She was the one who made me realize it.
She was the one who found out.
High school is a lot different from middle school. Back then, I could have a girlfriend and it was still okay to hold hands and make out a little. Back then, it was still okay to hang out with my friends and talk about something other than girls and football. Actually, no one really had to talk about any heavy or stupid stuff- if there was something interesting to do, me and my friends would just go out and turn it into our own new episode of Indiana Jones. Middle school was fun.
But like said, it all ended when I became a freshman in high school. Once I hit that milestone, girls didn't want to just hold hands since I was on the football team. They wanted a "Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am!" in the locker room after practice or in my car or anywhere where there was chocolate and whipped cream to play with. Seriously. And my friends didn't care about adventures in the woods or soccer games in the backyard anymore. They were into either watching porn, making porn, the High School Football Interstate Championship or cheerleaders who were willing to make some porn with the guys competing in the High School Football Interstate Championship.
It was a weird and sudden adjustment, but I knew I had to do it someday because everyone I knew had to do it someday too. But somehow, even though I got on the football team and even though there were hot girls ready to drop their panties with just a whisper of their name and even though I had friends who had pornos with a girl doing it with two other girls and a dog--- even though I had everything, exactly what everyone else wanted . . . I couldn't understand why I felt like I was looking for something else.
Not until I met Michelle.
The first day I met her was after school during football practice in my freshman year. I was fifteen, still adjusting, still inwardly nervous about what could happen if I didn't get a girlfriend by next week or wondering if Freshman Beat-up Day actually counted if you played a popular sport (so what if I was on the bench for half my first year). Practice had just ended and everyone on the team was going back to the locker room to take a shower and change.
Sticky, dripping sweat rolled across my forehead and my cheeks, and my uniform was drenched with perspiration and smeared with dirt from the field. I remember the air was sweltering hot and stagnant, beyond humid for September, and I welcomed the artificial blow of the air conditioner from inside the school building. I also remember that I had no idea cheerleading practice lasted even longer than football practice and that the girls just so happened to be doing their routines right next to the locker room that day.
"Check it out," someone muttered to me, coming in close for a whisper as he elbowed my ribcage. I can't recall who he was, to say the truth, but I do remember he had on the same stupid looking grin as all the other guys. I was kind of surprised he even bothered to comment, considering most of the guys gave their full, undivided attention to the girls who were more than happy to show off their . . . assets. "We got the hottest cheerleaders in the whole state! The school's got it in the fuckin' bag for us, eh Josh?"
"Uh . . . yeah," I replied, not really paying attention to him or paying attention to what he was paying attention to. I didn't think about why I didn't care then, that the only thing I was concerned with was taking a shower and going home. Honestly, it never crossed my mind to drag a cheerleader to my car and bone her till she couldn't walk. But I did know it was better to at least say something to keep the conversation going, no matter how pointless it was. "Any one you interested in?"
"All of them. But if I had to pick one . . . Michelle Collins."
"Who?"
"Her, dumbass."
I didn't know which one he was pointing to, but I did notice a pretty blonde who wasn't giving any of the guys on the football team so much as a look. She caught my eye better than all the other girls, and it was all because she wasn't trying to catch any of our eyes. Instead, she had her back turned, and she was shouting out a routine to four other freshman cheerleaders in front of her. She must have been older. She only turned for a second as part of that routine, but that was all it took to see she had a perfect tan and soft hazel eyes. When I first saw her, I didn't want her, but I did kind of hope that was Michelle. She left a better impression on me than the others.
"She hot, right?" the same guy said to me. "I heard from Andrew she's not easy though. What a let down."
". . . Yeah, sure." I didn't really care anymore from that point. I really needed that shower.
xXx
Being that I wasn't too interested, I never bothered to remember her all that well. Or any other girl for that matter. Class wasn't any different. Because our team was doing all right, and because I was a freshman who was starting to actually do something other than warm the bench I was getting attention. The girls were really nice and guys wanted to hang out after school, which meant I was a rising star in the high school echelon (hoorah! Yeah, right). Actually, it wasn't too bad; even teachers liked me. I never was the trouble-maker type in school.
But to be blunt: I suck with names, and that is a problem in high school world.
In the second semester of school our classes change. We take four classes a day in the first half of the year, then those classes change in the second half. For me, that was when I talked to Michelle for the first time.
"Excuse me," I mumbled quickly after bumping into someone. I was hurrying to the first of my new classes, my art class. I didn't really like art all that much; I never understood why you had to take it if you had no plans to be an artist in the future. They never taught you anything, anyway. Who cares about drawing fruits in a basket with a lamp next to them? That was supposed to help people learn how to draw like Da Vinci? I would rather be taking another math class.
The second I walked into the classroom I felt like people pounced just to talk to me.
"Josh, you got Mr. Haley?!" a girl from my old English class screeched. What was her name again? God, I can't remember at all. She was sitting down at one of the tables in the classroom but jumped to give me a hug before I could even look around. It was bone-crushing, but hey, no complaints from a football player. "This is great! Come sit next to me."
"Uh, sure," I said, not really knowing what else to say. Who's Haley? The teacher? And dammit, what was her name? Wait . . . "What about assigned seats?"
"This is art class," she stressed. Oh, okay. Because that answers my questions so well.
But then again, this place didn't look organized at all. All the tables in the classroom where scattered in all kinds of directions, with stools and broken chairs surrounding them. Some had clay statues sitting on them or buckets of paint. None of them were clean, either; they either had marker and paint stains, or there were holes drilled into them or dried newspaper glued on the surface. I was dragged to one with a racecar model on it, which looked like it was drying from a paint job. Not so bad compared to others, except someone already drew a penis on the side with a pen.
As soon as I sat down I noticed I was at a table with cheerleaders. Nothing but girls, every guys dream, I guess. And I couldn't remember any of their names. The bell didn't ring yet, and there weren't any teachers, so they all kept chatting. They were loud, obnoxiously loud- they were nice to me, but I did wish they would kind of shut up. A lot of them kept talking to me, then they would sometimes go completely off in some other direction. I liked talking to people, but against a bunch of girls I had no idea how to say the right thing.
