“You got a tattoo?”
It’s the third time I’ve asked Holder the same question, but I just don’t believe it. It’s out of character for him. Especially since I’m not the one who encouraged it.
“Jesus, Daniel,” he groans on the other end of the line. “Stop. And stop asking me why.”
“It’s just a weird thing to tattoo on yourself. Hopeless. It’s a very depressing term. But still, I’m impressed.”
“I gotta go. I’ll call you later this week.”
I sigh into the phone. “God, this sucks, man. The only good thing about this entire school since you moved is fifth period.”
“What’s fifth period?” Holder asks.
“Nothing. They forgot to assign me a class, so I hide out in this maintenance closet every day for an hour.”
Holder laughs. I realize as I’m listening to it that it’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh since Les died two months ago. Maybe moving to Austin will actually be good for him.
The bell rings and I hold the phone with my shoulder and fold up my jacket, then drop it to the floor of the maintenance closet. I flip off the light. “I’ll talk to you later. Nap time.”
“Later,” Holder says.
I end the call and set my alarm for fifty minutes later, then place my phone on the counter. I lower myself to the floor and lie down. I close my eyes and think about how much this year sucks. I hate that Holder is going through what he’s having to go through and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it. No one that close to me has ever died, much less someone as close as one of my sisters. A twin sister to be exact.
I don’t even try to offer him advice, but I think he likes that. I think he needs me to just continue being myself, because God knows everyone else in this whole damn school has no clue how to act around him. If they weren’t all such stupid assholes he’d probably still be here and school wouldn’t suck half as bad as it does.
But it does suck. Everyone in this place sucks and I hate them all. I hate everybody but Holder and they’re the reason he isn’t here anymore.
I stretch my legs out in front of me and cross my ankles, then fold my arm over my eyes. At least I have fifth period.
Fifth period is nice.
My eyes flick open and I groan when something lands on me. I hear the sound of the door slam shut.
What the hell?
I place my hands on whatever just fell on me and begin to roll it off me when my hands graze a head full of soft hair.
It’s a human?
A chick just fell on me. In the maintenance closet. And she’s crying.
“Who the hell are you?” I ask cautiously. Whoever she is, she tries to push off me but we both seem to be taking turns moving in the same direction. I lift up and try to roll her to my side but our heads crash together.
“Shit,” she says.
I fall back onto my makeshift pillow and grab my forehead. “Sorry,” I mumble.
Neither one of us moves this time. I can hear her sniffling, trying not to cry. I can’t see two inches in front of me because the light is still out but I suddenly don’t mind that she’ s still on top of me because she smells incredible.
“I think I’m lost,” she says. “I thought I was walking into the bathroom.”
I shake my head, even though I know she can’t see it. “Not a bathroom,” I say. “But why are you crying? Did you hurt yourself when you fell?”
I feel her whole body sigh on top of me and even though I have no idea who she is or what she looks like, I can feel the sadness in her and it makes me a little sad in return. I’m not sure how it happens, but my arms go around her and her cheek falls against my chest. In the course of five seconds we go from extremely awkward to kind of comfortable, like we do this all the time.
It’s weird and normal and hot and sad and strange and I don’t really want to let go. It feels sort of euphoric, like we’re in some sort of fairytale. Like she’s Tinkerbell and I’m Peter Pan.
No, wait. I don’t want to be Peter Pan.
Maybe she can be like Cinderella and I’ll be her Prince Charming.
Yeah, I like that fantasy better. Cinderella’s hot when she’s all poor and sweaty and slaving over the stove. She also looks good in her ball gown. It also doesn’t hurt that we’re meeting in a broom closet. Very fitting.
I feel her pull a hand up to her face, more than likely wiping away a tear. “I hate them,” she says softly.
“Everybody,” she says. “I hate everybody.”
I close my eyes and lift my hand, then run it down her hair, doing my best to comfort her. Finally, someone who actually gets it. I’m not sure why she hates everybody but I have a feeling she’s got a pretty valid reason.
“I hate everybody too, Cinderella.”
She laughs softly, probably confused as to why I just referred to her as Cinderella. Whatever just made her laugh, at least it’s not more tears. Her laugh is intoxicating and I try to think of how I can get her to do it again. I’m trying to think of something funny to say when she lifts her face off my chest and I feel her scoot forward. Before I know it, I feel lips on mine and I’m not sure if I should shove her away or roll on top of her. I begin to lift my hands to her face, but she pulls back just as quick as she kissed me.
“Sorry,” she says. “I should go.” She places her palms beside me on the floor and starts to lift up, but I grab her face and pull her back down on top of me.
