts of black sewn on in patches with buttons covering them. She dawns her interests like armor. She leaves, talking to the others around her, before I can get a better look. From what I saw she seemed the quieter type but with a loud taste in music. Crowds start to disperse as I look down at the untouched plate of food in front of me and pass it down to the girl, as has become routine. She takes the plate and begins to hurriedly finish off the second portion. She nods as I take my backpack and make my way out of the cafeteria. Putting in my headphones and blaring the noise into my ears I brave the waters of the after-lunch crowds. I have to more carefully weave through people as Luna drifts behind, unfazed, literally.
The halls are tiled floor to ceiling in beiges. Though about a fifth of the tiles are cracked or missing, replaced by a slightly off color or just a slab of paper on the ceiling. The mosaic of light brown is separated by an intermittent light blue stripe. An especially wide blue stripe rings the ceiling walls and floor, almost creating a portal from the cafeteria and gyms to the rest of the school. The halls nearest the classrooms have lockers scattered across the walls. I'm sure once upon a time they entirely lined the halls, but now they only obfuscate small clusters, the bolts the only memory of the roots of where they once resided. Little bolts stick out of the tile, sometimes the only signs they were ever there are the scrapes left on the floor. Only the effects of their life left as a reminder that they were ever there, now trampled over Monday through Friday with the ring of a bell.
In these crowded halls roughly three thousand students roam. Usually, they pass by me in a blur of hormones and tired faces. Rarely does someone stand out from the bustle when I'm just trying to hide away in the bustle but now and then while my head is down someone still catches my attention. Today a boy passed by in the hall, I think I've seen him before but today something about him stood out. He walked by my left shoulder as the sleeves of his midnight blue over coat reached out, almost brushing across my jacket. It is patterned with the night sky and constellations in bright white and golden yellows. The buttons that run down the shirt are in the shape of stars painted in matching yellow to the print of the shirt. The stitching of the shirt looks like small gold chains that wrap the hems
The shirt underneath is what really caught my eye, the color is an unassuming light gray within a darker ink color a diagram depicts a theoretical wormhole. The linear model of the stretching of space to unite two untethered points is framed by text that I can't make out. Other smaller diagrams and figures are covered by the overshirt. I glance up to his face, an eyebrow slit parts a soft eyebrow that caresses his brow. His hair is black, maybe dyed, and cut into mullet. His hair hangs in bangs that curl into delicate waves that frame his face. The longer hair near his neck flips upwards and softening his jawline. He doesn't have much in the way of accessories besides a golden septum piercing; two stars replace the balls that are normally seen on the ends. For a brief moment our eyes meet. His are blue and I can see in his face an embarrassment? He quickly looks away and I do the same as it hits me that I've blatantly been staring at him. I feel as my face gets warm and look away.
As I glance down, I see the wear marks along the knees of the light blue jeans. The ends of which part in a torn curtain revealing a pair of worn doc Martin's beneath. From the corner of my eye I can see him move and I look back up. I turn my head as well and make uncomfortable eye contact again. Turning away I quickly walk down the hall and away from an awkward encounter I never meant to make. God why can't I just make normal human interactions or be able to turn invisible. If only. Everything would be so much better.
Luna, who had been watching me the whole time, pipes up playfully “geez stare much? You should just ask him out if you like him that much." They float up and get passed though by a few people as they hold their hands into the shape of a heart, chipped nail polish immortalized. It takes a moment as I process what they said and another to quietly retort “What? Why would I like him? I just thought his shirt was cool…” Luna raises their eyebrows and gives me the look, the one that I know all too well, but before they could continue, I was saved from continuing the conversation by the crash of a locker slamming.
A group of students has begun to create a wall around two people, one of who has been pinned up on the lockers. His feet hang about a foot off the ground but he's at head height of the other person, who's like a head taller than me. Thin strings that glow faintly have burst from the locker wrap around this, for lack of a better word, kid. He's got a messy mop of brown hair that sits disheveled on top of a dark green hand knitted sweater with a white collar sticking up from under it. The glowing threads are what I can only imagine are the power of the person who's raising their voice at the kid dangling. They have a salmon-colored polo shirt, khaki pants, and a pair of navy loafers on, a stunningly hideous color combination. Not to mention the obvious effort that went into such a catastrophic failure of an outfit. Nepotism the fashion statement but dried fish flavor. If their lack of style says anything about them, I think the flavor of white bread might be too much for them. As they are loudly berating, the messy bun shakes like an angry Pomeranian. I hear a word or two that cuts through, something about a homework half done or maybe it's about sharing homework. I don't really know but I don't feel too bad about reading someone loudly bullying. For a second, I feel a surging pulse in my hand. Resisting the impulsive thought, I pull myself back, try not to listen, to just walk past, slipping my hand into my pocket I blast my music. I can't get involved in this.