"Josh, great job at the game last weekend!" "Are you going out with anyone right now?" "Don't be too forward now, girl." "There's a party on Friday after the game, you wanna come?" "Oh, and who's going? Just you and him?" "You slut!" "Oh, shut up!" "Anyway, you're not going out with Bailey, are you? I heard you were. I hope not, she's kind of a bitch." "She totally fucked up the routine last week!" "I know!" "And someone saw her with Mitch in the locker room anyway." "Wow, Mitch has bad taste." "Whatever, he's ugly anyway." "That's so true, girl." "Oh my God! Did you know-"
Ahahahahaha. Yeah. High school girls are both forward and brutal (Who's Bailey?). Whatever happened to the nicer girls?
"Knock it off, Bailey actually likes Mitch," someone said. The bell had just rung for class to start (and still with no teacher around, thank God) and a lot of students were pushing through the door to get in. I turned to see the girl who spoke, and I immediately recognized her. She was the girl I saw that one day during freshman practice, the pretty blonde with a perfect tan and hazel eyes.
It was finally someone I knew by name. Of course I knew who she was. Who didn't? Michelle Collins was a sophomore and co-captain of the cheerleading squad of our high school. I saw her at every football game, practicing every routine before the game, working three times harder than any other girl during the game and doing light training after the game. She started practice after school early and then stayed later than everyone else. She was prettier than most girls, more popular than most girls, smarter than most pretty and popular girls, and, above all that, she didn't put out like most pretty and popular girls. She made it obvious she wasn't the type of girl who just slept with anyone, like she was on a pedestal and no man was worthy of her.
Some call it being a bitch; I call it not being a slut.
"Whatever, Michelle," one of the girls said as Michelle pulled over an empty stool. She sat between two of the freshman cheerleaders, and unlike the others she didn't even so much as glance in my direction. It was just like when I first saw her. When it came down to guys, she really didn't care. That's what made her so . . .
Why was she like that, anyway? Was she a lesbian, maybe? Did she get in trouble with guys in the past? Is she just one of those 'Women's Rights Activist!' type girls? She didn't seem like any of them, to me. She just looked like she was confident. And, in a way, I thought her confidence was different from others. She wasn't the type who said, "I can get any guy I want! Watch"! She was more like the type who said, "I don't like him, and I don't care what you think. I'm not gonna do it just because you said so." Most girls were like the first to me, and, in all honesty, that might have been insecurity more than confidence. It may have impressed other guys (or satisfied, it's all the same), but I thought it was kind of stupid.
As I left whatever random conversations were going on at my table my eyes started to wander. Each table in the classroom had different groups of people, different stereotypes. It was half way though my freshman year and already it was so easy to see how people just naturally clung to those who looked like them. I couldn't blame them, though- I was no exception. It was the only reason I talked to the girls at my table, and the only reason I listened to my friend's stories of how he 'got lucky' after a game. It was a social thing, and a fact: Preps didn't go with Goths, Gangsters didn't look after Geeks, and Jocks didn't meet eyes with Emos.
Then I met eyes with him.
It was the first time I saw him, because I was sure he wasn't in any of my classes the first part of the year. He was completely opposite of Michelle in looks, which was strange for me because I could never figure out how two people caught my attention when they had nothing in common. Instead of Michelle's long, bleach-blonde hair and wide, bright blue eyes, he had shaggy, curling dark hair that waved over eyes just as black. He didn't have Michelle's perfect tan either; what he had was pale, almost white skin. Not computer exposed pale, but a milky sort of pale, with only just a hint of color. Even more, there wasn't a bout of acne in sight. It was perfect. 'Who is that . . .?'
Before I even realized I was staring he glared and looked away, turning to talk to another guy. But after that I still watched him, still looked at his skin, still wondered how someone that pale managed to have that perfect skin. Who was he, anyway? Why did I notice something like that of all things? And why was he looking at me? I was sure I didn't know him, so I was just as sure I didn't do anything wrong. But still . . .
I was about to stand up; I didn't plan on going over there and I didn't plan on talking with him, but I didn't want to just sit down either. I was curious, in the same vaguely curious way I wondered why Michelle acted the way she did. But before I could even move a pair of hands covered my eyes. I heard a giggle from behind me, and I smirked.
"Guess who!" I heard a girl squeal.
"I wonder," I replied sarcastically. But really, I had no idea.
xXx
The rest of art class went smoothly; no teacher ever showed up, which was a good sign considering that meant we would probably never get around to drawing shapes. Maybe he was a pothead like all the other art teachers and forgot about class. When the bell rang I finally got the chance to get out of a chatter-fest to look forward to better classes (gym, LUNCH, algebra II, then earth & science), but someone stopped me from moving too far again. A thin arm wrapped around my own, and at first I was sure it was another cheerleader ready to flirt around some more. I wasn't surprised to find a cheerleader; I was surprised to find that cheerleader was Michelle.
"Uh, hey," I managed to mutter. I stopped and people pushed past me to get out of the classroom. "What's up, Michelle?"
She smiled. It wasn't cutesy like the other girls, but a little more modest. I kind of liked it. "You looked bored."
"I did?" When? Now?
"Yeah, all class period. They're my friends, but they are kind of boring after a while; all they do is catfight." Ain't that the truth. "Anyway, you have a scrimmage after school instead of practice, right?"
She knew about that? Once the classroom started to empty I began to walk out; Michelle followed, gently pulling herself away from me as if the contact we made before was too intimate. "Yeah."
"I just wanted to say good luck and everything. I've seen all your games, and you're getting really good. It's kinda cool to see a freshman kick ass once in a while."
I laughed. Then I was curious about her again. "Thanks. Uh, what's your next class?"
"Geometry. Ugh, I hate math."
"Well, if you ever need help in it, let me know. I'm okay at it."
"Thanks. Well, see ya."
