Permanent Scars

Not A Thing

September 11, Monday. 12:17 p.m.

Voices layered upon voices create the strangely loud but muffled atmosphere of the cafeteria. There are more people at our table than usual now that I've been introduced to the band, and Dylan and I are the only ones here who look genuinely uncomfortable. Adam sits between Mia and I, but he's paying more attention to her than me. On my left, practically sitting on the very edge of the bench, Dylan sees me watching them and sighs, treating me to an eye roll I never realized he was capable of. The very concept makes me giggle, and his expression loosens into a smile. They don't hear me laugh very often, and it's very apparent that when I do show anything remotely close to joy, they immediately approve and are pleased—Dylan in particular, as I've come to notice.

   As if sensing that Dylan and I are having a wordless conversation behind his back, Adam takes his left hand off the table and sets it down next to mine, ever so subtly linking his ink-stained pinky finger through mine for the briefest of moments, retracting it almost as soon as our skin touches. Did he just make a promise without me knowing it? Were we both supposed to make a promise? So many of the things he does have such deep, alternate meanings, usually having more than one interpretation. I don't know why he has to live so cryptically. Sometimes I wish he wasn't such a wild card, that his intentions were easily determined. I may not have known him all my life, but I feel as if I have, and once he told me I know more about him than almost anybody else does. I don't know if that's completely true, but at least it's proof he trusts me. He's told me things he couldn't possibly tell anyone else, and I'm not going to repeat them out of respect for his privacy.

   Still feeling the cold, almost dead-like presence of his skin, I chance a little side look at him. His left eye, which is the least covered by all his thick, shaggy hair, darts quickly to lock gazes with me. Like the pinky link, it's so brief no one passing by would notice, yet it feels like everything's happening in slow motion.

   Out of nowhere heat rises to my face and I find myself having difficulty breathing. It feels like another panic attack. But there was nothing to trigger one. This I am certain of. Unless it's claustrophobia. I'd get up and leave the cafeteria, but I don't trust the bullies to hang back and let me eat at my locker in peace.

   Maybe eating will help me take my mind off things. I've been doing all I can to forget about what happened on Saturday, but my photographic memory makes that kind of impossible and it's not like I can just ignore the fact that my bullies are lurking on the other side of the cafeteria.

Amid the external and internal noise, a foot begins tapping. Eager to accept the distraction lest my lungs choose the cessation of function, I take an inconspicuous peek under the table. Adam's right foot is tapping to an unprojected beat. Another foot—Mia's, I presume—lightly touches down on the toe bumper of his sneaker every time he hits the upbeat. Raising a puzzled eyebrow, I turn away and try instead to redirect my focus on consuming the lunch I'd rather not be eating right now. Beside me, Dylan grows restless. Across from us, Algie is multitasking: completing homework spread out across the table while eating his lunch and rehearsing a solo piece for their next show by tapping the rhythm out on the tabletop.

Through the corner of my eye, I see Mia's dark-painted fingernails against her white skin as they touch Adam's hood and readjust it on his head. Something inside me squirms uncomfortably; simultaneously I feel like I've been hit full-force in the gut with a boulder. The sandwich falls from my hands, the bite I've been chewing on lodges itself against my tonsils before I force myself to swallow hard so I can at least breathe a little.

Why does everything always have to be so intense? Why does something feel wrong? Why do I feel so sick? Why, why, why?

   I can't handle it. I can't. I tried to but it didn't work. It was in vain—all in vain. Oh, I've failed so terribly to keep it together. Why must I always cave under pressure?