Putting my head down I try to weave through the crowd, but with a second glance I can see the desperate silent plea in the eyes of the boy. I recognize it, I know how that feels, and I don't think I can ignore it. Fuck it.
I cut through the crowd enough to see the scene. Luna watches and I think has caught onto what I'm doing, they call out “Sunny don't do anything too stupid” with worry in their voice. “Don't worry I won't” I mumbled back. Taking a deep breath, I start to pool the energy that buzzes in my skin drawing it to a point, shaping it to size. I watch the screen looking for the right trajectory; not too low so I don't break anymore of the tiles on the floor, not too high to pull the ceiling down, and most importantly not too close to them. I just want to give them a taste of their medicine. Stick them in some lockers. With my exhale I form the first point and then feed it. I can feel the energy pour out, a release of listlessness that crashes through my veins as the lake built up behind a dam releases. I focus on a point and a small dot of dark is formed. Light begins to warp around it, smearing in folds into gravitational singularity. Everything happens in a moment, the salmon-colored joke is quickly caught in the gravitational pull. Trapped in a false orbit. The colors in their outfit pull out in ribbons of light as they are thrown from their feet and crash into the lockers with enough force to leave them breathless. Just to be safe I release two more that fold down, coiling the corners of the lockers to hold them in place fading as quickly as they appeared. Now cradled by bent metal they hang a look of shock fittingly plastered on their face.
Silence echoes through the halls. I try to slip back into the crowds of people, but I can't. I can feel as eyes follow me and others step away. Everyone is watching. I can feel as anxiety starts to tingling, vibrating my rib cage, my breathing begins to get fast and shallow. I try to get small, try to push through the crowd, from behind me I can hear foot fall. Luna calls from behind “oh you're in trouble. Principle at 6 o'clock.” A voice calls out layering over Luna's “What the heck is going on here?”. It hits me just where I am, and I look behind me seeing the open door to the principal's office with the energetic form of Mr. Thompson just having left from the open door. I don't know who is dumber me or the now swaddled in metal bully.
I freeze up as he approaches. Panic grips with a pounding pressure I would only feel from the bottom of the sea. His words are garbled but I know I hear him say “Detention” or maybe that's all I hear from him. I watch the ground staring out my feet trapped like I am one of medusa's statues, heavy with dread that has solidified in me. Around me the crowds have dispersed. The halls are empty, even the mousy boy and salmon are gone. I'm standing in the empty hall and Mr. Thompson is standing hands on his hips looking intensely at the crushed lockers. He sighs and I can feel a shiver run to the tips of my fingers. Racing my head fills with a movie length film of all the possible ways this punishment could go. I try steadying my breath, this isn't like last time. It's different. This is different.
“Hey Kiddo? You're alright. Take a breather. No one was hurt. Well besides the locker.” He looks at me with a kind smile. If he is angry or disappointed it doesn't show on his face. I give a shaky nod. It takes a moment for me to find my voice. “ I-I’m sorry” is all I can say as I advert my gaze back down to the grime filled seams between the tiles. Mr. Thompson examines the lockers tracing the crumpled curves of metal. He looks back and warmly says “What you did wasn’t alright, but I can tell that you know that. Were you having a panic attack there?” He mumbles “Merlin was always better at spotting those.” Then returns to a normal volume as he asks “Do you need to sit down? You're welcome to come into my office. You can take a minute there if you need.”
“Umh I don’t know. I think I’d rather just uhh go to class?”
“Well, let me write you a note to get back to class” Pulling a pen and notepad from a pocket Mr. Thompson hand a barely legible note. “I do expect to see you after school today. We need to have a talk about everything that happened today. Before you leave, get yourself to room 224.” He gives me a second slip of paper. “I also will need to call your parents, but I'll do that after we talk as long as I see you there.” He waves goodbye as he hurries off down the hall. Leaving me to meander down the halls alone and dreading the end of the day.