She was older than me by a year, if I remembered right. Actually, it would be like guessing more than remembering, since she was a sophomore and I could only assume. Still, as she waved and walked in the opposite direction to go to class, I kept thinking of how she treated me differently. Maybe it was me being too observant, but then again . . . It was a short first conversation, but it was enough to make me kind of hope that we shared another class together.
And maybe that other guy, too. Just so I could figure out who he was.
xXx
"That emo kid? It sounded like a pirate or something . . ."
"That's weird."
"What was it . . .? Now it's kinda bugging me . . . Oh yeah! Arr, Matey. Yeah, Metis. That was his name."
So we only had one class together, but that one class was enough for us to become friends. After that first day in art class I began to notice Michelle in a lot more places. We always ended up talking to each other instead of the cheerleader girls in first period, and if we saw each other between classes we never missed a chance to say, "Hey". And now, instead of completely ignoring everyone on the football team when they walked by to take a shower, she ignored everyone but me. I wasn't obsessed with showing off how I could get her attention while others couldn't, but somewhere inside I inwardly liked the fact that out of all the guys on the team she only bothered to talk to me.
If I was ever curious about her now, I could just talk to her. I no longer had to wonder about one of the only people I ever wondered about. On the other hand, the other person I thought about . . .
We had all four classes together. I saw him sleep in art class, sit in the corner of gym class, sleep again in Algebra II and stare at his worksheet in Earth & Science. If he wasn't doing those things, he was talking to his friend. And all that time while I talked with my friends or listened to our teacher's lecture I watched him out of the corner of my eye. Just out of curiosity. I guess. Well . . . I wasn't sure why, but that first day of our second semester he glared at me, and ever since then I just wanted to know why.
That, and how the hell he never seemed to get any acne over the course of the two months I had known of him. That was a freakin' miracle.
"That's really his name?" I asked Michelle. Metis? That was it? Metis? Nothing I had ever heard of, but I guess it made it easy to remember. So his name was Metis. May. Argh . . . And who was the guy he was always talking with? I didn't really care about him, but I wondered because of Metis. What kind of person was the other guy, since they were allowed to hang out together so much?
I only asked what his name was because I saw him. Cheerleading practice had just ended, and I was long ready to leave and end my day at school. I was clean from sweat after a short shower; all I wanted to do was go home. However, what stopped me from leaving was seeing the guy with the perfect skin from my class wandering the school. He was with the other guy who always hung out with him. I only caught a momentary glance from him (or was he looking at the cheerleaders having practice behind me?), but it was enough to make me think of him all over again.
And, at the same time, as much as I thought about who he was (for absolutely no reason; I know it's stupid), I knew nothing about him. I just kept replaying the same little bits of information in my head. I didn't even catch his name. I had always noticed him in class, but he wasn't really the social type that everyone paid attention to, so I never heard his name being called in class. That, and our desks were so far away that I couldn't really hear him even when he did talk. I just kind of thought of him as the emo kid.
But as soon he was out of view I turned to Michelle, who was finishing up practice by just answering a few questions for the other cheerleaders. After practice I would sometimes walk to her car with her, just to sort of talk about the things we couldn't talk about in front of the girls in art class. It wasn't dirty stuff or anything like that, but just things that they wouldn't care about. I don't know how to explain it without making them sound like airheads, but . . . the two of us could just talk about things on a deeper level.
"Oh, Josh," Michelle said, looking to me. "My car is getting fixed up right now, so you can go ahead without me. I'll call my parents to come pick me up."
"You sure?" I asked. I paused. She nodded, but only vaguely. Something about this suddenly seemed awkward. "You . . . want a ride home instead? I can give you one, if it's okay with you."
The way she looked up at me and smiled was the first time I thought she was beautiful. For the first time she looked straight into my eyes, and she looked happy. A small, modest smile settled on her lips, then it grew bigger. Did asking that really make her so happy? I watched her and knew I liked it when she smiled, when she looked at me so directly. 'Like the way he stared at me that day . . .'
I cleared my thoughts. The way Metis looked at me was a glare probably fit for Batman, not sweet like Michelle's. Why did that even come to mind? Was I reminded because I just saw him a few minutes ago? I guess. Yeah, that's probably it.
"I'm guessing that's a yes?" I asked. She laughed.
"Yeah, thanks, Josh."
xXx
When we pulled up to her house it was already dark, and a silence crept between us. The drive to her house was full of conversation between directions; we talked about the music on the radio, then our favorite music, then about how singers were kinda wild nowadays, then about the difference between celebrities and regular people. The more we talked, the more I felt she wasn't like other girls. Sure, right now we talked about the same things did- but, at the same time, it wasn't like that. She was different. Somehow.
"I kind of like not having the money that celebrities have," she said, looking outside her passenger window. "I like the idea of earning everything steadily. When you get too much stuff like money . . . there aren't any more goals. It sounds so boring."
Like said, she was different. None of the others would have said that.
"That sounds cool," I replied. Right. That's all I can think of. How lame. "So, uh . . . let me know if you need a ride again, okay?"
"Okay." But instead of getting out, she stayed inside. Her body started to relax against the seat as if she had just come in, and the hand that was on the door handle fell into her lap. She paused, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. When she didn't say anything, I decided to break the silence.
"Michelle, is something wrong?" I asked. Was there? "Do you need some help with the door or anything? Is it unlocked?"
"The door's fine," she said. But she was still there. Another silence followed; the only thing that was keeping it from being completely quiet was the radio. The hands in her lap started to fiddle around with each other, and a couple of times she opened her mouth and closed it. What did she need to say? She wanted to say something.
"Is there something you want to talk about? We can talk if you want. If there's something bothering you, anyway." I turned off the ignition and pulled out the key, dropping it between the seats. She looked at me. "I'm here."
She smiled again, the same way she did when we were in the school parking lot earlier. "You're such a nice guy, Josh. And . . . I mean, you really are."
Me? Really?
Michelle's speech slowed as she fumbled with her words. "It's weird to say it out loud, but I kinda of thought that I should . . . since . . . we're here right now and everything. And . . . well . . . you're different from other guys. Kinda like . . . how can I put it? When you talk with girls, you don't look at their tits. You look at their face."
