I'll Share With You My Heartbeat

two

Plants thrive in a multitude of soil types and temperatures. It was one of the things Lennon was reminded of when he left a pot of Geraniums, originally planted and situated in the greenhouse, outside in the garden. The gardener nearly rained hell down on him, claiming that plants transitioning out of the greenhouse needed to be handled with extra care— extra care in which Lennon lacked in his state of excitement.

Ms Torres had raised an unimpressed eyebrow in his direction. And Lennon responded by lifting his camera meekly. "At least I got good pictures?"

They were at another location today, on the outskirts of the city where the trees were denser and the air was crisp.

Lennon spent the ride home at the back of the tour bus, camera leash hooked securely around his neck as he went through his photographs of the day. The ride wasn't a smooth one, but he knew himself well enough to not get carsick.

The first few dozens were a fury of pigment and color, bright and animated like a true flowery festival. But the rest of his photos shifted up from the plants and began capturing people— fellow students with caps shading their faces and lens over their eyes, gardeners with mud-caked gloves and sunburnt necks.

In one corner Lennon spotted Ms Torres looking straight at the camera, arms crossed. And while her gaze was nothing close to a glare, he immediately sensed her disapproval and wilted into his chair.

If plants had to grow according to their surroundings, Lennon seemed to have dove into the wrong soil. Some people flourish with praise and affirmation; others gain strength under the weight of criticism.

That seemed to explain the blemishes within their mentor-student relationship.

But it was alright. Lennon was ever so forgiving of both sides, easing into his funny habit of smoothing out every conflict. He was just looking forward to home, where he can maul over these pictures for the rest of the evening at his desk, maybe even touch them up a little.

Suddenly, Ms Torres' voice boomed from her megaphone, startling the boy.

"I will be passing out flyers relating to the contest hosted by my agency," she informed everyone from the front of the vehicle, "Now I'm sure some of you have questions. But why don't you read over the pamphlet first?"

She began hobbling down the narrow aisle while the vehicle was still in motion, her long shirt of no help as she barely managed to hand each student a flyer.

"Thank you," Lennon said politely, skimming over it.

"Just do what you can," Ms Torres told him grudgingly.

His attention was glued to the flyer for the rest of the journey home, even causing him to shoulder bump a few unhappy people along the way.

When he got to his doorway, an unexpected chill raked down his spine, making his fingertips tingle. He jammed his keys into the keyhole, threw open the door, and somehow— somehow— his assumptions were right.

There— right on his couch— sitting extra leisurely with his legs crossed— was the transparent boy from the day before.

He seemed to be inspecting the mug in his hand as Lennon let out a screech.

"Oh c'mon. We've met before," Kieran said dryly, "No need to alert all the neighbors."

But to his surprise, the chestnut boy lunged forward and snatched the mug out of his hands, panicked for other reasons.

"Please don't touch my stuff." Lennon rose onto his tiptoes and set it back on the kitchen shelf, cheeks burning. "This one's from my mom and it's— it's very embarrassing. Stay away from it."