"Go get some ice from the lunchroom and sit on one of the bleachers till we're back in. I can tell you're off. Got those heavy-looking eyes the way my kids do when they don't feel so well." He gives me a kind smile that I don’t deserve.
As I'm walking back toward gym from the lunchroom, everything feels like it's blinking. Or like it’s not quite real. I don’t like this. I think maybe I should go home, but I remember I don't have a car.
I feel better on the bleachers with the bag of ice. Touching the cold cubes through the Ziplock sorta grounds me.
You can’t go home. You’d get in trouble, I tell myself. You're not gonna lose it at school.
By the time I get to physics, I'm not sure I can believe myself. When I notice Miller in the room at roll call, I feel almost relieved. If I pass out or something, at least he knows who to call.
When our teacher steps out of the classroom to make some copies, I rest my head on my desk.
Should have offed yourself last night.
You could still split today.
You could go back to the train bridge. Miller won’t save you this time.
When the teacher is back, I walk to his desk and tell him that I need the restroom. Then I find the nearest exit: a steel door that opens to a large field stretched between the school building and the football stadium out to the right.
I spot a rock that I can wedge between the door and door jam. Then I step into the grass and sink down with my back against the building. I cross my legs and lean my head on the brick wall.
I'm so stupid.
I pull my knees up to my chest and rest my face against my quads. I rub a hand into my hair, trying to feel normal.
I don’t.
I’m not.
I feel heavy. Even my heartbeat—heavy. Like it would rather stop than keep on going like this.
Josh
I’ve got a bad vibe the second I step into physics. The room is small, with rows of desks in front and short lab counters arranged like a line of Tic Tacs along the back wall. I’m running late because of my new, sticky locker, so most of the room is full, but I spot Ezra right away; he’s on the second-to-front row.
The only seat that’s vacant is back in the room’s rear left corner. I feel his eyes on me as I move toward it. At least I think I do. I stick my middle finger up without raising my arm, just in case I’m right and Ezra’s looking.
I had Dr. Bumble for tenth grade honors chem, so it’s a little weird to hear his soft monotone again as he calls roll. “Masters…Ezra.”
Ezra raises his hand.
After roll call’s over, Bumble realizes he’s missing some papers, so he steps out to make copies. Everybody starts talking at once, and my eyes snap to dickface again. I’m surprised to find the social butterfly with his head down. His right hand is raised to rub his temple like he’s got a headache.
Good.
I rub my own forehead. I don’t really think it’s good. Why am I like this? Always the nice guy. Nice guys finish last. I know they do. That’s why I’m not acting like one. I’m not showing him I’m a marshmallow. But as he folds his arms atop his desk and lays his head down on them, I feel a tight clench of remorse.
Did he deserve to be punched in the eye? Fuck yes. Do I get any joy out of watching him lie on his desk now? Not even a little bit. All the fury I felt this morning when I thought of rolling his hand up in the car window has dissipated. Probably diluted by this long-ass school day.
I can’t help the way my brain works: It’s his first day at a new school, and he had to start with a black eye. I think of how I found him last night—crying on the roof from what seemed like a wicked nightmare. What makes Ezra Masters cry?
His hand sifts through his blond hair, fingers curling slightly, and I wonder if I really hurt him. Shit.
Then Dr. Bumble is back, and while I’m opening my notebook, I guess Ezra gets up. When I lift my gaze again, I see him walking out of the room.
Fuck. What if he has a concussion, and he’s going to the school nurse? What if he exacts revenge by telling his dad?
That’s stupid, Miller.
Shit—I want to know if he’s okay, though.
He doesn’t give a fuck about you, so don’t give one about him.
It’s all useless. When we’re assigned lab partners, Bumble pairs me up with Ezra, and my pulse surges like Pavlov’s dog.