“Pizza will be here in fifteen. As soon as you get done, come out here and help your dad pick a movie.” I nod my head even though she can’t see me. I try to rush putting my sheets on the bed, but in my haste the corners keep popping off. My frustration is mounting the longer it takes me to get this one basic task right. I do it once a week. I know exactly what I’m supposed to do and how to do it, but it’s like my hands aren’t cooperating with my mind. Or maybe it’s my mind that’s not cooperating with my hands, it’s more focused on the flashes of hot pink and lifted legs than making the bed.
When I hear the doorbell ring, I’m halfway through hanging up the clothes in my closet. I have all the dark jeans done, hanging neatly on the bottom row and the lighter jeans are sitting on my bed waiting for me to decide the order toplace them in. The only other thing I have to do is unpack my belongings to put on my shelves that my dad already hung up. A few football trophies and family pictures.
In the living room I can hear my parents talking, and when I round the cornerhe’sthere. He’s back in the dark clothes I saw him in earlier, a tight black shirt and a pair of dark sweat pants, splattered with droplets of water. He’s ethereal this close. The apples of his cheeks are flushed pink against the glowy skin of his face. His bright brown irises are tucked into his face artfully, reminding me of the peach blossoms I read about in a geography book. A gentle glance and they’re focused on me. My palms start to sweat under the attention. Did he come over here to tell my parents that I was watching him? Oh god, I hope not.
His eyes track my movements, like a lion hunting its prey and I’m unable to do anything but approach. A challenge to myself to keep from doing something stupid.
“Sweetheart, Raiden here was asking if you wanted to hang out. How sweet is that?” I look at my mom, and then athim.The upturn to his lips says he wants to do more thanhang out. Possiblyout me as weird to everyone he knows and I’ll be helpless to fight off the accusation because it’s the truth.
“Cool.” I say, shrugging my shoulders, aiming for nonchalance. Cool, did I really just say cool? I’ve never used that word in my life. My mom raises her eyebrows at me, the indent above her left one has my focus because I can’t look in her eyes and explain what’s really going on in my head.Idon’t even know what’s really going on in my head.
“We said we were about to eat dinner, but you two could hang out after.” My mom says and my eyes almost fall out of my head. She saidwhat?She is not supposed to go along with this. She knows better than anyone how horrible I am at meeting strangers, let alone trying to make friends. It's never worked out in the past, and I doubt it will work well for me now.
He extends his hands towards me, asking for a handshake. Iplace mine in his, feeling the ridges of his fingertips embedding themselves into me. Leaving behind a mark. Marking me as something other than what I am.
The words are scrambling in my brain and I can’t catch one of the strings, all of them are slipping through my hands like sand in an hourglass.
“I’ll wait for you to come over after you eat.” He says, his gentle voice coaxing and warm, encouraging me to fall head first into whatever it is that he’s offering me.
“Okay.” I choke out, my throat not cooperating and locking up on the two syllable word. He knows. He knows that I’m freaking out and the sassy wave he gives to me on his way out the door reaffirms that whatever I thought I knew is following right out the door behind him.
2
JERICHO
FRESHMAN YEAR
Iswallow, trying to clear the knot taking up residence in the base of my throat. My mouth is too dry though to combat it, so my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and it takes too much effort to detach it. I hope the deodorant I put on is working, because I can feel a trickle of sweat running down my back, tickling the sensitive skin.
It’s my first day of high school. The knowledge of it has been keeping me up for weeks, my mind working on overdrive to come up with a contingency plan for everything that could go wrong. Exhaustion lines my features as I stare at myself in the mirror in our hallway, the dark bags underneath my eyes shining like a beacon letting everyone know how anxious I’ve been over this day since school ended last year.
The black shirt I’m wearing will cover up whatever sweat stains I end up having. My jeans are light blue, mom picked them out for me over the summer while me and dad were away with Raiden and his dad on a camping trip. The material sticks to my skin, a little too tight to be comfortable. I don’t think mom was expecting me to grow so much in the summer, goingfrom a short gangly teen to a wanna-be linebacker for the university team.
It feels like I grew overnight, and when Raiden finally noticed how much I grew when he came over to play video games last weekend, his eyes doubled in size as he stared at me. My face flushed under his attention. That hasn’t changed in the five months that we’ve been friends since the first day I moved in next door. It makes me feel... odd to have his attention on me like that. Like I’m the only thing that matters to him.
Sometimes the feelings in my chest feel too big to acknowledge. Too consuming and just too much.
The doorbell rings and I flinch at the loud sound echoing through the closed door. I wipe my hands down my pants, and walk towards the door. I hear impatient knocking, hard knuckles rapping against the door in a quick staccato.
“Open up! I’m starving and your mom promised breakfast.” Comes Raiden’s voice and I bite my lip to hide my smile. My mom is milling about in the kitchen, cooking the promised breakfast. She’s been just as anxious about this day as I am.
Not Raiden though. He never worries, or stresses. He takes everything in life in stride, no fear for the future or what could be waiting for him on the other side of a closed door. I envy his mind sometimes. I wish I could shut mine off so I could understand what it feels like to live a day in his shoes. Marching to the tune of whatever I want without a second thought.
Raiden approaches life like he does everything: with eyes wide open and a childlike enthusiasm.
Opening the door, the summer heat floods in, warming my face and causing a bead of sweat to form on my temple. Raiden is standing there, legs crossed at the ankles with his hands twisted in front of him. My jaw hangs open for a moment, still not used to his beauty. His long hair is pulled away from his face, and tucked neatly into a crystal clippie above his ear, showing off his flushed cheeks and the slightly pointed tips ofhis ears. The shirt he has on is flowy, blowing with the wind and entrapping his thin arms in a mess of sheer purple material. His shorts are knee length, stopping right above the two bony knobs that he has used time and time again to crawl out of his window and dance in the rain. Not that I’ve watched him. That much. Okay, whatever, it doesn’t matter how much I watch him. It’s a performance just for my eyes.
He’s still shorter with me, even with the platform doc martens he has on. The tip of his nose is eye level with my collar bone.
“Are you going to move out of the way so I can come inside or are you going to let me sweat my makeup off?” Raiden sasses, flicking a hand over his shoulder in a dramatic flash of attitude.
I don’t say anything, stepping out of the way so he can pass and I shut the door behind him. He goes into the kitchen with my mom, and I can hear them chatting. Raiden’s loud laugh echoes off the walls and reverberates in my skull, the sound is joyous and I feel some of the tension easing out of my body.
Today is going to be fine. I’ll have Raiden there beside me and we have every period together except seventh hour, when he will be in the dance studio and I’ll be on the football field trying and failing to keep up with the rest of the players. If I thought trying to practice last week was bad, I can only imagine how rampant my thoughts are going to run knowing that the whole school is waiting on the other side of the metal fence.
“Sweetheart, breakfast is ready! Come eat before Raiden gets all the bacon.” I obey her, forcing my feet to move into the kitchen. Raiden is already sitting down at our dinner table in his usual spot, chewing happily on a piece of bacon as he listens to the talk show host on my mom’s radio talk about whatever news is popular today.
I fill my plate up, and my mom hands me a cup of orange juice as I slide into my seat beside Raiden’s. Family dinnershave become a weekly thing over here. Raiden and his parents come over with some unusual dish that I haven’t tried and talk about boring things with my parents, like politics and have we seen the neighbor’s decorations next door. Raiden keeps me interested on those nights, tracing his fingers against the hardwood table and forcing me to guess what he’s drawing. It’s a fast-paced two dimensional version of charades, but I’m good at it. Him? Not so much.
