Chapter Text
As I lock the door behind me and walk into the main street, I know what’s coming.
It’s only been a couple of days in October, but already there are pumpkins and scary decorations in every neighbour’s front yard. Leafs scatter the ground, leaving the trees naked. There’s a chill breeze in the air, making my curly hair even more messy than it already is. I shove my hands into my pockets and look up to a bright sky dotted with clouds. Birds are flying away to a warmer country, there’s a queue going out the corner coffee shop and, already, I see Saint-Georges school’s large wooden doors from afar. Everything is like the usual, I mentally note. There’s only one thing missing, and he’s coming out of the next street on the right.
A simple sweatshirt, even simpler jeans, a low bun of black hair: a boy I could recognise anywhere. It’s been more than ten years, but I still have a vivid memory of him as a little boy. We weren’t friends and we aren’t now, either, but I know who he is, while the other boy doesn’t even know I breathe the same air he does.
He’s the kid I always saw through the glass of the pool, once I got into the track team. He’s the teenager I walk past in Saint-Georges’ corridors, or in the park while he feeds pigeon with an old woman. He’s the young man now walking ahead of me, acting like we’ve never had any encounter at all. Like we don’t cross each other path all day, every day.
It’s not about pride. It’s about being kind to others, I ponder as I come across the old women club, running with weights in each hand and too bright clothes of too many colours to count like they do every Monday around this hour. I smile, and they smile back, like always. Kindness. That’s all I excepted from him. But not just from him, in particular; that’s all I expect from people, from strangers, from the world. That’s all I used to except, at least. But I don’t know if I still believe all of that.
Each step up the stairs leading into Saint-Georges’ school, I lose sight of him. Another stranger in the crowded corridors. I never quite understood how this hallway is always so full of people. Our school is abusively big, even though old fashioned with oak wood everywhere and teachers as hard as the said wood. But weirdly, in the mornings, everyone seems to gather in here, somehow.
“Zeke!”
Willow hugs me quickly as I turn around, letting me only mumble a small greeting before speaking again.
“Are you going to the party on Friday?” she asks eagerly.
We start walking to first period. “Don’t know yet. Do you?”
“Of course I do,” I should’ve known. “It’s a huge party, everyone’s coming. I can’t miss it, and you neither.”
We walk into the classroom and sit at the far back of it. I sit behind Willow and take all the time I need -and a bit more- to set my supplies on the desk, hoping she’ll forget about that damn party.
However long I take, it isn’t what will stop her. Willow swings her chair around, her long blond hair spiralling in her swift movement, clapping her hands together and putting them under her chin.
“Come on, Zeke,” she starts again. “Ari’s house, ten pm. It’ll be fun!” She makes her puppy eyes, I can’t refuse.
“I’m only going to watch over your drunk ass, then,” I sigh. This woman exasperates me.
She laughs. “Seriously, it’ll be a good chance for you to meet new people,” Willow winks at me while I roll my eyes. “I mean, I know I’m the bestest of best friends, but still.”
“In case you didn’t notice, I have plenty of friends,” I retort, faking a deep offend.
She taps her finger to her temp, trying to remember. “Yes, the team and... People who want to get into your pants because you’re the next gold Olympic champion.”
I frown at that. “You know I’m not, Will.”
“Well, that’s not what everyone thinks,” she raises and eyebrow, as if pointing out an undeniable fact.
Before I can respond, our math teacher arrives in a hurry. Willow throws me a satisfied smirk.
I huff.
***
Walking out of the changing room last, as per usual, I can see him sitting on the bench near the pool, waiting for his own practice. Through the years, I have understood the other boy is in Saint-Georges’ swimming team just as much I am in the school’s track team.
Saint-Georges has quite the infrastructures when it comes to sport. Behind the main building, where we have classes, stands a well-maintained track. Nine lanes, the grass in the middle always cut short, bleachers circling the track: I spend more time here than anywhere else. The bleachers only part at the end of the one hundred meters mark, to let space for another small building, in which is a pool and, on the side, the changing room. Opposite side of the pool is a hall, in which we train in the winter season. I’ve always found this pool strange because we can see inside. The wall facing the rest of the track is in fact two large glasses, always foggy so all we can see are shadows, but still.
