Coffee, Grit, and my Dad's Best Shoes 4.6

Tuesday morning was a steady ascension into disarray and consisted of begging Nicky's God that I'd be able to make it through the day. I woke up to the alarm, wrapped in a blanket and Parker, still on my bedroom floor. For a few minutes, I felt okay. I felt safe; like tomorrow was a million years from now, and that I'd never have to face it. I was happy, too, because how could I not have been content to wake up like that?

I was careful not to wake him when I left to shower. I swear it was the shock associated with the back of my neck being shot at by cold water (I always took freezing showers in the morning; they woke me up) that brought things crashing down again. It all sunk in.

Chad sunk in. Elisa sunk in. Tomorrow wasn't a matter of a million years anymore. It was a matter of tomorrow. Everything seemed to be on stand-still for a while. I just stood there, hands in my soapy hair, staring at the water hitting the tub surround, listening a little too hard to it, because the plunking sounded like it was mixing with their voices. Theirs, and the voices of my assailants two months ago.

I knew it was psychological- if I talked to Nicky's dad about it, he'd probably tell me that separate traumas could combine during a PTSD episode or something- but I could feel the bullets lodged in my lungs again. My breath was ragged, the air hard to choke down because I felt like I was drowning in my own blood. My left leg felt weak, like it was shattered all over again, and my ribs felt cracked. More than that, I swear I could feel Chad's hand around my mouth--

-- no, I could smell his hand around my mouth, and it was mixed with I didn't know what, but it smelled like Elisa's hair.

I don't remember ever shooting out of a shower faster than I did when those smells settled in. By the time I'd managed to dry and dress myself, I'd already dry-heaved twice and slammed my fist on the counter four times. I consistently wanted a lighter in my hand; a flame or a homemade brand against my chest. Just enough to snap me back.

And somehow, I stumbled out of that bathroom and said good morning to Mom and Francis. I texted Nicky that it was okay that she couldn't come see me at lunch, because her parents were taking her to check out a university in Ottawa. I ate scrambled eggs for breakfast and warded off both Mom and Francis's teasing about Parker with chuckles and eye-rolls.

I managed to turn and smile at Parker just as Mom and I were getting ready to leave, because he finally stumbled out of my room with a groggy smile, two arms, and two lips that needed to be kissed goodbye. And I did that, too, right in front of the girls, and smiled a little bit when Francis giggled.

The entire drive to school consisted of me turning the radio up too loudly for conversation and trying not to hyperventilate. To convince myself that facing hell for a day wasn't worth a lighter, some wire and a bottle of pills.

I almost caved in on myself and crawled under a tile when I walked into that school. It was bright. Everything about it was far, far too bright. The floor was white, and the florescents reflected off it a little too well, which hurt my eyes. The lockers were all bright- a different colour depending on which hall you were in, but the worst were the lime green by the office where I had to pick up a map and my schedule. There were too many bulletin boards, and too many colours on the bulletin boards, and too many bodies that smelled like sweat, academic pressure and the weekend's residue.

It was too much, and it was like someone started throwing switches in my brain. My ability to notice, take in, and submerse myself in my surroundings was gone. There was the drone of high schoolers, which I'd converted to a steady hum in my ears, and my map and the lock for my new locker. That was it.

I found the locker eventually and pried it open with a shaky hand, dumping my bag. I didn't even remember throwing it over my shoulder. Locker three-twelve. It was an almost relaxing shade of purple. Plumb, maybe. I stooped, pulling out the books that I'd been given at the office, the ones I'd brought, and the single ten-inch binder I had for every subject.

"... Yeah, but like, if Mrs. Grober would actually listen to Yvettes, the class would run a lot smoother. Yvettes's been in it longer, y'know? She knows better than Grober does."

I looked up at the voice; boyish, cutting in a good sort of a way, and... attention-drawing, somehow. And what I saw was neon orange hair, blue eyes, and a blue cardigan with orange skinny -capris that were obviously from the womens' rack.

He looked bloody amazing.

It took a few seconds for me to register that there was a confident click every time his foot hit the floor, and when I looked down, I was greeted by a pair of heels that matched his cardigan perfectly.

Heels.

"Definitely. I mean, it's hip hop. If a few of the kids only want in for the fun of it, compromising on the festival routine isn't going to kill anyone. They haven't even started choreographing it, for God's sake." My eyes drifted from Neon to the current speaker; a gorgeous African-American girl with light brown eyes and a mess of hair that looked like it was trying to fight its way to the sky, and she was dressed in the classiest denim short-shorts I'd ever seen. And black heels that matched the vest she was wearing over a long-sleeved bubblegum-pink t-shirt.

Something about them was perfectly matched. An air of flamboyancy that even a total mental meltdown couldn't ignore, and a persistent gut feeling that these were two people I needed to associate myself with.

Instead of taking the initiative, however, I turned and started trying to better stack the books in my locker. They were both attractive, and I was too tired and too panicked and too in love with not-them to have to put up with it.

And then the girl spoke. A casual, but not unfriendly, "That locker used to belong to this girl who stashed a hamster in it and fed him vegetables from the cafeteria. It might smell a little funny."

I blinked and looked at her, startling a little when I realized that she'd been able to catch my gaze the moment I turned.

"Oh." It was all that would come out for a second. "I didn't notice anything." And if I didn't notice that it smelled bad, it probably didn't. I took a deep breath and pulled my binder back out.

"Lucky. The last kid who got it almost threw up when he opened it." She opened her own locker and pulled a few books out, tucking them under one arm before extending a hand that I warily accepted. "Alyssa Nixon. Ballet, contemporary and hip-hop junkie; queen of English 30 and classroom debates. Welcome to Hanley, and I pray that you survive the migraine-inducing colour levels."

