“Here.”
But not really.
I’m physically present, but my mind is so far away from this world it’s not even funny. The pills in my pocket are supposed to help. They’re supposed to make the pain subside so I can cope with this life. I wouldn’t know. I’m not interested in masking the pain. I want to run away from it.
The classroom door opens and hushed whispers skate across the room. Someone snorts out a cruel laugh. Another person sighs in a dreamy sort of way. Several kids murmur their questions.
“Ahhh, fresh meat,” Mr. Halston says with a chuckle. “What’s your name, kid?”
I lift my gaze, slowly dragging it over to the person who’s entered our room. A boy. Too short. Too young looking. Too smiley. Too much hair. I want to look away because he’s too much. Too much everything.
Bright and bustling with energy.
A train wreck of color.
“Kit,” the colorful kid says with the cheesiest grin I’ve ever seen anyone wear. Ever. “Kit Strong.”
Eric Davidson barks out a laugh. “Strong? He’s like five-foot-seven.”
“Five-foot-eight,” Kit corrects, still fucking grinning. “Strong where it counts.”
Mr. Halston asks him another question, but I’m zeroed in on his outfit. He wears a backpack with red straps, a white T-shirt with an alien holding up a peace sign, khaki cargo pants, bright red Chucks, and a damn man purse looking bag that says, “This is my pancreas.” The strap on his man purse is filled with colorful enamel pins.
This kid is going to so get made fun of.
The first stirrings of any emotion besides grief niggle at me.
Irritation.
I’m bothered that he would wear all this shit knowing it’ll catch him hell. Some people just ask for trouble.
“…just like Matthew McConaughey from Interstellar,” Kit finishes, his too-wide grin growing wider.
What did I miss?
“You’re in the right place,” Mr. Halston says, his dark eyes twinkling.
Physics.
The only thing that makes my teacher light up like that is physics.
“Have a seat behind Mr. Darrow there,” Mr. Halston says. “He won’t bite.”
Everyone cackles around me, but I don’t flinch. I don’t care what they think or say or what amuses them. All I care about is finishing this hour so I can do what I need to do.
“Gay,” Eric coughs out, making everyone laugh.
Kit stops mid step and nods. “That’s right. Gay and proud.”
It’s like this kid wants to get his ass beat.
Mr. Halston chuckles. “Take a seat. You can talk boys with Mr. Davidson when you’re out of my class.”
Eric’s face burns crimson, earning more laughter around the room.
Kit walks across the room to the row I’m on. He makes eye contact with everyone, his eyes bright and friendly. His smile reveals a perfect row of teeth like he’s a poster boy for the dentist. With each step toward me, his mess of overgrown, chocolate-brown curls bounce.
He stops in front of my desk, unfastens one of his enamel pins, and sets it down on my desk with a clink.
“Jasper’s got a boyfriend,” Eric murmurs, making more people laugh.
Kit continues on and sits right behind me. A familiar scent of sunshine and fresh air assaults me, swirling in the air in his wake. It reminds me of picnics and past summers at Mountain Grand Lake.
I uncurl my hand from around the pill bottle and then reach for the pin. It’s a battery with a smiley face that says, “Stay positive.”
Am I that obvious?
A flash of embarrassed heat floods over my skin, revealing my inner feelings. Someone comments that I’m blushing, which only makes my flesh burn more.
“That’s enough,” Mr. Halston finally says, drawing the classroom’s attention his way. “Time to focus. Does anyone know why we can’t trust an atom?” His eyes twinkle again. “They make up everything.”
Everyone groans, but Kit laughs. One of those loud, whole-body kind of laughs. His happiness and joy over a stupid physics joke literally tickles over me, infecting me. I’m so shocked by the unasked-for assault dancing over my skin, I shudder all the way down to my toes.
Kit leans forward, his wild hair tickling my head, and says, “I like him. He’s cool.”
I don’t respond.
I don’t move.
All I can think about is how his words are soft, yet they penetrate like a spear, piercing the hard layer of pain that’s built up around me since May.
Mr. Halston begins his lecture, but I don’t focus. What’s the point? In less than an hour, I’ll be sitting on the toilet in the handicapped stall, finally actually drowning in the sea of grief rather than endlessly kicking my legs, barely keeping my head above water.
Each minute passes by quicker and quicker.
Relief floods through me.
Almost there.
“Which lunch hour do you have?” Kit asks, his voice not at all a whisper.
Mr. Halston smirks our way but continues on talking.
It. Doesn’t. Matter.
I won’t be there anyway.
Kit leans closer, a breeze of sunshine and apples teasing my senses. “Which lunch hour do you have?”