That's a bizarre way of saying how nice I am.
"Argh! God, that sounded gay." And apparently she agreed. "But it's true. And I'm glad that we always get to talk and stuff. Just you and me . . cause . . . uh . . . right, well . . . do you . . . want to go out . . . sometime? Yeah."
. . . Wait. Was Michelle . . .? She was asking me out? Now? Right here? As in not going out to the local Pizza Hut, but going out-out? A guy and a girl? I can't believe she's really doing it. Her, Michelle Collins . . . wants to go out? With me?
Everything in her eyes told me that she was incredibly relieved to have finally said something. At the same time they also were in dread, waiting for an either favorable or painful response. She had said her part; all that was left was for mine. Here, at night, in my car we both sat, waiting for something to happen. Was it yes? Or no? I was the person between us who knew.
Without saying anything I leaned over towards her, our faces closer than they had ever been in the past. I felt strange. Was this the right move? I didn't know, but it felt right, and she didn't flinch. She never looked away. She watched me with nervous anticipation, waiting, and I closed my eyes, forming the words in my mind. My response.
Before I said anything I could feel the sweet taste of her lips on mine. We were completely alone then; the car was gone, the street was gone, the house Michelle lived in was gone. They sky disappeared, and the only reason I knew there was air was because of her soft breathing. It was simple, small, light; nothing extraordinary, like the kisses on TV. But at the same time it was nerve-wracking to feel her this way. I knew who she was and what she wasn't, and it made me happy to know that I found her. We didn't want to be just friends anymore. We both wanted to take the next step.
I opened my eyes and looked at her again, and somehow between that kiss she had changed completely. It wasn't her face, or her body, or even her expression that changed. It was something else, something I couldn't really recognize by saying it. But she changed. I smiled. "Do you want to go out all the time?"
When Michelle smiled, she looked beautiful. When Michelle started to laugh, she sounded beautiful. When Michelle hugged me, squeezed my body and leaned her head into my chest, she felt beautiful. Could a girl this beautiful care about me that much? I felt lucky. I felt happy.
xXx
Girlfriend. \'g?rl-frend\ n 1 : a female friend. 2 : a frequent or regular female companion of a boy or man.
Why did Webster have such stupid sounding definitions?
Michelle wasn't my first girlfriend, but maybe it felt like something more serious because she was my first girlfriend in high school. High school is no longer about holding hands and little kisses, but about make-out marathons and sex. It wasn't something to be said out loud, but it was just a fact. Not that Michelle and I did those things; so, even if we were going out, we didn't act so typical. Somehow I was lucky enough to find a pretty and smart girl who enjoyed middle school times just as much as I did.
Art class had already finished and gym class was long since done. I saw Michelle outside of class as often as I could, not because I had to but because I wanted to. We both know where our lockers were so we could meet there anytime, and after school and practice we would talk and go to each other's houses. Our parents knew everything, so they were fine with it. Michelle's parents were actually pretty funny. And my dad liked her because she was good at Halo.
Lunch period was boring to me because she wasn't around. It wasn't like I didn't have friends; a lot of the other guys on the football team had the same lunch period, and people from my classes did too. But I felt like we talked about the same things all the time, like there was never any point. I would just eat, throw in my two cents every once in a while, and half-listen until it was time for Algebra.
"Shut up." But there was one thing that made lunch interesting to me. "I fell asleep. Just do this shit for me and I'll give you free lunch for a week. I can't fail!"
Metis.
Metis sat at the table behind mine with his friend (Charles, right? I can't remember) and a few other random people with no other place to go. It was the only time I ever heard him talk regularly, and it was the reason I was only half-listening to my friends. If he ever said anything, I just wanted to hear it. Hell, it could be about pineapples and it would be more interesting than anything going on at my table. Just because he said it. I don't know. I know it's weird.
But what was he talking about now?
"Free lunch, huh?" Charles (I'll just call him that then) said. "For a whole week?"
"Yeah, I swear. You're in Algebra II, right? With whatsherface?"
Algebra! If there was anything I knew, it was math. I was glad to have the classes I hated earlier in the years- English, History, those kinds of classes- because I couldn't stand them. On the other hand, things like math and science were really interesting. A lot of freshman didn't take Algebra II, unless they opted for Algebra I in the first half of the year. There was a certain logic to it that made it final; there were no complications. There wasn't any emotional baggage that made two plus three change its mind and suddenly equal six. I liked how, no matter what you did to it, it would always equal five. Everything about math made total sense to me.
I didn't turn to look at them but I waited to see if I could figure it out. Maybe Metis meant the homework that was due next period? Did he really not get it? It was so easy!
"Quadratic formula?" Charles said. It was the homework. Then I knew it! "We haven't learned this in class yet, sorry."
"Dammit." Hey, Metis! I'm in your class! I could help you out. Give you the answers, anyway. I wanted to turn around and say all these things, but I knew when to hold back. I would be an idiot to just turn around and start talking to him like we were best friends when he practically acted like I didn't exist. Aside from the glare. Which I was still curious about.
But hey, sometimes the body does not feel like listening to the brain. It feels instinctively stupid, and it decides to follow through with that notion. Before I realized it turned my body and spoke. "Are you talking about the math homework last night?"
Metis and Charles both looked at me. Oh my God, I actually said something. To him. To Metis. I actually said something, and it was stupid as hell. Way to go, Josh. What a great first conversation. Now he thinks I'm a freak for sure. Why it matters so much I don't know, but it just does.
"Uh . . . yeah," Metis replied. He said something back. Wow; for some reason, this feels kind of out there. Us having a conversation, I mean. "You're in my class, right?"
So he knew? About me? "Yeah . . . uh, did you need some help?"
"If you can help me in the fifteen minutes before class starts, then that sounds great." Was that a witty thank you or sarcasm? God, I hope it was the wit. I already feel dumb enough without him rubbing it in.