I mustered a lopsided smile, keeping tabs on her face. It was hard to tell what she was thinking, but it didn't seem to be anything bad. "Brazil Liu. Named after a country and... steward of all of earth's little abnormalities, I suppose. Thanks."

The boy stuck his hand out next, and I swear, it was trembling with enthusiasm. I took it, and just touching his skin was like throwing back a shot of highly concentrated energy. I blinked. "Perry Isiis. King of contemporary, ballet and like three different kinds of hip hop, and also the boy who needs to be moving some part of him at all times. I would pray that you survive Hanley, but mostly I just hope you survive having me as a locker buddy."

My eyebrows cinched in the middle, but my smile didn't go anywhere. If anything, it lost a little of its trying-not-to-break-down edge. Someone that overwhelming should not have been that reassuring. "I think I'll do fine." I glanced at his feet. "Nice shoes."

He beamed, dropping my hand to extend a foot, toe still touching the floor, arched off the sole in the middle. "Aren't they? I thought that the straps went a little high for these pants, but no, I think they work out just fine."

Alyssa shook her head, leaning one shoulder on what I assumed to be her own locker. "At least six people asked him if he was gay when he walked in this morning. Three people asked him if he was questioning his gender."

I raised an eyebrow, half reassured by the fact that Perry didn't even flinch. Just looked up and grinned at me.

"Well, is he gay?" It was almost strange to say, but I couldn't tell. He was practically vomiting twink vibes, but they weren't necessarily gay twink vibes. I could tell immediately that he wasn't trans.

"Only for Hugh Jackman," he said. "Otherwise, I'm about as straight as Neil Patrick Harris."

One of Alyssa's eyebrows went up, and she pulled a thick hair elastic from her wrist to tie her hair back with. "Well, this is certainly a new development, Isiis."

His breath fluttered out through a pocket in the side of his mouth, and he waved his wrist at her. "No I'm just kidding. I'm a lot more heterosexual than people think I am. Like, really heterosexual, actually." He paused, lips cinching, expression growing suddenly and unexpectedly serious. "Unless you're Hugh Jackman. I think I'd be pretty okay with letting him bed me, but that's more a novelty thing, y'know?"

I nodded slowly, only half-pretending that I did, indeed, know. "My boyfriend would love you," were the words that decidedly tumbled from my mouth. And he would. Parker would be all over him, and he'd probably be all over Alyssa just as fast. They were everything that were his kind of people.

"I think I'd love your boyfriend," Perry said, and something about his eyes got wider. I swear, they sparkled a little.

Alyssa opened her mouth, but a man in a plaid dress shirt and slacks that were too small for his legs turned the corner and scowled at the back of Perry's head. Right on cue, both of them turned, and Perry's shoulders fell while Alyssa's tensed until I could see how tight she'd drawn them from under her shirt and vest.

"Those are against dress-code, Perry," he said, nodding at the shoes.

Perry shoved a finger at Alyssa's feet, turning completely and tipping his chin up. "Alyssa's wearing heels too, Mr. Reiner. She doesn't have to take hers off."

The older man's lips pressed together, and for a second, he didn't say anything. "Alyssa's a girl. Take the shoes off."

For a second, all Perry did was stare at him, and I spent the entire pause trying to wrap my head around what was happening. Alyssa looked like she wanted to say something, but she kept her jaw tense and her mouth closed. Ever so slowly, Perry bent his body down and pulled his leg up, slipping off each shoe in turn, and hooked the backs around one finger each. He shrunk a good two inches.

"Thank you," Mr. Reiner said. His gaze flickered over to me, but otherwise, he didn't acknowledge my existence. He just turned and left.

I could practically hear Perry counting out the footsteps in his head. Everything about how rigid his posture was suggested that he was waiting for the man to be out of earshot.

As soon as we couldn't hear his footsteps anymore, Perry whipped around and yanked open his locker, exchanging the heels in his hand for a different, darker blue pair with a closed toe. He slipped into them and wriggled out of the cardigan he had on, pulling a different one out of his locker. One that matched his shoes.

"I like these ones better anyway," he said, tossing a curt nod onto the end of it.

Alyssa rolled her eyes, but you could tell that she was amused. "I'd ask you why you have a pair of heels and a matching cardigan in your locker, but I have a funny feeling it'd be a stupid question."

Perry held up a finger, closing his locker with his free hand. "I learned the hard way. Once, I had to walk around in these really awesome pants and my gym shoes and it was disgusting. I have another pair in there under my hoodie, I think." He turned to me, head tipped to one side ever so slightly. "Where's your next class at, Mr. Brazil Liu?"

I blinked at him, and then reached into my pocket to take out and uncrumple my schedule. "I've got Physics 30 first thing."

"Dandy!" He looked at Alyssa. "Alyssa and I have Maths 30. Your room's on our way."

I nodded, assuming that was an invitation, and gathered my books while they gathered theirs. I followed close behind them, listening to what morphed into a conversation about how weird it would be if babies were born with adult-sized arms. I didn't engage, just tuned in with one eyebrow raised slightly higher than the other and an amused curl to my lip.

By the time we got to the classroom, I'd been invited to bring Parker out for a movie and supper on Friday night, because it was the only night both Alyssa and Perry were dance-free. I agreed, if Parker could break from job hunting, and slipped into class, paying attention to their voices in the hall until I couldn't hear them anymore.

It wasn't until they were gone and the former panic didn't reapply itself as thickly that I realized something. Alyssa Nixon and Perry Isiis had just potentially and indirectly saved my life.