Against the Universe

13 • maddie

A/N: update 1/2

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"I need to ask you something."

No.

My eyes drift up to meet Tobias' — clear blue pools of vulnerability. My heart feels like a lump in my chest.

He's not going to confess his feelings now, is he? Not in the middle of the cafeteria, with the rest of the band around us.

Don't say it, I think. Keep your feelings to yourself and let them die. I don't want to know.

"Go on?"

His lips stretch into a mischievous smile. "Are you seriously eating Pringles for breakfast?"

It takes me a second. My body goes slack. "Yes. Yes, I am."

"You're chaotic."

"Says the guy who's not eating anything," I retort, tilting the can towards him. "Want one?" 

He raises a hand in refusal. "Vegan."

Right. Mr Moral High-ground decided to purge his diet of everything worth eating out of guilt after he started volunteering at the local animal shelter. I grab my bottle of choccy milk and shield the cartoon cow on the label. "This is soya," I lie.

Tobias chuckles. "It's fine, I'm not judging you. I'll just grab something from the vending machine."

Once he's out of earshot, Lavender — the lead flautist in our band — leans over and says, "I think he's going to ask you out soon."

I turn to face her. She's grinning knowingly, her perfect teeth blindingly white against her dark skin.

The idea of Tobias trying to ask me out has my stomach in knots, in a bad way. I try to deflect.

"Your hair's beautiful today," I tell her. Her waist-length butterfly locs are decorated with gold cuffs and pulled back in a ponytail.

"Maddie, you big flirt." Lavender winks, and some of the shimmer from her sunset eyeshadow transfers to her lashes.

Lavender and I aren't really friends per se, but we get along well. She jokes that I'd be a great lesbian because of all the practice I have fingering, and I joke that she'd be great at being straight because of all the practice she has blowing. During classes, we tend to steal each others' sheet music when the other isn't looking and annote them with perverted instructions.

"I'm going to fucking kill myself."

A familiar gravelly voice grabs my attention. Grover and Brianna Martínez are standing by the doors leading outside. Tennis balls roll away from them in every direction.

I remember Bree from secondary school. She was one of the more sporty girls, meanwhile I had the athletic ability of a sponge. Our PE lessons were traumatic for me, always being made goalie and getting screamed at by Candice — captain of the girls' football team slash Grover's goddess ex-girlfriend — whenever I missed. But Bree would come and check on me afterwards, so it could've been worse.

She was already pretty back then, but she's glowed up so much since, with her modelesque figure and high cheekbones. Her outfit is a bold violation of Saint Catherine's patriarchal dress code: baggy ripped jeans and a silk bandana top that flaunts her toned stomach and navel piercing.

Right now, she's doubled over as she laughs at Grover, hand protectively clutching her chest. Her dainty fingers are adorned with chunky vintage rings. "Ha! Your balls dropped," she snickers.