Younger, I wanted to get into the swimming team. When mum had first drove me to my first track practice ever, I had seen the pool before anything else. But I have chosen athletics. I have chosen the track, offering a lovely view over the city. I have chosen to go out of the changing room and walk past the pool, past the small bench on which the other boy sits every day, and that for more than ten years.
“Man, how are you doing?” Ari asks me as I get closer to my teammates.
“Good, you?”
“I’d be better if Coach hadn’t said it’s sprint day,” he sighs.
I drop my bag on the bench in front of the bleachers, near the beginning of the one hundred meters mark. Ari and I walk closer to the team, where everyone is already chatting.
“Today is relay race, isn’t it?” I ask, perplexed. Coach never changes his neatly planned program.
Greg, another one of my teammates, opens his mouth to answer, but before he can get a word out, Coach calls us closer to him.
“Boys, hello!” he smiles brightly. “Warm up, let’s go.”
We now know the routine by heart. But what we aren’t used to is what Coach says next.
“Today’s a random day in October,” he walks between us, bouncing slightly on his feet like only a super excited person can do, “Which means a new goal is coming towards us!”
He looks like a child about to open a Christmas presents, I think as I try to hold in my laugh. I glance sideways to Ari and the other lads, only to find them holding in their laughs, too.
“Lucas, Charlie,” he makes a point to look at each of them, a big smile on his lips. “Greg, Ari, Ezekiel.” He claps his hand together. “Today is the first day of our new training program!”
“Such a fuss for so little, Coach,” Ari plays it off while rolling his arms forward. It is in fact a feat because Coach never changed his training program for more than a few exercises. No matter if it rains, if it snows, if wind is taking us out in the bleachers: program is to stick to, always.
“Yes, Ari,” Coach hurries to his side, grinning. “But why am I making such fuss? Why am I changing our habits?” He hurries to Charlie’s side, now. “Any idea, my boy?”
“Not really, Coach,” Charlie replies as he’s rolling his neck.
“Just tell us,” Lucas says. Either because he’s impatient, either because he wants to get down to work as quickly as possible. Probably the latter, I think, knowing him.
“Alright, alright,” he comes back in front of our team so we can all see him. “We are changing training programs to adjust for the Indoor Regional Competition.”
Coach smiles, as if this is the greatest news of all time. He laughs, because everyone stops warming up, mouths agape. I hear the other lads break in cheerful chattering, hugging Coach for having them take part in this, but I can only watch, feeling a lump in my throat.
“Are we really?” Greg asks, eager.
“Of course we are,” Lucas responds with a slap on his arm. “It isn’t in Coach to joke about that!”
“When is it?” Ari asks as he still holds on Charlie’s shoulder to prop himself up in joy.
“The seventeenth of January, boys,” Coach looks fondly at them, as happy as if he himself is going to take part in this.
I feel sick. I feel my breath hitch. I want to let my friends have their happy moment, but I can’t share it with them.
“We have to get qualified for the Nationals, at least,” Greg affirms.
When Charlie speaks, I think I might lose it.
“We’re not giving up until we get there, lads,” he simply said. Even Charlie. He never talks much. He never wants the spotlight, so I thought he might have been with me in this.
“Is it mandatory?” I can’t help but ask Coach, voice louder than I intended to cover up my teammates’ excited voices, now guessing about our scores and places.
Coach quirks a brow. “It is. It’s in this year’s program, Zeke.” He takes some steps closer to me. “Why are you asking?”
I think it’s quite obvious. “Because I don’t want to join in.” I try my best to keep my voice even.
“We’ll talk about it later, ok?” Coach says. I nod, but it only stresses me more. Coach is soon to return to his energetic self. “Now, everyone on the starting line. I want you all to reach the speed of light!”
All throughout practice, I pester about it in my head. I think my feet might burn the track, for how much heat I feel inside. Everyone catches up to me at least twice, today, Charlie and Ari giving me a pat on the back that should feel comforting, but to me, it only feels humiliating. I wait for Coach to take me apart anytime to talk about it. I repeat my arguments in my head to not join in. But Coach doesn’t call me across the track today.