“No,” I say. I bring her mouth back to mine and I kiss her. I keep our lips pressed firmly together as I lower her to my side and pull her against me so that her head is resting on my jacket. Her breath tastes like starburst and it makes me want to keep kissing her until I can identify every single flavor.
Her hand touches my arm and she gives it a tight squeeze just as my tongue slips inside her mouth. That would be strawberry on the tip of her tongue.
She keeps her hand on my arm, periodically moving it to the back of my head, then returning it to my arm. I keep my hand on her waist, never once moving it to touch any other part of her. The only thing we explore is each other’s mouths. We kiss without making another sound. We kiss until the alarm sounds off on my phone. Despite the noise, neither of us stops kissing. We don’t even hesitate. We kiss for another solid minute until the bell rings in the hallway outside and suddenly lockers are slamming shut and people are talking and everything about our moment is stolen from us by all the inconvenient external factors of school.
I still my lips against hers, then slowly pull back.
“I have to get to class,” she whispers.
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Me, too,” I reply.
She begins to scoot out from beneath me. When I roll onto my back, I feel her move closer to me. Her mouth briefly meets mine one more time, then she pulls away and stands up. The second she opens the door, the light from the hallway pours in and I squeeze my eyes shut, throwing my arm over my face.
I hear the door shut behind her and by the time I adjust to the brightness, the light is gone again.
I sigh heavily. I also remain on the floor until my physical reaction to her subsides. I don’t know who the hell she was or why the hell she ended up here, but I hope to God she comes back. I need a whole hell of a lot more of that.
She didn’t come back the next day. Or the day after that. In fact, today marks exactly a week since she literally fell into my arms, and I’ve convinced myself that maybe that whole day was a dream. I did stay up most of the night before watching zombie movies with Chunk, but even though I was going on two hours of sleep, I don’t know that I would have been able to imagine that. My fantasies aren’t that fun.
Whether she comes back or not, I still don’t have a fifth period and until someone calls me out on it, I’ll keep hiding out in here. I actually slept way too much last night, so I’m not tired. I pull my phone out to text Holder when the door to the closet begins to open.
“Are you in here, kid?” I hear her whisper.
My heart immediately picks up pace and I can’t tell if it’s that she came back or if it’s because the light is on and I’m not really sure I want to see what she looks like when she opens this door.
“I’m here,” I say.
The door is still barely cracked. She slips a hand inside and slides it around the wall until she finds the light, then she flicks it off. The door opens and she slips into the room, then quickly shuts it behind her.
“Can I hide with you?” she asks. Her voice sounds a little different than last time. It sounds happier.
“You’re not crying today,” I say.
I feel her make her way over to me. She grazes my leg and can feel that I’m seated on a countertop, so she feels around me until she finds a clear spot. She pushes herself up beside me and takes a seat next to me.
“I’m not sad today,” she says, her voice much closer this time.
“Good.” It’s quiet for several seconds, but it’s nice. I’m not sure why she came back or why it took her a week, but I’m glad she’s here.
“Why were you in here last week?” she asks. “And why are you in here now?”
“Schedule mishap. I was never assigned a fifth period, so I hide out and hope administration doesn’t notice.”
She laughs. “Smart.”
It’s quiet again for a minute or so. Our hands are gripping the edge of the counter and every time she swings her legs, her fingers barely touch mine. I eventually just move my hand on top of hers and pull it onto my lap. It seems odd to just grab her hand like this, but we pretty much made out for fifteen minutes straight last week so holding hands is actually reversing a base.
She slides her fingers between mine and our palms meet, then I fold my fingers over hers. “This is nice,” she says. “I’ve never held anyone’s hand before.”
How the hell old is she?
“You’re not in junior high, are you?”
She laughs. “God no. I’ve just never held anyone’s hand before. The guys I’ve been with seem to forget this part. But it’s nice. I like it.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “It is nice.”
“Wait,” she says. “You aren’t in junior high, are you?”
“No. Not yet,” I say.
She swings her leg out to the side and kicks me, then we both laugh.
“This is kind of weird, isn’t it?” she asks.
“Elaborate. Lots of things could be considered weird, so I’m not sure what you’re referring to.”
I feel her shoulders shrug. “I don’t know. This. Us. Kissing and talking and holding hands and we don’t even know what each other looks like.”
“I’m really good looking,” I say.
“I’m serious. If you could see me right now, you’d be on your knees begging me to be your boyfriend so you could flaunt me around the school.”
“Highly unlikely,” she says. “I don’t do boyfriends. Overrated.”
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