Young Writers Society

Lesson 2: The Guy

I lost track of how many minutes I wasted standing there, blinking in shear shock. Here, these two guys were sitting on a bench, on school property, and making out in public. No matter how many times I tried to blink away the dreadful image, every time my eyes opened, I would see my god of gods digging his tongue deeper into that inconsequential creature's throat.

I was falling. Metaphorically, of course, but falling to the pit of my stomach while the rest of my body froze up like pop in a freezer. This stomach storm of unending descent was expanding exponentially with emotions that, left undisturbed, were increasing their likelihood to explode as direct consequence to their occupancy being undisturbed for too long. I was a menagerie of contradicting emotions.

There’s just one thing/emotion/whatever I’d wish to set straight. As much as the sight broke me to bits on a romantically, soul-searching level, overall it was truly a humiliation. There Duane, the core of my heart and the boy who melted it, was all over someone else. No, not someone else, one of them and people were witnessing this horrific nightmare of mine. No, not a nightmare. Something more substantial: reality. I practically saw this boy every second of my living days and here he was going at some boy I'd never seen before. I just wanted to stomp over there and drag Duane away. Prevent him from proceeding to tarnish any meaning left to my existence.

He was mine! I had claimed him months ago! I loved this boy, but he was occupied choosing one of them over me!

I’m not completely selfish, though. Yes, I’m a victim in all this, but in my menagerie, there was rationality reminding me that another victim was being played here. This godly piece of inhumanly art displayed to the world that he’d been enslaved by the “romantic” trap that tickled the Achilles’ heel of many a mortal woman. If this wasn’t a sign for me to separate them, then the world truly held a bias. However, this scenario couldn’t provide enough evidence for that sign. Rationality was suffocated by self-pity, who suffered MSBP. The disgusting truth is that if I went over there, I would surely burst into Niagara Falls before I could serve as an aid.

I guess the whole notion became mute when those blissful honey brown eyes latched onto my appalled face.

Caught between a matter of insanity and publicly displaying it, I did the most sensible thing that my disfigured thoughts could conjure: turn around and walk as fast as my stubby legs could take me to my only chance for escape.

I obviously heard him call my name. Who could miss that enchanting, melancholy, silky voice that pronounced my name with such grace that it had my back hairs doing ‘the wave’? I never wanted to be bald so bad in my entire life.

I was in sight of the parking lot now. I felt the interior of my shoes burn and my calves joining in the sensation moments later. I spotted my massacred piece of junk on wheels as it slowly grew in size in my viewing. The type of slow like it was a sloth’s black-sheep-cousin because I’m allergic to exercise. In a rush, I quickly shoved the keys into the lock and unlocked it, but as soon as I opened the door, it was immediately shut again. Knowing better, I glared menacingly up at the perpetrator only to have to bite my tongue as I tried to hold back the tears about to explode as the idea of an escape became intangible. Even from a mile away, I could recognize the lean, slightly-tanned figure with dark brown hair, but above all, those honey-brown eyes. But I didn’t have a mile. I had an inch.

Duane spoke through gasped breaths, the stupid slut, "Can we talk?"

"No." I’m ashamed to say I had to double check what I said to make sure that’s what I meant.

"Kamber, please," He begged, sending me into a twisted world known as agony.

The signs were showing up like guests at your party that you didn’t know you were throwing. If I heard his tampered, melodic voice once more, I would surely loose myself to an unnatural hysteria that would return me to a life that I had spent years trying to tarnish. Was it even worth it anymore?

Instinctively, I reached for the door and stated, a little harsher than intended, "Get your hand off my car."

That's when he caught me by surprise. Out of the blink of my eyes, his arms pulled me back from the door and held me directly before him. My eyes opened wide at the uncharacteristic act and I could feel the blood drain from my face. I bit my tongue to keep my sensations distracted from his hands against my arms. He smelled like fabric softener and lemons.

"Kamber, please, just listen to me." His eyes met mine and I had to remind myself to breathe. "I know you're mad and I should have told you, but--."

"Look, I don't want to talk about this right now,” I breathed out.

