Young Writers Society

I met you the day your father left.

I hadn't known it back then, but later you'd tell me, mustering a straight face and trying to pass it off like you did with most things. Your forehead creased, lips scrunched in the corner of your mouth, eyebrows lifting. "It's okay," you said, as if I was the one who needed reassurance. "No biggie." Then you clapped your hands and asked me to grab theh glue from the counter so you could "get your crafts on", which to me just seemed like a funny way to change the subject.

When you met me, it was far from a storybook encounter. My hands clutched tight to the sewn hem of my blouse, eyes fixed on your bouncing backpack that jostled as your fists flew forward. Muscles rippled in your forearms, your jaw taught, brown hair tousled and sweaty. You were beating up the boy I loved, which—while it might have earned you a striking first impression—didn’t earn you any points. I begged you to stop. My voice was stifled by the crowd of excited spectators. Besides, you had never acknowledged me before. You had neverlooked at me—not even once—and it occurs to me now that when we met, you probably didn't even know it.

Contrary to your indifference to my presence, I was much more aware of yours. Your name was always tossed around. No matter what clique or team we belonged to, we all had reason at one time or another to bring you up. You weren't the biggest thing at school, but you were captain of the Pittsburgh Hornets—possibly the best high school football team in the state—and you had that smile.

Yeah, that one.

I hated you, God help me, I hated you so much.

It was a different hate than I’d ever experienced; a fiery loathing that boiled in my stomach; a tic of my jaw that triggered whenever I passed you in the halls. I remember the lump lodged inside my esophagus as I watched blood drip from Jet Martin’s split lip.

Jet started the quarrel. I know that much. His fist had glanced off of your cheek and you'd taken a step backwards, followed by the jolt of his knuckles slamming you in between the eyes. You hadn't expected the second blow. Maybe you would have called it quits if he hadn't socked you the second time, but you were proud of your reputation. Your ego was inflated, but couldn’t be popped by a punch, of all things. Fire ignited in the pits of your eyes; I could almost see the honest-to-God flames. Your hands gripped his shirt and pinned him up like he was a thumb tack and the wall was the map—with such force that I could hear the thump of his back against the bricks.

The sound vibrated inside of my chest, as if I was experiencing the impact myself. It occurs to me now that maybe that was the way you'd felt that morning, when you woke up and realized that your father wasn't home. And that he probably wouldn't ever be again. Trapped beyond a hope of return; too exhausted to clamber from the clutches of sorrow.

It was a typical school fight, if there was such a thing. Jet hated your petty taunts. He would pace back and forth across my kitchen floor, erupting with sudden grievances about how genuinely confused he was with you. In a way that, at first, couldn’t help but evoke sympathy. He didn’t understand why you couldn’t just leave him alone.

You were the conversation that snuck up on me out of the serenest silence. Your name was the word suspended in his head beside theories about quantum mechanics and problems involving algebraic variables, and the other math-like paraphernalia that he kept shut inside the textbook under his bed.

After the fight, you weren’t the least bit bothered with my boyfriend. You never held a grudge. The fight had been on Wednesday morning and by Thursday afternoon, I was walking beside Jet and you strutted by the two of us, your arms swinging at your sides, legs taking long and bouncy strides, shoulders swaying. You were accompanied by several other capped football players. It was only the second time I had really seen you. The corner of your gaping mouth tilted upwards, and you said, "J.J., man of the essence." That was all. You walked a little bouncier after that.

The first time we talked was late at night, a week after. You sent me a text. I remember it pretty clearly, since I never recalled giving you my number. You didn't even know my name. On second thought, I should have known my name would be the absolute last thing you would remember.

You: I have a business proposition.-Chris M.

You signed it with your first name and last initial. What a poser, I remember thinking. Why'd you go and tack up that M on the end, like it was some last ditch effort to impress? Why couldn't you just write out your last name instead of leaving that uncomfortable M to stand alone?

What confused me most was the message itself. I had never imagined that the words “business” or “proposition” would live within your vocabulary, resting inside of it like dusty clothes at the bottom of your drawer; a little too big and never worn, just waiting for the right occasion.

Above all, what did a guy like you want with me?

It took all of my confidence to call you up. I couldn’t stifle my curiosity. My phone felt sweaty against my ear, clammy and small inside of my hand. My eyes darted to the door—shut, and thankfully soundproof—as my fingers tapped nervously against on the bed comforter. I felt my heart race to meet the the speed of the ringtone.

When you picked up the phone, I thought I was going to have a heart attack.

"Hello?" Your voice cut through the speaker. Deeper than I imagined.

"Hey," I croaked, my own voice snagging in my teeth.

"Who's this?" you asked. A laugh was suspended in your throat. I felt my cheeks heat up at the sound of your stupid, suave impersonation of yourself.

"Koskia," I got out. I cleared my throat.

You laughed, louder this time, and said, "Sorry?" I let my eyes roll, even though I knew you couldn't see them.

"Jet's girlfriend," I clarified.

I heard you snap-clap in that funny way you do when a startling thought comes to mind. "Oh, that's right. J.J.'s girl," you replied, sounding genuinely excited that you remembered. Like you weren’t aware of the fact that I’d literally just told you who I was.

"Yeah," I told you.

Upon my bitter inquisition, you described your business proposition. You told me how I worked at Subway (as if I didn't already know), and that it would be easy—considering—to smuggle out ingredients after an overtime night shift. I asked you what the hell you were on about. You continued to explain how you didn't like the school lunches (and of course you were the most "important" and spoke for the entire student body, so by default, the grand population shared a similar opinion).

"It would be one of those under-the-table gigs," you said.

Frequently, you ended your sentences with "am I right?”, like it was an afterthought, and sometimes you'd divert to sports talk, particularly when you began explaining how you were "in" with the janitor who always wore the Atlanta Braves cap, so of course he could get you the key for the storage area behind the old preschool classroom, where our "HQ" would be.

You had your own language. I was in continuous wonderment as to why I wasn't hanging up the phone. But there was something about the low, amused drawl of your ridiculous tangents that kept me listening. For five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. I hadn't said a word. You were still talking. I don't think you even breathed. You kept explaining, careful not to leave anything out. Digressing at times, but always circling back around to the proposition of us running a completely improbable and apparently "very profitable" secret sandwich business.

I thought I was delirious. Surely, the quarterback of Pitt high—the guy who beat up my boyfriend just yesterday—wasn't calling me asking to start a sandwich business.

By some miracle, I stayed awake through your spiel. When you were finished, I was too shocked to make an educated response, so I panicked and hurriedly told you that I'd call you back.

Call you back.

What the hell was I thinking?