Disequilibrium

Part 1: Freshman Year - Scene 2

I'm surrounded by goddamn idiots.

The hall is coated with the smell of teenage sweat, so bitter that it could've burned my eyebrows off, I swear. It's cluttered to the point where we're packed in like pigs in a pen, yet people still manage to yell and idle around in small groups. I hear a girl behind me whining to her friend about a grade she got while the other counters it with complaints about a broken nail.

Their voices are more annoying than nails on a chalkboard, the frustration bubbling to the point where I have to grind my lip in protest. If I had the opportunity, I'd stab one in the eye just to stop the insolent chatter.

I smile at the thought. How easy would it be, I wonder, to gut one of them out? To put an end to their childish suffering of bad test scores and acne? I'd probably be put on a pedestal. A saviour among the weak.

"Move it, Tiny Tim," a person says behind me. Before I can check who it is, I'm flying into the opposite lockers. Laughter erupts from that same damn kid and his idiot friends. Tiny Tim. Real smooth.

I stay put against the locker, staring at the kid while I continue to grind my lip. The taste of copper links between my teeth but I don't feel the pain—not exactly. All I can do is stare at the back of his big ass head, the movement in the hall slowing in time.

It would be so easy to do it now. There's a pencil in my pocket; it's the only one I have, but that's okay. I can pull it out now, swift and easy, and just shove it in his ear. Nobody could stop it before it happens. Nobody could stop me.

But then I see him; a god among the black sheep. His hands are in the pockets of his jeans, shoulders jutting inward as he pulls his feet through the hall like it's an effort just to do so. He has a faint smile on his face as the person beside him talks, but I can tell he's not entirely there. His eyes are wandering around the hall, probably thinking of something greater that whatever is spewing in his ear.

We're a dying race, Casper and I.

As he passes, his eyes meet mine. Everything seems to stop in that split second and a wave of understanding passes through us; thoughts and feelings flying at blinding speed between mutual brains. But then he looks away and time moves forward, leaving me breathless and near death against the grey lockers.

He hasn't spoken to me in two weeks, not since the stairwell. There are moments like this where he'd give me a look, a small piece of acknowledgement just to show he hasn't forgotten about me. I'm not on the court, but at least I've moved from the back row. I'm at his sidelines, within reach but not quite there yet.

I lift myself from the lockers and follow his path to the English room. We've always had English together, but I don't think he ever noticed. And even if he did, I don't think he ever cared. There isn't a sense of hostility or hatred around him though. Just absent interest. It doesn't sting as it should since I know I'll win him back. You've got your own special charm, was what he told me. I intend to use it well.

By the time I enter the classroom, the teacher, Ms. Matthews, is slapping stapled pieces of paper on the desktops. It takes a moment for me to realise they're tests, my feet gaining speed as I run over to my own. There's the number one hundred written on it in red pen, a sticker with the words way to go right beside it.

I slip into my seat and flip it over immediately, looking around to see if anyone else had seen. But they're only interested in themselves or their friends as they laugh in amusement or hidden jealousy. Casper sits at the far end of the classroom with two or three people from his swim team, flipping through the test with a look of sheer boredom.

I think about getting up to talk to him about it. Share some answers, maybe. But Matthews makes her way to the front of the room, calling order in the class.