Fifteen minutes before lunch was over. I went right to work. I pulled out my homework and turned completely around to face him, and before the bell rang Metis had every right answer scribbled onto his homework paper and a sheet of notes and examples. It didn't feel like I was talking casually with a friend; I was completely determined to make him understand. Maybe I just wanted him to know I understood it. Maybe I just wanted him to understand because I taught him. As much of a geek as I felt talking to him, I also felt like I had accomplished something.
My heart pounded the whole time. What if I messed up? What if he asked a question I couldn't answer? I don't even think my first kiss with Michelle made me this nervous; but when looked at objectively, what was there to be nervous about? I was just helping him out, right? Classmates do that. I think. Yeah, they do. None of us want to fail. So there wasn't anything to be nervous about.
But I still was.
"And, I guess that's basically it," I said finally after the last problem. Metis didn't look up at me, but instead just stared down at his paper as if he was still taking it all in. I guess it was a lot to do in fifteen minutes, especially during a brain-dead period like lunch. "Is there anything else you need to know?"
"No, that's good," he replied. He still wasn't looking at me. He started to turn around. "Thanks. I'll see you in class."
Which is in like, two minutes. Okay. "No problem."
Wait, that's it? That's all? No real introductions, no other conversations to go off of? Just learn some stuff, then go back and talk to Charles? As I realized that he probably didn't even know my name I felt sick. Here I was, all geared and ready to teach him Einstein's Theory if he asked and he just took it as a quick way to get some homework done. I mean, yeah, that was the point, and it's not like we're friends, but still . . .
The bell rang. If school was going to be like this for the rest of the year, I couldn't wait for it to be done.
xXx
"Killtacular!" Michelle screamed as she threw up the controller. "Did you see that?! On the first day of summer too!"
Okay, so when I said she was good at Halo before, I meant that she was really good. Like, good enough to kill everyone on the other team on her own good. As in better than me and my dad combined good. And we've actually played this game so many times we had codenames for every platform.
And she could get a Killtacular.
Summer had finally started. I was happy to say I survived my freshman year, and I had finally graduated from becoming a target. Not that I ever was a real target; football had definitely helped, that was for sure. And everyone at school had known that I was going out with Michelle, which was a big deal. After all, she had the reputation as someone who was pretty, smart, and not easy.
That's why I felt lucky. She actually trusted me.
"So, you're a junior now, right?" I started. We talked as we kept playing. We were red, and we had killed 35 while the blue team killed only 24. We were way ahead. We were gonna get 50 kills first for sure. "Do you know what classes you'll be taking yet?"
"Kinda," she replied. 37 kills. 25 kills. "I'm taking English III, Chemistry, Algebra II and World History . . . I know that at least. I signed up for Art II and Art History for electives, and I don't know what my other classes are gonna be."
"Ew, Art," I joked, laughing. 38 kills. 29 kills. "Is it the same teacher? He was always skipping."
She frowned. "No, it's not the same teacher. And Art II actually teaches you something. I like it." 41. 35. They were catching up.
"I guess. I'm glad you like it." I paused. "I wonder if I'll be in the same classes as anyone from last year."
43. 39. "Like who?"
"Uh . . . I don't know . . . Everybody, I guess." Wow, that sounded dumb. Who would come to mind? "You . . . Metis . . ."
When I started to talk Michelle leaned her head against my shoulder, sliding closer to me. 44. 41. I had noticed that habit. Whenever I talked about someone else- a friend, it could be a guy or a girl or even family- she became clingy. I didn't mind at all, because it made me happy to be with her and to know she cared was great. Lately, though, she was becoming even clingier. We didn't even have to talk about others sometimes. We could just be talking about anything, and she would want to hug me and not let go or kiss me a little longer. Like said, I didn't mind- but at the same time, I still appreciated light kisses and friendly hugs. It was more me, I guess.
And we'd only been going out for what? Four months now? Maybe I was the only one who thought that was too soon for anything.
"You and Metis are good friends, huh?" she said. 47. 46. "You like to talk about him."
"I do? Not really." 49. 48. "We just had all the same classes, is all."
"That's weird," she giggled. "You really do talk about him like you're friends."
49. 49. "I never really noticed. Still, I hope we get a lot of classes together next year. We don't talk much, but he's pretty cool."
Michelle put down her controller and pulled me into a tight hug. "I love you, Josh. Don't ever go away."
50.
"I love you, too."
We lost.
xXx
U.S. history, first period. English II, second period. LUNCH. Biology, third period. Art II, fourth period.
My sophomore year had finally started. Football practice had long been in full swing, but now it was time for classes. Unfortunately, it looked like it was gonna be a boring first half of the year. Why did math have to be in the second semester? At least Biology sounded interesting.
"I got Art II fourth period, too," Michelle said, checking her schedule. She clung to my arm as we both compared our classes, our teachers. She smiled. "Yes! We have lunch and fourth period together! I knew there was something about you that liked art."
"Something about me liked graduating with all my credits," I replied, laughing. "I just thought it would be nice to hang out with you at the same time."
"Well, thank you very much."
"You're welcome very much."
"Okay. I'll meet you at your locker before lunch, okay?" she asked. She stood on her toes and I gave her a small kiss before she let go of my arm.
"Sounds good to me," I replied. "See you."
"Bye! Love you."
U.S. History was, naturally, boring as hell. We weren't learning anything yet since it was our first day, but two hours of lectures about a curriculum we already knew was no fun. And I knew I was going to have to go through it again for the next three periods. The first day was school was almost more boring than the days where we actually learned something. I just needed to get through it without falling asleep.
But I was wrong. When I said to Michelle at summer break that I was hoping to have some classes with my friends, I was telling the truth. When I talked about having the same classes with Metis, I was telling the truth too. But I didn't think I was going to be lucky enough to actually get a class with him.
English II, the class I was expecting to hate the most, was the class I saw Metis in first. Charles was there too, and they had already found their desks away from others. I was already being chatted up by other classmates I knew from last year, those I didn't see over the summer and those I hung out with when I wasn't with Michelle. I was actually hoping to sort of go over there and talk to him before people started talking to me. Obviously that didn't work out.
