Asymptote (bxb)

Chapter 6: Fine

                  

        The next day I skipped my first class. Gemma knocked on my door incessantly, threatening to tell Dad, but I knew she wouldn't. It probably would have been better if I had gone to Biology, since I have an inability to not think, even if I don't want to. I can't repress anything, or avoid it.

            So, I essentially spent an hour rolling around in my bed and trying to think about anything other than him. And then eventually I dragged myself out of bed and into the shower, and then into my uniform, and then into my dad's car, and finally into my French class.

            "Lisez les pages de soixante-quatorze et soixante-quinze, puis répondre aux questions 'Je comprends' à la page soixante-seize," Mlle. Cuvier said as if all of us knew what she was talking about. French teachers at this school were all the same- they started off ranting about how they would only speak French in the class and you were only allowed to speak in French, and they had all these ideas of amazing things we would learn, and public speaking competitions we could participate in, and scholarship videos we could make. But then, after a few weeks, they would realize that we had learned nothing in the last twelve years, and eventually would resort to showing movies and assigning the same textbook work from two weeks ago, and the cycle would continue. Twelve years of French and I couldn't have an unscripted conversation.

            I spent the next hour watching Friends on Netflix under the desk, and then the bell rang for lunch. I skirted out of class with an "à demain, Mademoiselle," and then I was in the hallways. There seemed to be an unspoked rule where the hallway was divided into two lanes, like a road, and if you stood in the middle you risked getting run down.

            When I spotted the boy with the unruly light brown hair at the end of the corridor, pretending to look through his locker even though we both knew he kept nothing inside, it was like taking a breath of fresh, crisp autumn air after being incarcerated for my entire life. Relieved.

            He screwed his hand into a fist, his fingers touching the white gauze on his palm. I stopped next to him, shoving a hand into my pocket and twirling my lighter.

            "Hey," I said. Miles turned, his brown eyes dull and bored.

            "Hi, Bailey."

            "How are you?" I already knew the answer before I finished asking the question. The answer was always the same.

            "Fine."

            I'm great too, thanks for asking.

            "You were waiting for me."

            "No."

            It wasn't a question, liar.

            I simply shrugged and took the lock from his hand, forcing his empty locker shut.

            "Did your mom come home?" I asked. We walked down the hall side by side, him sulking on my right. He didn't answer, just clenched and unclenched his hand again. I knew better than to ask him again.

            There were a maximum number of questions you could ask Miles Lyndon before he felt threatened. He couldn't see compassion or concern; to him, questions were for the purpose of interrogation. A question as simple as his favourite colour could make him rigid and unemotional in a matter of seconds. I couldn't tell you why- I still can't today.

            And if you could scale the emotional displays of the average person from 1-100, Miles would all take place between 1 and 10. His smile was a straight mouth with the corners tipped up, his anger was furrowed eyebrows and clenched fists, and his sadness was dead eyes staring off at some far away and unreachable object. The real danger was in not being able to recognize those signs, because missing one could mean pushing Miles to level 1000, which I was positive only he possessed.

            I had seen 1000 on few occasions. It entailed flying objects, thrashing limbs, and fire. Not literal fire, but it was the only word I could use to come close to describing what I had witnessed.

Lunch was tense. Lake was still angry over the whole rocket thing, and Miles muttered only one word in the entire hour: fine. It was only when the bell rang and everyone dispersed to their next classes that Miles spoke again.

"Let's go smoke." He wasn't one for asking; asking questions gives people the option to say no. That was how he convinced me to do most of the things I did, because there was never a choice and I would never deny him.

Miles led the way through the dead hallways and out to the soccer fields. We soaked the bottoms of our uniform pants and leather shoes in the tall, wet grass as we ventured towards the ravine that ran parallel to the school. Most kids went to the bridge just behind the potables, but rumours are going around that there have been undercover cops lurking around. I would choose scenic waters running through rocks over a graphited bridge any day.

The trees sloped down towards the water, and we plodded down to the rocks that lined the side of the small creek. Miles picked up a small red one and chucked it into the water. I squinted down at me feet, choosing a flat grey one and attempting to skip it. It sliced through the water like a knife and he turned to me with an amused smile. He grabbed a similar rock, maybe slightly larger, and I watched him skip it. I counted six skips. I looked at him, standing with his weight to one side and a raised eyebrow, and I just really wanted to kiss him. I wanted to tangle my hands in his unkempt hair and feel me on him until there was no space between us except for the buttons of our shirts. I wanted to tell him I loved him and I wanted him to say he loved me. I wanted this to be our place, and the sound of the water rushing and swirling around the rocks and twigs in its path to be our song. But I had long since come to terms with the fact that I would never get what I wanted. So, I smiled.

He reached into the top of his black sock, pulling out two cigarettes. He held one out to me and put the other between his lips. I took it between my thumb and index finger, my other hand grazing the lighter in my pocket. Miles stared at me almost expectantly, so I pulled it out and handed it to him. He lit his and threw the lighter back at me. I missed it and watched as it fell between rocks.

"Don't you play baseball or something?" he teased as I retrieved the lighter from the sand, wiping it on my pants.

"Real close, but I play soccer."

"Right. I knew it had an 'e' in it." His eyes twinkled as the squinted in a smile.

He blew a mass of smoke into my face while I lit my own cigarette. A cold wind blew and he opened his arms, receiving it.

We were both finished in a few minutes, but continued to stand there and watch the water run by. I had spare right now, which I was thankful for because even if I had a class now I could guarantee I would still be out here with him.

He kicked a rock in and the water rippled. Miles turned to me and moved a wispy strand of hair from his vision. "Ready to go back, Bails?"

I nodded, so we started ascending the muddy bank scattered with trees to get out of the ravine. I was just taking my last step onto the grass of the school yard when I felt his hand on my hip, and then my back was being slammed into a tree.

My fingertips gazed the bark behind me and its curves and swirls as his eyes bore into me. His hands were firmly planted on my hips, not leaving me anywhere to go- not that I would want to.

He pulled my uniform shirt out of my pants and reach up to feel my skin underneath it. He kissed my jaw as I rolled my head back, barely being able to keep my eyes open.

Then he pulled his lips away to say, "God, Bailey, you're so fucking perfect."

It wasn't a compliment.