The next day neither, nor the very next one. There is no more left to say.
***
The week goes on, and Friday is suddenly remarkably close. Willow has kept reminding me about that party every hour of every day of the week, but somehow my mind has let that slip, until now. It’s Friday morning, and I have absolutely no will at all to get drunk and dance like a maniac tonight.
Still in my one-person bed, I look out the window, searching for excuses. Many options fill my mind. Excuse number one: this week’s practice left my body sore. When Coach had said we were changing training program, I didn’t think of that, and neither did the team. Excuse number two: it’s cold outside, I might catch a cold, and I would be off practice for some days, thing that had never happened and that I do not want to happen any time soon. My immunity system is surprisingly strong, so I have always attended practice, with a total count of zero absence day in my career, not even in exams period or for Christmas. Excuse number three: I hate alcohol, drunk people, the smell of weed, crowded places and loud music. In fact, I think I might hate everything party related.
My alarm clock rings a second time, forcing me to leave my scheming behind to get dressed. My room is a total mess, so I pick some jeans off my desk and a sweatshirt peeking out of my wardrobe. Then, I quickly make my bag for school and track training, loosing time because I’ve lost my right shoe, and finally I make my way downstairs with exactly nine minutes left to eat breakfast before leaving for school.
Mum is already sitting at the kitchen table, buttering some bread.
“Hi, sweetheart,” I kiss her on the cheek. “Slept well?”
“Yeah,” I take place behind the cooker. “Wants some eggs, too?”
“No, thanks Zeke,” she smiles at me as I crack my eggs. “Dad left already?”
“I think so,” I respond quietly. Mum only nods.
We stay silent for some time. My father works more than he sees us, his family. He’s director in a publishing house, so extra hours before and after work he’s used to. Mum, though, is less. She, too, works hard as an assistant in a medical office, but she’s always found time for her family.
I refrain myself to get into any further thoughts on the subject. Instead, I come to terms with that damn party. I promised Willow, after all.
I quickly glance to my watch before coming to sit next to mum, my egg plate in hand.
“Mum, you remember Ari?” I ask first. I know she does.
She looks up from her breakfast, smiling. “Of course! He’s come over too many times for me to forget about him, along with the others.” She seems pensive, probably thinking back to when I was a little boy, and so were the rest of the track team. We used to sleepover often.
“Right,” I clear my throat. “He organizes a party tonight. Can I go?” I take a mouthful of my plate, waiting patiently for an answer.
Mum eyes me for a moment, quietly, before speaking again. “Yeah, as long as you’re careful.”
I let go of a breath I didn’t even know I was holding. “Actually, I was planning on going with a shirt saying, ‘If you’re a dealer, drug me,’ but that I can still change.”
She laughs, getting up to put her dishes in the dishwasher. “Is Willow going too?”
I follow her. “I wouldn’t be going if it wasn’t for her.”
“How is she doing,” she asks. They used to get on pretty well. But then school got harder, and Willow is extremely serious about it. Parties are one of the only leisure she offers herself.
“Good, as always,” I elbow her in the ribs playfully.
We clean the rest of our breakfast table. I quickly go back upstairs to brush my teeth, go back down to put on my shoes and I finally leave for school with only a four-minute delay. I see him walk ahead of me, just as I see the birds, the weather and a child throwing a tantrum to his father in the middle of the street. I can see the annoyed glances on the passer-by’s faces, but this time I smile and ponder; on this day, under this cold sun, it is such a sweet time, being young.
Once through Saint-Georges’ door, I’m surrounded by my classmates asking me about the Regionals. News spread fast, I think to myself.
“How do you think you’ll do?” a girl I’ve seen a couple of times in the corridor asks. But I only push past the crowd to get to class. I already feel my hands sweating.
“Is the team prepared?” a tall boy shouts from afar.
“I guess we’ll see,” I respond quickly before almost sprinting to first period’s class.
I draw a big breath as I go to sit behind Willow, already in her chair.
But there’s no time to gather myself as I sit, because she shoves me her cell phone in my hands.
“So, look at these,” she gestures. “Which one will suit me best, do you think?”
