the strings

:: four ::

Nat comes to me on Monday morning with a proposal. 

"I know you're not doing The Hunt, but will you design the t-shirts since I can't draw worth a flip?" She's cornered me at my locker, which is pointless, since I would've said yes anyway.

I shrug, "Sure." 

Every participant has to fork over five dollars to do The Hunt (plus gas money to get to the places) and that goes towards t-shirts that the seniors get each year. It's been kind of a joke in the past, since every graduating seems to, without fail, have no artists in it. So then the t-shirts look like crap with some dots and squiggles and overall confusion. 

That's what it would look like if Nat was doing it. 

I'm glad she asked me.

"What color are they?" I ask her, shutting my locker and swinging my shoulder bag over my head. 

She wrinkles her nose, "Something dark since we're doing it at night. How do you feel about black?"

I cock my head to the side, pursing my lips, "That'll work. I'll just make my drawing a silhoutte of something white."

Nat squeals, "Ah, thanks! You're the best Ral!"

I laugh, "I know, I know."

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"Whatcha doing, ginger girl?"

I don't look up from my drawing, I just respond, "None of your business, ginger boy."

I hear his laugh from across the lunch table as he sets his tray down. I fold myself protectively over my piece of paper so he can't see, but with a chuckle he slides it under my arms and right into his hands.

I groan in annoyance, "Why do you have to be so nosy?" I ask, setting my chin in one of my propped up hands.

He lowers the paper a bit, "This is really cool looking."

I know it is. I'm not being vain or anything- well I guess I am a little- but I'm proud of it. It turned out nice. It's going to be a black shirt, and at the top is the silhoutted circle of a moon. Inside that, there are black swirling letters that say, "The Hunt - Seniors of 2015". Under the moon a little ways, there's a silhoutted line of grass, and two outlined figures running across it. 

It does look pretty awesome, if I do say so myself.

I take it back from him and turn it over, face-down on the table. "You didn't answer my question," I point out.

He leans back in his seat, sticking his hands in his pockets and grinning, "Admit it, you like my nosiness."

I point my pen at him, "You're right. That's why I didn't respond to your friend request on Facebook that you sent last night."

He gasps in mock pain, one hand raised to his chest, "You ignored my friend request? How dare you," his voice is full of overdramatized horror.

I just roll my eyes and fold my drawing in half. I'm intent on leaving the lunchroom until Hudson clears his throat, obviously wanting my attention.

"I told your friend that I was signing you up for The Hunt with me. She asked if that was okay with you, and I said not exactly. And then she signed you up with me anyway. Something about forcing you to make friends and be social."

He leans across the table, hand outstretched. "Welcome to the winning team, babe. Looks like we're playing a different game now."

A memory comes back, stinging me into remembrance with his words.