But then again, what was I going to say? Hey Metis, remember me? I helped you finished a math worksheet in lunch once. No? You don't remember? We had all our classes together! Really? You never noticed? But wait . . . well, whatever. How was your summer? Let's actually talk because I've been wanting to since I saw you last year.
Right. Anyone would be horrified with that conversation. But hopefully something will change this year. I want something to change between us so bad, because right now he doesn't have to know I exist. For some reason he caught my eye last year, and I was still hoping for a chance to talk with him. He was like Michelle. He wasn't like other people. I could tell.
I want something to change.
xXx
Eight months. Eight months after we started going out I still called Michelle my girlfriend. She was still different compared to the other girls, still smart, still opinionated, still kickass at Halo (And now Gears of War, apparently). We still met before lunch at my locker and had lunch together and we still talked through all of fourth period. I still waited for her after cheerleading practice ended (she was captain now) and we still went over each other's house. When I was at her house we still ate a nice dinner and we still watched moves, and when she was at my house we still ordered pizza and we still played video games.
I was fine with that. I was happy. Maybe it sounded too routine when put like that, but to me it didn't feel routine. It didn't feel like school, where it was the same boring lessons being crammed into my head before the next test. No matter how alike our conversations were or how many times we sat on the same couch in her living room or laid down on the same bed in my bedroom it felt great. Michelle was, without doubt, special to me. That was something I didn't want to change.
But before I had known it, they did. Without me noticing, things were changing between us. Our daily lives of doing the same things with each other had to end someday, and I was just fooling myself if I thought they weren't. But did it really have to come so soon?
It was on a Tuesday night. Practice had long ended for both of us, and we had gone to my house. My parents weren't home, and, usually, I would drive her home then. I never wanted anything to be uncomfortable between us. But this time she refused.
"It's okay," she said, smiling as she got out of my car. "I don't mind staying here. You're a good guy, you know."
"But are your parents okay with it?" I asked. We both were going in my house as we talked, as if the answer was already decided. "I don't want them to worry."
"They're fine with it!" she insisted. "I'm old enough to make my own decisions, anyway. Besides, we don't really get to be all alone that much."
True enough. But what did she mean by that, exactly? That sounded weird. "Okay. Anything you wanna eat?"
"No, not really."
We always kind of just gravitated to my room, and today was no exception. My room was clean as always, the only real mess being my video game cases everywhere and my dirty clothes hanging out the hamper. But I wasn't ever really bothered by that, and neither was she; I think we were used to whatever habits we each had.
Michelle turned on the radio and turned the volume down so that the two of us could talk. As she sat down on my bed, I went down to my Xbox 360. "Anything you wanna play? Or do you just want to watch TV or something?"
"Uh . . . I guess neither one," she said. That was kind of weird. Was she not feeling good? First she didn't want any food, then . . . maybe she really was nervous about my parents not being home. I could understand that. "Let's just talk."
Talk? Okay; maybe was fine. It's good to talk and everything. I put down the games I was holding and sat down on the bed next to Michelle. It was the first time I really felt awkward in this room with her. I looked around, waiting for something to happen. I noticed the door was shut. It was usually open. "So . . . what did you want to talk about? Anything in particular?"
"No, not really," she replied. This is not fine. This is weird. "How are your other classes going?"
"Uh, they're going fine. Yours?"
"Good."
Alright then. Is that it? "What's going on, Michelle? There's something bothering you."
She laughed; it didn't sound completely like her. "Bothering me? No, I'm fine. It's just that . . ."
Just that what?
"I had something to say, but . . . now I don't really know how to say it."
A long silence followed. I was waiting for something to happen, but nothing followed. Something was definitely wrong; that much I knew, and it was obvious. What did she want? We had to talk, right? I looked at her, read to speak when she kissed me.
It was the first time she had ever kissed me with that much force. It was hard, stiff but desperate, demanding and full of need, and it threw me off. I lost my balance and I fell back against my bed but she didn't stop. She crawled on top of me, her legs straddled over my stomach and one hand holding the back of my neck. I didn't even think about where the other hand was until I felt something fiddling with the button on my pants.
"Whoa!" My body stiffened and I pushed her body away from me, making her sit up. I tried to slide out from between her legs, but I couldn't; I wasn't sure if my body wouldn't move or if she wasn't letting me move. Either way she was still there, staring down at me with unreadable eyes, her body looking worn with her hair messily falling out of her band and her clothes wrinkled and stretched. It was hard to tell if she was being serious. What did she . . . "Michelle, what's wrong?"
"We don't . . ." she started in a strong voice, but then she stopped. It was as if she knew what she wanted to say, but had lost the right words to form halfway through. After a long pause, her eyes averted and she looked down at the blankets on the bed. This time she spoke with much less intensity and it was obvious she lost her will; she looked twice as uncomfortable, and twice as afraid. "We go together, right, Josh?"
I forced a small laugh and tried my best to sit up, but any sitting up meant touching Michelle, and I had a feeling that talking was more important at the moment. I laid back down and tried to think carefully but I couldn't think straight. How was I supposed to answer that when I didn't know either? Why did she have to ask me that? It was way too hard to answer, truthfully, because I was scared of what the real answer might be. "Yeah, we go together. Of course. Why wouldn't we go together?"
She didn't look like she wanted to answer that question at all. She glanced back in my direction before loosening her body and falling over mine, her head resting on my chest and both hands looking for my fingers to hold. I hoped she couldn't hear how fast my heart was beating. "We don't go . . . we don't go together because you don't ever act like you want me . . ."
"I don't want you? I'm not sure I understand." Why was I suddenly so conscious of how much my heart was throbbing?
"Like . . . you don't ever try anything with me. It's nice, because I know I can trust you in that way. And I know you're not a bad guy for anything, but sometimes I wish I . . . felt like I was needed more." Michelle paused. When I didn't say anything (how could I?) she kept talking in the same weak, unsure voice of hers that made her sound vulnerable and broken. I didn't know what I would do if she cried now. "And sometimes at school, when we're talking, you just sort of stare."