“Hello to you, too,” I say. She fakes a smile, as serious as if she was taking an exam. I sigh, girls, and look through the different outfits displayed on Willow’s phone. “For tonight, I suppose?” She nods. “Well, maybe the pink one, then.”
I hand her back her phone.
“Great, that’s what I was thinking too.” I roll my eyes. “What about you? What are you going to wear?” She eyes me suspiciously.
My mind goes blank. What am I going to wear?
“Men, so oblivious,” now it’s her who rolls her eyes. “I’ll come to yours to pick you an outfit. When does practice ends?”
“Six thirty, told you already- “
“I’ll be here at seven.” She’s being bossy, just like when she takes care of a big, important matter. Or a lost cause. I can’t tell.
“Fine,” I huff. “But don’t except me to dress in pink too. We’re not having matching outfits again.”
She fakes an outraged expression. “What! You don’t want to dress all pink and sexy with me?” She puts her hand in front of her mouth in shock.
I remain a stoic face. “I know this may seems appealing to some, but my name isn’t Ken and you aren’t Barbie. Plus, I prefer people asking us if we’re siblings rather than if we’re dating.”
“Agreed,” she laughs and I laugh too. “I’ll still find you something cute, though. Be prepared.”
“I’m always prepared.”
We laugh once more, and there a long, long day begins.
I go through the day on autopilot. My right hand’s taking notes, but I barely know what it’s writing, let alone what the teachers are talking about. I crouch down on my desk for them not to interrogate him, and I ponder.
I really do hate parties. I don’t know why I keep agreeing on going to them, while I despise it. Probably for Willow. Probably because I’m too stupid to care for my own good. Or because, each time, I hope it gets better. Each time, I hope I enjoy it and feel a bit more like people my age.
But it does not get better. Deep down, I know it.
I can still hear what Willow’s telling me or what people in the corridors are asking me about the competition, but I can only nod and form small sentences. The growing bubble inside of me and my sweaty hands can still be managed, I convince myself. I hear the track team, with whom Willow and I are eating with on lunch break, talking about our sudden fame in Saint-Georges. But once midday pass, I can hardly focus on anything at all.
I must really pay attention to the plastic of my pen touching my fingertip, my upper body weighting on the chair I sit on, my clothes touching my skin and my curls brushing the back of my neck. Coach’s old method to manage emotions helps, but not enough in my opinion. ‘To be mindful,’ he prodded back then.
Now, Coach is in front of me again, with hair much greyer than they were in the time of his wise words. Our team is back on the track under a cloudy sky and practice has begun. I find myself having a tough time. It feels like there isn’t enough air for five pairs of running lungs. It feels like I’m too much. Today’s long distance, and after working on footwork and some conditioning, here we are, with twenty-five laps to run, only to complete ten kilometres.
“Are you coming at mine’s, tonight?” Ari asks as he catches up to me.
I nod the best I can while running.
“Great! I’ve saved water for you, man,” he bumps his shoulder into mine. “Don’t worry.”
“Thanks,” I manage to get out.
Ari keeps on running next to me, explaining how it’ll be the best party ever. If he notices my discomfort, he doesn’t say a thing about it. Actually, I’m sure he doesn’t. Ari is too obliviously kind for that. So, I can’t be mad at him when, on the last few laps, my hands begin to shake and the lump in my throat gets thicker.
At six thirty-five, my father’s car is in the parking lot. I frown. He’s never done that. My father is leaning against it, patiently waiting for me. Curly hair too, a bit taller than me and a fair bit fatter than me. And green eyes. The same as me, except I always thought they look kinder on me than they do on my father’s. And a black, three-piece suit, as always. He looks posh, I think to myself.
“Hello,” I greet him and get into the car.
My father does the same, igniting the engine.
“There was a letter from Saint-Georges, saying their track team’s going to participate to the indoor regional competition.” he looks satisfied, I notice as I try to gather all my focus on my father and the road ahead, doing all I can for my thoughts not to think about tonight.
“Isn’t it great?” he continues.
“Yeah, it is,” I force out.
“Why don’t you sound like it,” he says, voice grave. “You’re going to participate, right?”
