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Five minutes before last period starts, Till feels an indescribable itch to do something with her hands. Pick up a pencil, jot down some lyrics, doodle on a page of halfheartedly scrawled notes. Light a cigarette. Strum a guitar. Oh, God, she misses her guitar, she thinks as she picks at the callouses on her fingers with her thumbnail. Her right leg is bouncing restlessly underneath the desk, bumping into its wooden underside every so often which earns her a nasty glare from her seatmate, Acorn. Till promptly ignores him and watches the hands of the clock move at a torturously slow pace. Only an hour and five minutes remain until her liberation, but the clock seems to tick even slower still when she notices it, like it's goading her, daring her to move.
The impatience in her gut bubbles and threatens to spill over the edge, so she stands abruptly and sends her chair backwards with a screech of its wooden legs against the laminated floors. The sound further irritates Acorn but otherwise goes unnoticed by the rest of the students, engrossed in scrolling on their phones or exchanging as much gossip as they can before their teacher walks in for last period.
Till slings her backpack over one shoulder and makes her way out of the chattering classroom, and if anyone notices, of course they don't say anything because they know how to mind their own business (well, most of them). She momentarily feels a prickling sensation on the back of her neck, like someone's eyes are following her, but with one throwaway glance over her shoulder she confirms that her classmates are all still immersed in whatever they're doing.
Till has built somewhat of a reputation for herself as a delinquent, of sorts. Distracted, her nicer teachers would say. The less nice ones would call her ill-behaved. She tries to not stumble over the too-long legs of her trousers. They're a size too big for her, having acquired them as a hand-me-down from an upperclassman, because she refuses to wear the school-issued skirt that constitutes part of the girls' uniform. She kept wearing them to school despite getting dress coded multiple times since the start of the year, although it has toned down a bit since the time she layered the uniform skirt over the trousers. Till thought it was quite the fashion statement, but her middle-aged, small town born-and-raised homeroom teacher did not share the sentiment. It was at that point that they halfheartedly gave up on getting Till to comply.
Till treads lightly down the stairs, and the hallways are completely empty. All the students have already filed into the classrooms for last period, which commenced with an irritating strike of the school bell. When she reaches the ground floor, she exits through the door leading to the back of the building, a concealed safe spot she often frequents when she's skipping class, between the brick wall of the main building and the fenced perimeters of the school. Grass scrunches underfoot as she leans back against the wall and digs in her pockets for a cigarette with lazy, unhurried movements.
If she happens to get caught by a teacher, it'll just be another detention slip, another minor stain on her already less than impressive student file. It's a wonder she hasn't gotten expelled from school yet. Till has a feeling the school authorities can't be bothered because they're keen on avoiding a predicament with her father. Not because he had any authority or influence, but solely because he's such a pain in the ass and would cause a ruckus if they decided to kick her out. His volatile temper is no secret to anyone in their town.
Seeing as the threat of expulsion is practically non-existent, Till's nefarious student record doesn't bother her all that much. She's perfectly content with only managing to get into a mediocre community college, so long as she gets to pursue art or music. Sardonically, she can't help but think about how even one detention slip would have some of the other students in shambles. The high-achieving, teacher's pet variety with an endless trail of boastful accomplishments, who were aiming for top universities in big cities. Like the so-called student representative. Till extracts a cigarette from her pocket and pushes the thought aside before any more bitterness can fester in her heart.
It’s nearing the end of the day, and she knows everyone will be rushing out of the main front gate as soon as the bell goes off for the last time today. No one will be loitering around the back of the building, except for her. Still, she tentatively scans her surroundings for any teachers in the vicinity, and her heart nearly drops to her feet.
Speak of the devil. It's fucking Ivan.
Ivan, with her thick, straight bangs, not a strand out of place, that frame either side of her jaw and round out the sharp lines of her face. Flawless skin, even though she's barefaced, because makeup is against the school rules and its not like Ivan needs it anyway. She's decked out in full school uniform, complete with blazer and tie, and her shirt is so perfectly pressed Till can imagine her steaming (or maybe ironing it?) with meticulous care every morning before school. It makes Till sick.
