Week one. Thursday.
Dad tiptoed around the subject at breakfast.
He tiptoed around the subject, but in a way that makes it so obvious that he's tiptoeing around it that he may as well have been an elephant in a china shop. "Good morning!" he chirped, and I thought if he was in a comic book there'd be five more exclamation points after it. He offered me a glass of orange juice, and then a ride to school, which he hasn't done since the first day.
"Don't worry about me, Dad," I told him, which he strenuously denied that he is.
He hasn't mastered the art of denials yet. The secret is to be blasé about it – a "nah" or "nope" or "whatever". Never an exclamation point or facial movement that's more than a dismissive flicker of the eyes. Otherwise it'd look like you're taking the accusation seriously, which gives them something to nail you for, because why would you take an accusation seriously if you're confident enough you've nothing to worry about?
An arching of the eyebrow and he came apart.
"Are you sure you'd be okay? You can stay at home, if this is too much for you, really – I can take a day off, we can talk about it –" his speech was one continuous stream of meaningless concern come too late and for the wrong reasons.
"Dad." I was firm. "Seriously."
"Claire," he sighed. "Two months is a big deal. It's okay that you'd want to talk about it."
"I don't," I say, clipped.
Now, I think: two months isn't a big deal. Anniversaries in general aren't a big deal, but my mother's two-month anniversary of death especially isn't. I don't need a special date to remember a reality I'm living, breathing every day. I don't need a day on which I should be more miserable and angry and fucked-up than all the other days, when I'm already miserable and angry and fucked-up. It's just another day that means nothing in an endless series of days that mean everything.
Not a big deal, in the grand scheme of things.
"Yo," Jasper greets, sliding into the seat next to mine, wrapping his arm around the top of my seat, like he usually does. His stature is that typical boyish one – slumped down slightly, knees apart, a restless jiggle of the foot every now and then.
His eyes don't wonder, though. They don't float upwards, they don't avert from yours like they've suddenly found something better to look into. They stay fixed on yours, bold, audacious. They don't let go.
"Hi," I say, and my voice comes out hoarser than normal. I clear my throat. "Hi."
He peers at me – no, at my eyes – and says, "You're a little pale."
"Not really the ultimate place to soak up the sun, y'know," I evade, but I know what he means. I should've known, from yesterday. This boy is taking an uncanny interest in me, and I'm not sure I like it one bit.
He quirks an eyebrow at me. "That's not an answer."
"We must have differing definitions of 'answer', then," I shoot off, and then cringe at how defensive I sound.
"Clearly," Jasper returns drily. "You know, I don't think I've gotten a solid answer out of you since I asked you your name."
"Ah, about that, woops, sorry, I wasn't honest with you there, either."
Jasper laughs. "And the plot thickens."
"Why are you so curious?" it suddenly occurs to me to ask, because I'm genuinely mystified. We, Jasper and me, have nothing in common. We don't even like each other, we didn't before, at least. The only thing I can think of is, he's using me to get back at Remy. I recoil at the thought.
"Let's just say I'm a curious person," he goes, that trademark grin stretching his lips from corner to corner. "Have a penchant for mysteries."
"The fact you know nothing about me doesn't make me a mystery," I point out. "It just means you're really bad at taking hints." In spite of myself, I enjoy this banter with him, but then:
"You know, you're right. I don't know anything about you at all, Claire, except your name and that you're American and that you go to St Agnes and that you have guts." He pauses. "But you know what? I'm going to figure you out."
My heartbeat picks up. I don't know if it's attraction, or fear, or both. But I know that he's eliciting a reaction out of me that only the nightmares have been able to do since Mom died, and I can't say I'm pleased.
"I'm not a fucking puzzle. I don’t need to be figured out."
I say this quietly, but he hears. "Not up to you, sorry," he says. There's no smile on his face this time. Instead, there's a look of determination I haven't seen since Jade decided to make Joe's life a living hell after he cheated on her. "I'll solve you. You'll see."
I want to tell him I'm not a puzzle, and that even if I was, I couldn't be solved. I was irre-fucking-solvable. But I don't want to play his game. I don't want to make me into a riddle. So I say, "You should go claim your seat before someone else does."
"Hmm, maybe I should," he says, and gets up, and walks away with a "Bye!" and all I can think is:
Shit.
a/n yo, guys. Second update in a week, hooray! Guess what? I still haven't heard back from ANY FUCKING UNIS i'm so annoyed I want to scream.
But on the other hand I discovered Chet Faker who is a fucking genius and MANNNN I want to share it with you guys so listen to the video on the side <3