“It’s mandatory. I don’t have much of a choice,” I explain quietly. I should’ve known my father only came to pick me up to talk about this.
He tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “Didn’t you want to participate anyway?”
I gulp. I can see our house from here. Almost over. “Not really.”
My father slams the gear knob harshly, turning to look straight in my eyes. The sad part is, I barely have a reaction. I’m used to this.
“You should,” he parks the car in our front lane and turns off the engine. Before I can get out, he catches my wrist, forcing me inside. “You’re going to participate, win and make yourself a name.” He approaches his face to mine, his eyes bloodshot. “Are you not, son?”
I fake a smile the best I can.
“Of course.”
***
When Willow arrives, she takes a good thirty minutes to speak with mum. My father is in the sofa, not bothering to even say hello. I doubt he even knows who Willow is. I’m sure he thinks she’s my girlfriend.
But I couldn’t care less. All that matters is the two women of my life, in front of me, discussing people with blue strands of hair.
They always had this strange girl connection. When we were younger and Willow still came to have a sleep over, she would fake going to the toilet. When I’d decide it was too long of a time for peeing, I’d go looking for her, only to find her sitting with mum around a cup of tea.
Years later, things are the same, except she comes home to help me find clothes for a party I don’t even want to attend.
“How are Lisa and Lena?” Hana asks kindly.
“Quite good, they’re turning eight next week,” she says excitedly and explains what her aunt and uncle have prepared for their daughters’ birthday.
Willow’s an only child to whom the world took her parents from her too soon. A tragic car crash when she was only six. A subject I don’t know much about, and on which I don’t push either, even after years of friendship. I just know her mother’s sister took her in.
I watch them gossip some more from where I stand, leaning against the door frame of the entrance hall, until Willow says she has a horrendous work to do.
“Finding Ezekiel some clothes that fit is never an easy job,” she sighs as we both make our way to the staircase.
“Good luck,” I hear mum chuckle.
The first thing Willow does when up in my room is open the window, because “it smells like rats are living in here,” she accuses. She continues by blaming the mess and how disorganised I am as I throw myself on my bed, face first.
“I don’t employ a cleaning lady, and neither do I have much time to do the work myself,” I retort, the sound of my voice muffled by the covers.
“That’s what they all say,” Willow taps me lightly on the head.
I flop the other way around, so I can see what my best friend’s scheming is. She’s put her own bag with her clothes and make up on top of the mess scattering my desk, and she’s now digging into the closet.
“Your wardrobe is screaming we must go to the mall,” she says after a few minutes. I’m too busy fidgeting with my sheets to answer.
“Try this,” she tosses me a pair of jeans and a shirt I once bought but never wore.
I sigh, making my way to the bathroom.
I change quickly, rinsing my face with cool water, then contemplates myself in the mirror, hands on either side of the sink.
It’s not so bad, I think. The shirt’s bit strange, because more dressed up that what I usually wear and, most of all, it’s purple, but I guess I’ll have to do with it. The jeans are simple, dark blue. I only meet the problem when my eyes travel up to my face: my hair. A mess of dark blonde curls I’ve never known how to tame, coming before my eyes from time to time. My eyes stand out, big and bright green, full lips and those horrid freckles on my cheeks make me look like I’ve just woken up under the sun of Bali. Plus, I can’t help but notice the beginning of blue circle under my eyes. Coach’s new training program really is tiring.
“Come out, Zeke,” Willow calls from the bedroom excitedly.
I return to my room, looking down and feeling like a fool. Willow eyes me up and down. She’s changed in her pink outfit and is now sitting on my desk’s chair, make up supplies on display.
“You look like a bubble gum,” I blurt out and suppress a laugh, feeling the weight in my stomach lighten.
“And I, was going to say, that you look great,” she makes a face. “Thank you for returning the compliment.”
“I meant a pretty bubble gum,” I try to convince her. “Anyway, I was wondering if I could change the- “
“No, there is no change,” she holds out her make up brush, as if to prove her point. “You look great in those clothes, Zeke.”
I sigh and plop down on my bed as she returns to doing her make up. After all these years of friendship, I know better than to argue with her.