His hands loosened and I quickly went for the door, but before I could open it, he chimed, "Can I still have a ride home?"

The correct answer was plainly blunt and I was planning on giving him that when my lips formed the blasphemous word: "Yes."

I never was good at multiple choice questions.

His lips creased his cheeks and I couldn’t tell who was sadder about it: me witnessing it and the pain it brought or the expression he adorned with it. I turned my head away and the sound of his shoes scraping the pavement made me want to do the same to my eyes. God help me.

We didn't speak. For once, I decided to focus my attention on the road while I drove. The only movement that he made was to turn the radio on and adjust it to some random classical music station.

Now, I’m not a stalker, or a freak, but I generally found myself very aware of the certain things that Duane did. Like the fact that he was probably going to get a haircut soon because it had been three weeks and he was currently trying to tuck it behind his ear and it always failed him. Also, when he drummed his fingers on a hard surface, it was always the same beat repeated five or six times before he messed up, paused, and then started again. Then there was his tendency, during his discomfort, to stop both prior actions, take a nosily, husky breath through his nose, and then readjust his position in his chair.

Usually, I would just admire Duane in his natural habitat. However, my calves were hurting from my failed escape, my eyes were burning from pent-up tears, and my pride was as meaningless as my feelings were for him. So, when Duane inhaled for the fifth time before barely making it out of the parking lot, I was finally content with letting the jerk rot in his discomfort

Barely making it past two lights, invasive, bodily warmth snaked itself between my fingers and I realized that the excess blood never left my face. It took everything in my power to not exceed my habitual ten miles per hour past the legal limit. How baffling that it took another…person to receive all this attention from him. I wouldn’t say I was grateful to the stranger. In fact, I found myself regretting ever being inclined to request any attentions to begin with.

But I was still nowhere near free just yet. "Kamber, look, I'm--."

"Stop.” Dear Lord.

He tried again, "But--."

"No, you promised." God, that came out so whiney.

Through the corner of my eyes, I saw his baffled face. "What are you talking about?"

I narrowed my brows. "Well…what are you talking about?"

"What 'promise'?”

Jesus Chri--. “Before we got in the car, you promised to not mention this whole fiasco.”

He frowned. "‘Fiasco‘?”

"Whatever, you know what I meant. So drop it.”

He pouted. "So…you just want to let it go?”

“I want to not talk about it.”

We were parked in front of his house now. I had my head toward my window and my body trying to perform osmosis with it. I didn’t have to look at him to know he was still loitering.

“But Kamber, please. We need to."

"No, we really don't."

"Fine, then I'll talk and you'll listen." Before I could interject, he started, "I'm sorry I have different interests than you. I know I should have told you. You had every right to know. I was just worried you'd freak out like this."

"Well, what do you expect when I see you making out with some guy?"

"I know. It was a total accident! Rodney just came up and...you know..." He blushed.

Great, it had a name.

"Sorry, but...I just can't imagine you with someone else," I murmured before my rationale caught up with the conversation.

The one time he decided to shut his trap. No nails scraping on his scalp to aid his eye sight. No repetitive errors of make-shift drums. No over-consumption of air. Just him, me, the silence, and my cardiac rhythms. None of which were probably happy to be a part of this conversation anymore.

I could‘ve sworn I was drenched in sweat the moment he spoke again, "Wait, is this about me kissing a guy or just who I kissed?"

Even with the air conditioning on full-blast, heat placed an itching sensation upon my upper cheeks and forehead. My glare didn’t aid the migraine already infesting the area. I’ve confessed to him. Millions of times. Every single time was scoffed and answered back with endearing meaningless repeats. I’d given months invested into this boy, and now he decides to step past ignorance? No. No more. I’ve dealt with the lowest, foulest, heartless species that mankind had presented to defend itself. Yet, despite it all, I’ve never felt myself become so utterly, exceedingly, and disgustingly meaningless in my entire life. I couldn’t do this anymore.

"Never mind. I said I don't want to talk about it so just shut up. God, you're so annoying," I huffed.

Thus, the irreclaimable god was silenced by the fractured ice queen.