"I do?" I had no idea I did that. I always thought of myself as a pretty good listener (to her, anyway).
"Yeah, like . . . you're there, but your mind is somewhere else. And that guy, Metis . . ."
Blood was pumping through my heart even faster now, so much that it started to hurt, and I could feel my skin start to moisten with sweat. Metis? Metis? What did he have to do with anything? What was she starting to imply? I was praying she couldn't tell how nervous I was; I was praying for me not to notice how nervous I was. "What about him? Why are you bringing him up?"
"I, um . . . I just . . ." Michelle lost whatever nerve she had left to speak. But I knew whatever was about to be said would have to be locked away now, before either of us could figure out what that thing to be said was. I let go of her hands slowly, wrapping my arms around her small waist and tightening them like a grip. My head nodded down and I kissed her forehead; I waited for a reaction, but nothing came and I kissed her forehead again. Finally, instead of her voice muffling in my sweatshirt she looked up to me and watched my eyes quietly. She knew exactly what we both were waiting for.
She wanted this. I needed this.
We didn't need to talk anymore. I loosened my grip on her body and she rolled back onto the bed, body language showing me she was begging for me to hold her and opening her arms and legs as if to show she was ready for anything that would come. This time I was the one moved on top of her, and, closing my eyes and steadying my breath, I kissed her. This was the same kind of kiss we always shared between us before; light, innocent and simple. But there was a tense gravity between us, and as I felt her fingers play with the nape of my neck I kissed harder, and she kissed me back. I pushed my tongue in and she completely accepted it; I bit her lip and I could feel her gasp for pleasure.
I started to move to other places, my lips pecking sweetly at her cheeks first, then back to her lips for another desperate kiss and then lower to her neck. As I reached lower, kissing every inch of her collar bone and relishing the taste of her skin I could feel her back arching. My body paused, but I didn't want to stop; and, somehow, I knew it wasn't because I felt as good as she did now. I did feel good; I liked how she let her fingers massage underneath my shirt and how she was already trembling with both nervousness and excitement. But at the same time . . .
When Michelle started to tug at the bottom of my sweatshirt I lifted my body, pulling back only long enough to take it off. I came back down to kiss her roughly again as soon as I could; the mix of the cool air hitting the skin on my back and the feel of her warm fingertips raised my senses. Nothing welded together; I was sensitive to every single touch, every single time her nails tapped my spine, every single time she traced my shoulder blades.
"Josh ." she started, barely finding the words to speak between kisses. ". . . Help me take . . . my shirt off . . ."
"Michelle," I said quietly, and I found both my hands and hers at the first button of her blouse. It was awkward and natural, to slowly undo the first button together, then the second, then the third. The perfectly tanned skin she had over so many others began to reveal itself underneath, just as smooth and beautiful as to what I had grown accustomed to seeing. When she was completely unbuttoned I kissed her stomach softly, first around her naval then on it, and she giggled.
"What?" I asked with a smile, just as she started to sit up. I didn't have to think about my body at all; whatever way she moved, I moved along with her, and somehow I couldn't wait to touch her and kiss her again. "You like it there?"
"Yeah," she replied, but not without embarrassment. "It feels weird to say it though . . ."
"Whatever you like, tell me," I said, and I went to pull her waist to my lips and kiss her on the stomach again. She giggled more, but instead of falling back onto the bed and caving into the pleasure she stayed sitting up, removing her blouse completely. Her arms slipped easily enough through the sleeves and she tossed it over the bed carelessly, landing on top of my discarded sweatshirt. Everything else came off in a pleasingly quick rhythm: her skirt slid off with my help between kisses; her bra came undone with my fingers between hickeys, and, as if teasing, Michelle removed her underwear on her own, never allowing me the desire to take it off myself.
It hit me all at once, so fast that I had to stare. Here she was, Michelle Collins, the pretty blonde with a perfect tan, completely uncovered, completely opening herself to me. With her lying back down on the bed and waiting for me to embrace her again, I thought that she was without doubt the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She really was incredible, flawless, and at least for this moment I wanted to give her everything she was ever waiting for her whole life, waiting for the past sixteen years she had been alive.
I did want her, in some way. I did. I stared at her, marveling at everything there was about her, everything we did together in the past since we met. This was my, hers, our defining moment. Before I could realize it she had pulled me into a kiss, kissing my mouth, kissing my neck, my chest, and feeling my body with her small fingers. When she pulled her face away, it was only so she could look at me.
"Josh," she said, almost in a voice that begged. I knew exactly what she wanted, what she was ready for. It was the same thing I wanted. As she laid back on the bed my body leaned over her, cradling her and holding her in my arms and seducing her with kisses. It had finally come down to one moment. We were here to be completely together in every way, every form; we were ready to become drunk with pleasure that neither of us had ever known before.
"Josh . . ."
"M . . ."
xXx
When I woke up the next morning I expected to see was Michelle lying next to me, still asleep. I expected her to groan as the light through the window fell over her eyes, and as she opened them the first thing she would see would be me. I expected a sweet after-last-night romance, a soft and tender "Good morning" and light kisses. Something like in the movies, where it's like after two people have sex they officially can't keep their hands off of each other. Instead I woke up without a blanket, naked and cold. Above all, I was the only one in the bed.
"Michelle . . .?" I mumbled, sitting up. I grabbed the covers that had fallen over the side and covered myself. Where was she? In my room everything had been exactly as it were left last night. The door to my room was shut, my backpack was still sitting on the side of my dresser, and my clothes were still scattered on my floor. Then I noticed something. 'Where are her clothes . . .?'
She was gone? After last night, she just left? Without a word?
I took a long, deep breath and stretched as high as I could before getting out of bed. Looking outside, where the sun was already pretty high, I realized something. "Dammit! I'm late for school."