“Don’t sigh at me,” she says. She’s powdering her face with a big brush. “Because of me, plenty of girls are going to fall at your feet.”
“Great, thanks,” I mumble. Then, louder, “I can’t really take you seriously when you’re as white as paper and have the longest lashes I’ve ever seen.”
Willow throws the brush she held in her hands at my face. I barely have the time to dodge. I laugh as, I’m sure, judging by the look on her face, she contemplates suffocating me with a pillow.
“Trust the process,” she retorts, taking another brush out of her beauty case.
“Sure,” I chuckle.
I can’t exactly recall when the two of us started to hang out. I have a faint memory of Willow coming up to me once, while I was eating lunch alone, back in our first weeks at Saint-Georges. She had said something like ‘you look lonely and I want to go to paradise, so I’ll be your saviour and friend forever.’
As I remembers this, it feels to me like ages ago. Willow must still want to go to paradise.
She still is my saviour because, as she came to mine’s, tonight, I had almost forgotten my worries about tonight. As I listened to Willow and Hana chatting, as I’ve been scolded for the mess in my room, as I’m now listening to my best friend ranting about how our math teacher is apparently the most beautiful human being or something, the lump in my throat doesn’t seem so thick, my hands aren’t sweaty, my stomach his light.
“One last thing, Zeke,” she adds before finishing her make up, which looks better now, I must admit. “You should try to tame your hair,” she winks.
***
We’re not even in Ari’s neighbourhood yet, but already we can hear the music and people shouting in the distance.
“Careful and have fun,” Hana says as we hop down the car. She’s insisted on dropping us by, so we wouldn’t have to walk.
Willow and I both respond with thumbs up as we cross the front yard and disappear into the forming crowd at the front door.
We enter in Ari’s house and are greeted by music to blew someone’s ear off. Willow is soon to wander around, so I make myself the mission the find the track team. I climb a few stairs to have a better view of where my friends could be, and I take in the scene as I search.
I’ve already been at Ari’s, but each time I’m amazed by how big his house is. Pieces of furniture have been pushed aside towards the white walls on which hang various paintings, letting the space for a large dancefloor. Fairy lights have been attached to either side of the room, so it floats over the dancefloor, giving some nice light. Not too bright, not too dark. The door leading outside his open, and I figure there must be some kind of party inside the party out there.
On the far-left side of the house is the kitchen. People are dancing on the counter, drinking into red cups and singing everyone’s ears off. For a second, I seriously wonder how they manage to shout louder than the music already blasting through black speakers, disposed at every corner of the room.
Next to the counter, I spot Ari and the rest of the team and make my way to them, through drunk people and couple sloppily kissing.
“Lad, how are you doing?” Charlie is the first to notice me, clasping a hand on my back.
The whole team turn my side, making room for me in their small circle.
“Good, you guys?”
“Bad,” Greg answers with a pout, a beer in his hand. “Failed my French test this morning.”
“She’s too old to read your handwriting anyway, probably why you failed,” Ari offers as an explanation. “Want something to drink, Zeke?”
“Yeah, water please,” I wink at him as he slips away.
“I’m planning on dropping out of French class,” Charlie leans in to confess. “Too much of a trouble.”
“Yeah, me too,” Lucas sighs as he takes a sip out of his red cup.
“Can’t advise you anything else,” I answer with a smile. I dropped out of that class last year. Not that I was so bad, there was just so much to study it was getting out of hand.
“Me neither,” Ari comes back. “Here,” he gives me my own red cup.
“Thanks.”
Ari then leans on me, “Charlie’s a bit tipsy, if you haven’t notice already.”
I chuckle. Charlie’s not the kind to talk much at all. “Very difficult thing to see, indeed,” I joke.
We chat some more, but the conversation is soon to be oriented towards girls. I wander off, trying to find Willow. I don’t feel like listening to Greg’s hundredth failed love story.
I spot Willow on the sofa, opposite side of me, with a friend of hers. I start to make my way towards her but walking with this many people all dancing and spilling a bit of whatever’s in their cup everywhere isn’t easy. It feels like the city centre in the rush hour. Worse, even.
I profess excuses to anyone I merely brush shoulders with, and I have almost reached Willow when someone won’t budge out of my way.
