class of 2013 ✓

10 | existential dread

Volcano in hand, I trudge down the hallway, trying to dodge students bustling out of their classes while also doing my best not to trip and fall. Luckily, school just ended, so the amount of students slowly dwindles down. Still a fire hazard, though.

Rounding an empty corner, I spot a janitor wheeling out a large trash can and a stand with a broomstick on it into the bathroom. Our gazes connect for a second, and I manage to muster enough strength to return a smile.

Heading across the dimly lit corridor, I halt in front of Ms. Valdez's classroom, where she is collecting a few stray beakers left on the lab tables into a clear container. Upon my arrival, she instantly perks up, her pink lips spreading into a slow smile.

"Wow Remi," she says, approaching me as she pulls off her lab coat, "this looks awesome. Can't wait for the freshmen to use it in their experiments."

"Where do you want me to put this?" I ask, arms very much sore from having to carry this up a flight of stairs. It's by no means heavy, I'm just extremely out of shape.

"You two can set it in the back table where all the chemicals are," she answers pointing to the table in question, which is situated beside the wall with all the windows that are open, the blinds allowing sunlight to cascade into the room.

Two? Hesitantly, I steal a peek over my shoulder, and sure enough, Blaise is idly leaning on the doorway, hands stuffed into his beige pockets, his volcano on the floor next to his feet. In horror, I quickly turn back around, scrambling to the back tables, almost stumbling in the process. Not gonna lie, the only reason why I decided to turn this project in so late in the week is that I figured that he'd be done way earlier, and I could avoid bumping into him outside of class. Clearly, that plan failed, so now I have to resort to retreating as fast as possible. Confrontation is something I chose to avoid at all costs, and it doesn't help that what he said really fucked with my head. After further consideration, I realized how I must've come across in those situations, so maybe what he said had an ounce of truth to it in that respect. Still, that doesn't mean I'm willing to admit it out loud and it sure as hell doesn't mean I want to see or talk to him after that argument.

Immediately after plopping my volcano onto the table, I practically bolt out the doorway, leaving before Ms. Valdez can say goodbye.

Walking as fast as my legs can possibly go, I head toward the stairwell.

To my dismay, the sound of someone calling my name ricochets off the walls. Crap.

Slightly panicking, I slip into an empty classroom, where all the desks are clustered into fours, the chairs are placed on top so that the custodians will have an easier time cleaning. If I recall correctly, this is Mr. Arburtia's classroom, which explains why there are geometry proofs written in cursive handwriting on the chalkboard and the paper number line bordering the ceiling.

Unsure of what else to do, I sit on the floor by a redwood desk, leaning my back against the side. This way, you can't see me if you just peek through the door. It's as good of a hiding place as any.

I realize that my master orchestrated plan has failed when I hear the pounding of footsteps growing closer and closer. Internally, I groan. There's no way I can escape now. I just have to pray that I'm not seen.

"Remiya? Are you hiding from me?" The question was meant to be serious, but that doesn't stop a note of amusement from leaking into his tone.

Forcing myself not to look at him, I focus on my hands, folding my fingers over the sleeve hem of my sweater. The grey lines are worn out, and there are threads fraying. "...No."

"Then what are you doing back there?"

"Um..." Pause. I finally crawl out of my hiding spot. "This is a part of my routine. I always do this."