School. Right. Like that was important right now. But as I was getting dressed, not really thinking about what I was putting on or what my parents were going to think if they found out I was skipping (doesn't matter if it's accidental), I thought, hey, maybe Michelle just didn't want to be late. She might've just thought I was tired. And I kind of was. I've been told sex did make you feel lazy afterwards, but still, she could have said something first before leaving.
So I'll just see her at school. But wait . . . what if she isn't at school? What if she was embarrassed? What if she completely regretted last night? Was I being too impulsive? Was she? But she did say she wanted it . . . sort of. And I didn't mind. I understood the fact that she wanted to do more than just make out a little and play video games. She wanted to be a real couple with me. . . . No, she wouldn't regret what happened. "I just need to get to school."
When I finally arrived, it was during period two. So I only missed U.S. History class and part of English (that's a nice break, actually). Class was still in session for all grades, and when I wandered in I was hoping the security guard wasn't going to happen to be on my side of the building. It was kind of good that I would be able to see Michelle, because we always met for lunch. If she was at school. Which I was hoping she was.
I had to grab a couple of textbooks from my locker first, then I was going to just slip into English with a bullshit excuse about my car breaking down or something (don't jinx, please). Easy stuff, then came the waiting.
But as I got to my locker, I already saw someone else there pulling out her books and stuffing them all in her backpack. Michelle was there with a hall pass crunched up in the same hand that was holding her backpack, looking just as tired as I felt and . . . had she been crying? "Michelle?"
Her head snapped up as soon as I called her name. I was expecting to see a smile, something that would reassure everything was okay. She wasn't mad or regretting at all, that's all I wanted to know. I opened my mouth to ask her what was wrong when what looked like all in one motion she dropped all her books on the floor, ran and stopped right in front of me and slapped me hard across the face. A powerful sting erupted on my cheek and I turned to yell, but I shut my mouth again. She was crying. She really had been crying before.
"You asshole," she managed to choke out, covering her face and kneeling down to the ground. I froze. I was looking down at her, but all I couldn't really see her. All I could feel was the throbbing where she hit me, and at the same time my heart was throbbing three times as fast. I didn't understand what happened. Why did she do that? "I thought you loved me . . ."
I managed to finally find my voice and kneeled down to her level. "What are you talking about, Michelle?" I went to reach for her wrists gently, just so I could pull her hands away from her face. I wanted her to look at me and tell me what was going on. "Didn't I show you the best way I could? I don't understand. I do lo-"
"Don't touch me!" she screamed, and I pulled away. I looked around in a panic. Were there any doors open? Were they hearing any of this? No, wait. This isn't about them at all. We, Michelle and I, needed to talk. Now. "Don't give me that bullshit!"
"Bullshit about what?" I asked.
She paused. She sniffled, and wiped away whatever tears she had running down her cheeks. Even though mascara and eyeliner was smeared around her eyes and even though her make-up no longer covered up her puffy, raw skin, I thought she was beautiful. I always described her that way when I saw her, and that didn't change. She was to me without doubt the most beautiful girl in the world. I knew that. That's why I needed to know what she meant. I did care about her. I did.
"Do you know . . ." she started in a soft voice, for the first time looking at me. It was the first time I could see how truly hurt she looked. She was having a hard time speaking and I almost wanted to stop her, just only so she wouldn't keep crying. ". . . Do you know whose name you said?"
"Whose name?" That didn't help me understand things any better.
"You don't remember at all, do you? Last night was going so good, you jerk! I really thought you loved me!" She raised her voice even louder again but she was choking out the words. "You were supposed to say my name!"
"Your name . . .?"
"That's right! And do you know who you were thinking about? It wasn't me!"
It was beating faster and faster in my chest it was starting to become painful. Unlike last night, though, I wasn't anticipating anything all: I was scared. What was she going to say? Who was she going to say? I couldn't think of anything I did remotely like that, but then again . . . did she . . .? "Hold on a minute-"
"You know, right? Maybe you should give him a good fuck, huh? Metis of all people?!"
Metis?
"I bet you never even thought of me that whole time, right? It was so special to me, my first time with a guy, and with I guy I loved! I thought of how good of a person you were, how lucky I was to have someone as sweet as you, Josh!" She stood up and focused on something momentarily behind me, but before I could turn to see what it was she looked down at me again. "You really screwed it up, Josh."
I did what? It wasn't going through. I really did that? I called out his . . .? I didn't think about anything much when I stood up again to try and find something to say, because I knew there wasn't a single thing I really could say. There was nothing that would make this situation better. I didn't just mess up a little. I did something . . . something that was just wrong. "Michelle . . . I . . . didn't really-"
"You didn't really say it? You didn't mean it? Is that it?!" she snapped, pushing me back. One last time she looked at me, and I knew it was going to be the last time she would ever expose herself to me. With one last look she let me know that because of me, because of what I did to her, she was in pain. Every part of her was so hurt by my betrayal that she couldn't even express it in words. I wondered: What did I look like to her now? The strong tension held between us before she ran past me. "Well, fuck you!"
That was it. We were officially broken up. I knew without a doubt that things were finished between us. I had no idea what to say to her, to myself. There was nothing that could have fixed what was broken. I didn't want to run after her, because everything that happened was obviously my fault. It was obviously my fault . . . because I . . . said a guy's name. His name.
Swinging my fist around I let out all the frustration I couldn't contain into the lockers, punching as hard as I could until it felt like my knuckles shattered. Then I noticed something. I noticed the thing that Michelle had focused on in the middle of our break up. She knew it the whole time, that someone else just happened to be at their locker at the same time.
Metis.
Oh, God, did he hear all of that? Did he hear that my girlfriend just broke up with me . . . because I liked him? Because I wanted to sleep with him? Because I, the person everyone thought of as the football star with nice looks and nice grades and a nice car . . . Oh God, did he hear that?
Play tough. Play like he didn't hear anything. That was the only thing I could think of. I needed to tell myself that this wasn't how things were going to be. Metis turned to me, only looking at me because of the strong glare I was giving back at him. I had to act like this. He could never know the truth.
"You got a problem, kid?"
xXx
~EL FINISHED!~