The Specks of Smallness

Reagan | Seventeen

Reagan | Seventeen

I finally discover how powerful we humans are. With no power and strength at all, we are able to feel what we want to. Without logic and proof, we are able to see what we’d like to. Just with a thought that springs up as an illusion. Just with a thought we are able of anything. It's scary, yet beautiful.

I stare at the fat girl who always waits inside the mirror. She looks tired and scared. I wipe the black stains around her eyes. It’s eyeliner residue. She always looks horrible with it. The greasy hair hides half of her face, so I slick it back to make her look tougher—everything but scared and feminine.

Once I go out to the coffee counter, I notice a guy exiting the door. I look back at  Phillips who’s brazenly scowling at the kid’s back. I can easily tell that’s Blondie. Aaron seems dazed off and his fists are clenched, though trembling.

I feel a pair of eyes on my back. When I look around, I find Boop’s eyes staring at me. ‘Everything alright?’ she mouths behind the bulletproof case, to which I shrug.

“Yo, Phillips,” I interrupt his daze. “All good?”

“Yeah,” he lies, because he looks away and I can easily tell. “Ready?”

“As ready as I can ever be,” I retort. I stand on the spot for a bit. Hands hidden inside the pockets of my denim jacket.

“Well?” Phillips demand, irritated when he looks back and sees me standing.

I follow him. “I’ll call ya, Boop,” I told her when we exited the door and the bells toll as if they were tired.

When we got inside the car, I didn’t want to drive off and leave it as if nothing really happened. So I speak up before I regret it. “I know you don’t like games, Phillips.”

“I have my seatbelt on,” he interrupts me. “Let’s go.”

I reach for a cig on the dashboard. “Like I was saying, I know you don’t like games, but I’m not driving until you tell me what happened.” I lit the cig and behind the blooming fog, I see Aaron’s glare relinquishing.

“Nothing happened.” His voice sounds irate. I can easily tell.

“Okay,” I say, my cig wobbles so I hold it between my finger while I ignite the car. “But know that if you’re lying to me, you’ll die of a fit of laughter. I’m not joking. Liars always die like that.”

He remains silent, frowning at his small hands on his lap. Whenever there’s a red light, I catch glimpses of his crotch and the wide gap between his legs. He’s so skinny, I’m starting to worry.

“I like that song,” he randomly comments when we’re near Drew’s house.

“‘Eyes Without a Face’?” I quickly throw what remains of the cig out the window and share gazes with him. “Whoa, dude, didn’t know there was hope for you liking real music.”

That makes him smile a bit, but he doesn’t show it to me. He looks through his window instead. “The rhythm sucks, but the lyrics don’t.”

“It’s Billy Idol,” I reply. “He sucks, but at the same time he doesn’t. Some people are like that. You know...” I pause, because I’m not sure if I should tell him about Drew.

“What?” he asks, looking at me.

Philips widens his eyes with expectation, and somehow a street light revamps his queasy eyecolor. It happens so suddenly, I veer a bit, but manage to control the wheel and keep the car on the lane. A neighbor car honks at me and I hear an old grump complain about my negligence.