He probably knows exactly how much to add to a load and which of those little compartments in the dispenser to put it in.
He probably smells powdery. Like a flower meant to disguise a chemical whiff.
Lavender most likely.
People love adding that shit where it doesn’t belong.
The jock says something, and the redhead rolls her eyes. The Spark lifts his face to the sun. His eyes close, and rays of light dance across his cheekbones.
The corners of his lips turn up in unhurried increments.
It’s not his real smile. Not the one that fucks me up. It’s a tolerant gesture meant for the jock. An acknowledgment that even though he isn’t remotely amusing, he’s a human being, and The Spark wants him to feel good about that.
Jesus fucking Christ. Havi would hate him.
The redhead says something, and the jock replies, barking a laugh so loud I hear it from here.
The Spark stands when the jock and the redhead get up to leave. He embraces the redhead, cradling her head to his chest and whispering something into her ear. Whatever he says makes her so happy that she flings her arms around his neck and almost strangles him. He bids the jock farewell in precisely the same way. The jock not only tolerates it, he also seems to enjoy it.
I’m uncomfortable. Not only from what I’ve just seen, but my joints are stiff from standing still for so long. I need to move, stretch my limbs, and roll my shoulders. I can’t, though, because The Spark sat down again when his friends left, and he hasn’tmoved. He’s still in the sun. Face turned up, soaking up rays like he’s auditioning for a lead role inThe Shawshank Redemption.
It’s fucking annoying.
By the time he heads to class, the crick in my neck has given rise to a headache that pours tension down one side of my body.
I should go home. That’s what I should do. I should talk to someone. Anyone. My family. My mom. Caroline. Either of them would help. Even talking to my dad would be better than nothing.
Instead, I call Havi.
Obviously, he doesn’t pick up. My call goes to voicemail, and I’m forced to listen to the long-winded greeting he recorded years ago with the express intention of annoying people who love him.
“Heyyy, it’s Havi. Guess you knew that ’cause you called me, right?” He cackles at his own facetiousness for a few seconds, and continues, “Look, Imma level with you, I don’t check voicemail because…well…I’m normal, but if it makes you feel better, go ahead and leave me a message after the beep. Beeeeeeeeeeep.”
He doesn’t rely on an electronic beep. No. He doesn’t do mundane. Instead, he sings the word loudly, dragging it out until he’s used every ounce of air in his lungs. He splutters when it runs out, then there’s a clatter, a muffledoh fuck, and the sound of a phone being picked up and pressed back against his ear. “Alternatively,” he says, switching to a smarmy, businesslike tone, “drop me a text, and Iwillget back to you.”
A prerecorded voice interrupts, informing me that his mailbox is full and not accepting new messages.
As always, it stokes a very particular brand of fury in me.
I open the message app and text instead.
Havi
Pick up.
I mean it, pick up the phone.
Just let me apologize, you dick.
3
Lennon
“Mygreatestweakness?”Itrill, looking down briefly to appear regretful. “I guess that would have to be my perfectionism. That, and I care too much. I struggle with letting things go if I haven’t done them to a standard I find acceptable. I can’t switch off for the day unless I know I’ve made a positive impact, you know, done all I can to improve the lives of the students I’ve served.”
It’s bullshit on many levels, not least because I’ve never had an administrative job before, and I’m more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants kind of guy than a perfectionist by any stretch of the imagination. Moreover, I never even considered using the word “served” in the context of me performing a task before today.
To her credit, the woman interviewing me doesn’t buy it. She eyes me dubiously, narrowly managing to fight the urge to laugh in my face, and presses her lips together tightly.
