All I see is him.
Kit Strong.
Kit checks his watch several times in a row, then glances up at the clock. With a slight sigh only I hear, he leans over to unzip his bag. He pulls out a banana and begins unpeeling it. I glance up at Mrs. Rowe to see if she’ll get onto him for eating in her class, but she’s busy writing on the board.
He inhales the banana quickly and with purpose before setting the peel on the corner of his desk to continue taking notes. I watch the clock, counting down the minutes to lunch. Exactly fifteen minutes pass and Kit checks his watch again. Another sigh. Back into his bag he goes, rifling through it until he pulls out a juice box like a little kid. He’s not quiet—his movements jerky and almost angry—as he tries to unpeel the wrapping from the straw. Something in the shakiness of his hand has me reaching past him to grab the straw. I tear the edge open and hand it back. He rips it away, shoves it into the box, and then sucks it down. His gulping is loud, earning a couple of annoyed glances. When he reaches the end, he slurps at it loudly.
“Lunch is in twenty minutes,” Mrs. Rowe states, her irritated glare burning into him.
“I know.” His tone is grumpy and annoyed.
“You need to keep the snacking to outside my classroom—”
“He doesn’t feel well,” I blurt out, an overwhelming need to protect him washing over me. She hasn’t watched his every movement for hours now like I have. Something shifted in the past half hour and I felt it.
Her mouth opens as though she’s surprised I spoke. “Very well then. Keep it quiet.”
As soon as she turns around, his body relaxes. I lean forward, this time the one to invade his personal space, and whisper, “You okay?”
A slight nod of bouncing curls is the only response I get.
Fifteen more minutes pass. The bell will ring soon and then we can head to lunch. Before the bell rings, he starts cramming things into his bag. Then, without warning, he stands, shoulders his bag, and takes off out of the classroom. Without thinking, I chase after him, ignoring the sniggers of the class and the teacher barking at us.
I exit the classroom, my eyes scanning for him. I catch a glimpse of him just as he pushes into the bathroom. That bathroom. I stalk after him, pushing down my grief that’s bubbling up inside of me at the reminder. By the time I reach the bathroom, he’s shaking off the water from his hands at the sink and rushing into a handicapped stall.
The handicapped stall.
He unzips something and makes a bit of noise as I prowl into the bathroom. I don’t think he’s using the toilet, so curiosity has me peeking through the crack of the door. I know I’m a creeper watching him, but I feel like I need to know what he’s up to. For a moment, I’m ashamed at what I’m doing, so I tear my gaze from the crack of the door to stare at my shoes. Several minutes pass and he curses under his breath. My eyes, once again, seek him out.
My mouth goes dry when I notice his bag opened and a syringe is sticking out. A syringe! I nearly choke on my heart as it leaps into my throat. I’m slammed with a hurricane of confusion and worry.
This is the stall where I am to end my life.
Not his.
I pull on the door, but it’s locked. He messes with a black device that seems to be hooked to him. I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m afraid he’ll go after the syringe next. Panic has me flying into the stall beside him, standing on the toilet, and peering over the side.
“Stop!” I cry out, my voice several octaves too high.
A small blush tinges his cheeks as he zips up his man purse, hiding his drug paraphernalia.
“You have a syringe in your bag. What were you going to do?” I accuse, unable to drag the hurt from my voice.
Could it be lethal?
I barely know him and already know he shouldn’t hurt himself.
“It’s called living,” he grumbles, leaning against the wall.
“You’re a drug addict? Is that why you’re so happy?”
“Do I look happy now?” he snaps, fire blazing in his green-blue eyes.
He looks miserable. Twitchy and angry. Fatigued. A light sheen of sweat on his pale face.
“What’s wrong? Do you need the nurse?”
“This is what’s wrong,” he mumbles, shooting me the bird.
I’m irritated and slightly offended until I see his tattoo on his middle finger. I don’t understand the symbols. They make no sense to me.
“You said your mom is a doctor,” I say softly. “Should I call her?”
His brows are furled together as he blinks up at me. “Please don’t.”