“Excuse me, can I pass,” I speak louder this time, realising most people didn’t hear me.
Seeing no movement, I trail my eyes up to the other person’s, opening my mouth to repeat my request, but I’m quick to close it.
It’s him.
Fate makes him follow me everywhere, doesn’t it?
It makes me uneasy and mad. Seeing him every morning walking to Saint-Georges is one thing. In school, on the bench before practice, in the park, it is one thing. But here? Is the earth so small we happen to have the same friends? No, it can’t be.
Judging by how the other boy looks at me, he’s heard me for sure. He’s a tad taller than me and I can’t help but notice our proximity as the crowd is surrounding us. I can’t help but note how dark his eyes are, as they bore into mine, and how I have no idea how to read his eyes. Usually, I can tell if there’s a spark of happiness, of sadness or love or pity in someone’s eyes, but here there is simply nothing. What thoughts are fighting behind those eyes? Maybe it’s because it’s dim, in here. Maybe it’s because he looks vile. Maybe it’s because it’s the first time we can really see each other.
At least, this time, I’m not the only one to notice the other’s presence, this time.
Breaking the eyes contact, I push past him and walk the couple of meters separating me from Willow. As I sit down next to her and her friend, I look back to where we stood merely seconds ago. He’s still there, his back to me, not moving in the crowd of dancing people.
I force myself to look away and join the girl’s conversation. They’re talking about the decoration, the people invited and the juicy gossips that already are appearing from the party. Willow’s friend asks me about the regionals, but I’m quick to brush off the subject.
I let the girls do most of the talking because, at some point, I can’t bear it anymore.
I could stay and enjoy the party, if it’s not for how Willow’s friend is openly hitting on me. She has a transparent liquid in her cup too, but I doubt it’s the same as me. I could have the time of my life, if it’s not for how much people there is around me, doing all sorts of things. Maybe it’s the music. Maybe it’s everyone shouting, or the people puking behind the sofa on which we sit.
I don’t know what it is, but it definitely is something.
I hurry to the staircase and to where I know Ari’s bedroom to be, not bothering to apologize to the girls. I push past the crowd of people easily now, without excuses, and run in the staircase, out of breath and gasping for it. Funny, for a runner, to run out of breath. My hands are sweaty when I get a grip on the doorknob and walk inside.
I go straight to the window and open it. My breath is catching up in my ribcage, threatening tears to come down. I grip the windowsill, knuckles turning white. I just need some air. Just some fresh air, and it’ll be alright.
But even with the chilly wind hitting me in the face, it’s not alright.
It’s as if all the things I felt during the day are coming down on me, to scare me, hunt me and kill me. My damn heart rate won’t slow down, I won’t catch my breath and the first tears of panic have spilled out. I grip the edges of the windowsill even harder to stop myself from shaking, even if it’s of little use.
I’ve got to concentrate. I must really feel the cool air against my face, my feet anchoring me down to the earth, the fabric of my clothes making me human and normal. Slowly, I feel it all and continue. I focus on the background music and the people laughing in the garden, under the window.
The tears are still spilling, but slower now. My breath is still ragged, but I’m breathing. I’m breathing, I’m alive, I’m here. I slowly lessen my grip on the side of the window and crouches on it, forehead against the cool polished stone. My heart is pounding right again. I’m not suffocating anymore.
I stay like that for a while. A short or long while, I don’t know. Time is strange when this happens to me.
At some point, I straighten up and look outside the window, to the world.
Ari’s window is overlooking the whole city. From here, I can see every people walking in the street, every window with light behind it, just like the one I’m looking through right now. Every house under the skyline holding a different story, ones I’ll never hear about.
On that thought, I decide it’s where my evening ends. I take my phone out, texting Willow I’m heading home. We had decided on leaving on our own, anyway.
I glance one last time to the world outside the window, hoping it’ll have something nice to offer to me, later on. A gift, or whatever. Something good to me.
I finally turn around to reach the door. There’s indeed something or someone for me. I squint my eyes, then blame myself for asking something to the world. We always had communication issues, but this is on top.
It certainly isn’t a gift, let alone something good to me.