The only thing that remotely deviates from this painted picture of perfection is a single snaggletooth that peeks out under Ivan's top lip. Till sure as hell doesn't like Ivan, but if she had to choose one redeeming quality she would begrudgingly pick that sharp, projecting incisor. It was this one imperfection that made Ivan seem human and less like a doll manufactured in a factory.
"Are you skipping class again, Till?" Ivan smiles, flashing the offending tooth. There's a teasing lilt to her voice.
Till ignores the way it makes her stomach flip. "Are you, student rep? Now that's scandalous."
Ivan hums, noncommittal, in lieu of a response. She pins Till under her watchful gaze, twin pools of red boring into the side of her face. Till feels nervous, uneasy, and that pins and needles sensation of being watched from earlier returns tenfold.
Of course Ivan had seen her leave the classroom. And she just had to follow like a fucking freak. Till has no doubt that Ivan is now internally counting, with glee, the number of school rules Till has broken so she can dutifully report her crimes to their homeroom teacher tomorrow morning. Skipping class, check. Smoking on school grounds, check. Loitering around school after-hours, fucking check.
When Ivan's crimson pupils drift to the cigarette between Till's fingers, Till has already mentally resigned to the fact that she'll be staying after school for detention tomorrow.
"You want one?" Till drawls, dripping with sarcasm.
"No, thank you," comes Ivan's polite response. It belatedly dawns on Till that she hadn't been looking at the cigarette, but rather at the mosaic of yellowish green bruises littered over Till's knuckles, fading but noticeable.
Something in Till's belly lurches, and she feels anxiety crawling slowly up her spine. She gets into scuffles sometimes. So what? Is Ivan judging her? Does she think she's some sort of violent hooligan who rams her fists into everyone and everything? Ivan's gaze is inscrutable. She's not looking at Till's hands anymore, but Till can still feel the scrutiny like a phantom limb. It's not like she cares what Ivan thinks of her, anyway. Well, at least the student representative can't report her for starting a fight if she hasn't witnessed it.
With an exhale that comes out shakier than she intends, Till averts her gaze from Ivan and places the cigarette between her lips. Her thumb fumbles nervously with the lighter, the flame flickering pathetically in and out of existence as Till struggles to just light the fucking cigarette.
Ivan steps closer and reaches towards the lighter. "Allow me," she says, and it's benevolent, tentative, like Till is an old lady and Ivan is offering to help her cross the fucking street.
Till's brain briefly short circuits with shock and she wordlessly allows Ivan to take the lighter from her hand. Ivan holds it to the cigarette between her lips, palm cupped protectively around the feeble flame. It lights on the first try.
"Thanks," Till mutters, relieved, when Ivan steps away. There's something indecipherable in the smile that plays on Ivan's lips.
The silence that follows makes Till mildly uncomfortable, like one of them should say something. She knows for a fact that it won't be her, so she looks at Ivan, who doesn't seem at all perturbed by the lack of words exchanged between them. She looks content, even, like she's happy to be sharing the quiet with Till. The setting sun casts a hazy glow over her face, red pinpoints in her eyes catching the light. Maybe neither of them has to say anything. Till changes her mental categorization of the moment from awkward silence to something else. Something comfortable, companionable. A pleasant sort of quiet.
It takes Till a moment to realize the cigarette is uselessly burning away, so she takes a couple of drags, careful to blow the smoke away from Ivan's face because that's just basic human decency, thank you very much. With no trash bin nearby, she has no choice but to ash the cigarette on the ground in front of her. Ivan immediately notices the movement. The corners of her mouth quirk in a cruel grin, and the illusion shatters.
"Littering is against school rules, Till." Ivan's voice drips with mirthless glee, like she's found the perfect offense to complete the list of Till's crimes of the day. The cherry on top.
Till's face contorts in incredulous disbelief, and she distractedly rubs at the mascara crusted in her lashes with the heel of her palm. She fumbles with words for a moment, before she drops the half burnt cigarette to the ground and grinds her heel into it with frustration.
