Sitting at a desk, I take out a sketchbook with a frayed cover and pluck a pencil from the tin in the middle of the table. I begin sketching in the corner of a page; swirls, lines, and circles calm the commotion in my brain from the hallway. My brain flashbacks to his smile in math class, and my pencil stops. I fish for a cell phone in my jeans pockets, flip up my nostalgic purple Nokia Flip, and check the date: August 3rd, 2011, "This can't be real," I mutter, staring at the date, then my phone buzzes. A text message from him pops up:
[Hey, just checking in to see how you're doing.]
He was always so considerate and observant. Of course, he knew something was going on. I smile. Something I miss the most from the future was his kindness. I reply:
[I'm fine. Thanks for checking in]— A quick reply pops up on the screen before I can hit send:
[And don't say you're fine. I know you're not.]
He did know me, probably more than I know myself. My fingers type out a response before I can think:
[I'm okay! This morning has just been a little rough. But I'll be ok! :3]
"I'm such a liar," I state confidently, pushing my cell phone back into my jeans pocket as it vibrates with another reply, I assume. I focus on class, listening to my teacher instructing us to sketch an apple and banana. Another buzz came from a notification, and I pulled out my phone, which displayed a message:
[Talk to me, please?]
I let out all the breath, my heart skips, and I feel my cheeks getting red again, "curse these damn teenage hormones," I push the phone back into my pocket and race out of the class with the bell for lunch. Travel down three flights of stairs down to the basement of the school. Walking towards a green locker covered in my scribbles and drawings, I reach and turn the combinations, "68 8 108." I was slightly surprised when it opened; I never thought I would remember the code.
Grabbing a small lunch box from inside, I close the door and sink to the floor. Pulling out a sandwich and a bag of hot fries, a meal made for a teenager, I chuckle to myself as I used to watch my students eat similar lunches. I pull out my cell phone, snag a pair of headphones and a sketchbook from my backpack, flip through the apps to find my music, hit the play button, and a song from my favorite band begins. I sit and sketch, sometimes lifting my head to watch other students fill the hallway, then disappear again.
I daydream in my sketchbook until I feel a body press against my shoulder. I lift to see him; his brown eyes have clouds, and his smile, which I love so much, is gone. "Why didn't you text me back?" Oh, he looks just like his future self. I begin to get teary-eyed. I turn quickly, drying them with the sleeve of my oversized jacket. " Sorry, I forgot," another lie.
He pulls my chin towards him with his thumb and index finger. The clouds have gone, and I'm reminded why I love his eyes so much, "I'm sorry, that was rude of me. Plus, you don't owe me a fucking reply" He smiles, "I just got a little worried" I stare at his lips, then eyes, then lips again, and my body moves instinctually. Edging closer and closer to him. He takes his index finger and rubs it down my lips.
His expression of worry has been replaced with desire. He edges his head closer to mine, and I close my eyes. Before our lips could meet, a voice overhead blared, "DUUUDE!" A growl escapes his mouth, and he turns to the voice, scooting his body in front of me as if to hide a secret, "Fuck you, bro! What do you want?" A brown-skinned boy comes over, a huge smile plastered over his face as if he knew everything was happening. Our eyes meet, and my heart drops yet again. Another face that I thought I would never see in the future again.
His dark hair trails just above his ears. "Woah?" His eyes dart over to him sitting next to me, and he grins again, "I could have guessed."
Laughing down the hall, I bury my face in my hands, and I'm pulled up to his face. He looks into my eyes as if searching for whatever is ailing me. "Talk to me about what's happening tonight. I'll text you... ok?" Before I could reply, his lips pressed against mine, pausing to plant another at the crook of my neck, which drew a gasp from me. Before I can lean for another, he stands up, takes one more look at me, shoves his hands in his hoodie, and walks in the direction the other boy disappeared.
I am reminded to breathe by a cough in my throat. I press my hands to my cheeks, red and hot like embers. Then I touch my lips and smile, "Maybe... this isn't such a bad thing." I look down the hallway again before grabbing my things and heading to my next period, "maybe."