"Why do you hate me so much?"
Ivan looks at her for a moment and giggles like Till is telling her a joke. Till's entire face flushes red with a humiliating mixture of anger and embarrassment.
"No, I'm serious," Till continues, and Ivan's eyes widen just a fraction. "Did you follow me down here just to gather up some dirt on me so you could go tell on me later? Like all those other times? Dude, do you even know how many detentions you've gotten me into?"
Ivan continues to stare at her, mouth slightly agape, and Till is aware that she's rambling but she's had this shit bottled up for so long that she just can't seem to stop. "I mean, I don't know what you have against me. I know we don't get along that well but how do you manage to pin everything on me every single time? Just so you know, the fire alarm prank was never my idea. It was Mizi's. W-Well, I did help her but it was her idea, not mine. And—"
"Till," Ivan blinks, once, twice. Till doesn't realize her breathing is bordering on wheezy heaves and she pauses to fill her lungs with air. "Till, I never told on you. Not even once. And I don't hate you. I've had a crush on you since sophomore year."
Time seems to slow to a pause as Till attempts to process this information through the addled blur of adrenaline and nicotine in her system.
"Then who snitched that one time I drew the principal in a G-string?"
"Wasn't me."
"And the time I got gum stuck in Acorn's hair?" Till asks, desperate.
"That was Acorn," Ivan affirms.
Oh.
Well, of course. That sounds like it should be obvious. Till feels, understandably, pretty stupid at this revelation. It had just seemed so easy at the time to blame Ivan for everything that went wrong in her life, because she'd just assumed that Ivan hated her. It turns out that she doesn't, because Ivan—
"Wait, y-you like me?" Till blurts, intelligently, when her mouth catches up to her brain.
"Yes, Till," The amusement in Ivan's smile feels a lot less mocking than it did five minutes ago. "I thought you knew."
"No, what?" Till's mind is fucking reeling. "How could I have known that? I thought you fucking hated me!"
"Mizi knew," Ivan offers unhelpfully, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"W-What about Sua?" The nod Till receives in response leaves her mortified.
The silence that follows seems to last a billion years.
"Acorn, too."
"Can you stop bringing up Acorn? I'm— Fuck," Till runs a hand through hairspray crusted hair, looking everywhere but Ivan. Her flush has crept down to her neck, and she feels like steam is about to puff out of her ears like a cartoon character.
A blur of scattered memories from the past two years of high school scurry through Till's mind. Multiple occasions where she'd mistaken Ivan's sincerity for condescension, or her kindness for mockery. Till had always been taut as a bowstring, ready to snap at any moment. Always on the defensive. Always so quick to assume the worst of people. Volatile.
Till feels so, so stupid, and eventually she forces herself to look Ivan in the eyes.
Ivan, who covered up for when she felt too anxious to step into class. Ivan, who had offered Till her homemade lunch when the cafeteria served a menu she didn't like. Ivan, who was the first to show her unconditional support when she came out to their friend group.
Ivan, who had just confessed and is yet to receive a response.
Till breathes in and braces herself like she's about to get punched. With steeled resolve, she forces out the words, "I-I like you too, Ivan," her voice involuntarily quietens on the second word like she's telling Ivan a dark, horrible secret.
When Ivan takes a step forward to invade her personal space again, Till's heart plummets to the ground and she feels blood rushing traitorously to her ears. Ivan is so close, and she smells sweet, like cherries. Till, panicked, squeezes her eyes shut as if to block out the blinding light of Ivan's smile.
"You owe me a date," Ivan says against her ear, and presses a chaste kiss to Till's cheek before she could react. Till can only stand in place, stupefied.
"Tomorrow after school, okay?"
No response. Then, Till forces out a strained sound that sounds vaguely like, "uh-huh."
Ivan grins and steps back, apparently satisfied with her work of turning Till into a spluttering, blushing mess. She points to the cigarette butt on the ground.
"And make sure you pick that up."
Till has to resist the urge to kick her in the shin.