Young Writers Society

I arrived at your house around 4:00 that afternoon.

I rolled up your driveway in my car. I ended up parking as close to the road as possible, in case I needed to make a hasty getaway. It only exemplified a mere iota of the anxiety I'd been feeling since I could see your address at the end of the road. Your house was a weeping angel that got closer and closer each time I blinked. I had decelerated, pressing the pedal with less and less force. As if the entire neighborhood would just recede and disappear, taking you with it.

No such luck. In the next fifty seconds, my vehicle was parked firmly on your blacktop.

Your house was relatively standard, as houses went. It had a basketball hoop in the yard and there were white fences your mom must have stationed at the end of the driveway. I nearly broke a sweat as I walked up the steps of your porch. I nervously tapped my fingers on the package of colored construction paper in my hands.

The touch of my feet upon the welcome mat threw my mind into disarray. I was shaking in a state of wonder and apprehension: how many times I should knock? What would I say if a stranger came to the door? What if I had the wrong address?

I ended up knocking three times as I stared fixedly at the routed patterns on the cream-colored wood. Suddenly, the lock clicked, and the door opened.

It was you. Thank God, it was you.

You were wearing socks. Your face glowed in the dim light of the foyer. You scratched the back of your head, smiled. "Hey, Val."

My tongue grappled for words. "Hey," I managed.

I wiped my shoes on the rug before coming inside. I felt small. "So," you began as you shut the door, "I got a whole bunch of boxes from the garage"—you jabbed your thumb in the direction of the supposed garage—“and hey, look, you brought the paper." You took it from my hands, before slinging your arm around my shoulders.

Your arm.

Around my shoulders.

Your arm was around my shoulders.

"I was thinking," you were saying in a low voice, "that if we hurry, and do some kind of assembly-line kind of deal, then we can get all these made up in a few hours." Your body was warm, shirt sleeve yanked up against your shoulder, bicep resting on the back of my neck. I swear, I would have left right then if you'd stopped your incessant talking. "Then you don't have to hang around with my sorry ass for more than—“

"Chris?" we heard from around the corner. A woman's voice. As we approached the living room, the source of the angelic voice appeared, entering the scene from behind a wooden door. "Is that you I hear slamming the door?"

"No, Mom," you said, "it was Val." You laughed at me. I gave you a jab to the ribs, causing you to pull away.

At the mention of a girl, your mother's eyes diverted to me. She was an inch or two shorter than you. Her wavy brown hair was messily tied into a ponytail. Her eyes were your eyes: hazel and radiant. Her face was unblemished aside from a set of crinkles that webbed from the corners of her eyes. She had a warm smile.

Her hand rose to her mouth in a gesture of slight surprise. "Wow, she's so pretty."

The comment caught me off-guard. My heart leapt into my throat. You must’ve had a similar reaction, because your eyebrows jumped a little.

"Where's that other girl you've been spending a lot of time with?” your mom asked. “I mean, she was pretty, too, but personally I'd support your decision to--"

"Mom," you cut in, "Christ, we're not together. We're working on a school project."

She nodded, appearing slightly disappointed. "Hm. Well, seeing that you almost never bring home girls pretty as that—maybe you oughta ask her out."

I was blushing furiously. It was as if I wasn’t even in the room.

You stood taller, raising your voice comically. "You saying I can't get a pretty girl? Have you seen these rock-hard abs, Mom?" You lifted up your T-shirt.

"Very impressive," she deadpanned. I appreciated her sarcasm. Your ego, as always, was on my nerves. Then she turned back to me, smiling. "What's your name, sweetie?"

"Valerie," you replied.

"Koskia," I said.

Looking bewildered, your mother clasped her hands together. "Well, nice to meet you. I'll be in the bedroom, if either of you need anything." She paused, glimpsing the colored paper in your hands. "May I ask what the project's for?"

I tangled my fingers nervously. Without pause, you said, "English. We're making jeopardy questions based on this book we read."

I glanced at you sideways.

"Oh," she said, perking up. “Which book?"

"The Glass Castle," you responded, licking your lips. You ran a hand through your hair. Your mother threw out a mindless comment about the author—someone named Jeanette—before disappearing into her bedroom.

You turned to me, slipping your hands in your pockets. It was a gesture I hadn't seen you use before. "Sorry about my mom," you said. "She's intrusive."

It took a moment to register that you’d apologized.

"She's nice," I told you, bearing a genuine smile—a rare sighting in your presence. I shrugged my shoulders. You kind of snorted and strode into the kitchen. You opened the fridge, propped the door on your hip, and took out a blue Gatorade.

"The Glass Castle?" I asked you. I couldn't imagine you reading, of all things. Sitting still for the forty minutes of the lunch period seemed like an accomplishment. Even then, you were constantly bouncing in your seat and stylistically tossing things into the trash can, like you were playing a game of basketball in your head.

“English class, junior year,” you said, tapping your temple with your forefinger. You clicked your tongue. “Bria Lyn lent me her hard copy ‘cause I ‘left mine at home’, and I told her I owed her, and a week later, she asked me for seven minutes in heaven.” At my open mouth, you shrugged. “Can’t make that stuff up.”

“I thought you had STML,” I told you. My expression was accusatory.

“It’s selective,” you insisted.

“Well, did you do it?”

“Do what?” you asked, tipping your head back to swallow a gulp of your drink.

“Seven minutes in heaven with Bria Lyn.”

You caught my eye.

You paused, then laughed. “You’re too much, Val.”

Before I had a chance to respond, your head was ducked inside the refrigerator. "Want something to drink?" you asked, leaning back to get a better view of me from behind the door.

I told you no thanks. You finally took a seat at the counter. You chugged another sip of your Gatorade, and then exhaled. We looked at the pile of boxes you'd accumulated. Along with the boxes, there were two pairs of scissors and a glue stick.

After surveying our resources, we developed a system. You would cut squares of cardboard—“because I got the muscles," you said (as if you needed muscles to cut cardboard)—and I would glue a piece of paper on top, adorned with a number, the latter of which I would draw in Sharpie. We were sitting adjacent to one another. You worked at the cardboard with your scissors, murmuring a running commentary. "Damn," you'd say, "these scissors are too small for my fingers." And then, “And Chris ‘the Saw’ Mahoney cuts the sixtieth square of cardboard—yet another broken record for Guinness. We’ll see you next week on DIY with Chris." Then, "Where's the box with the Heineken bottle on it?" and "Goddamn" every time the cardboard slipped.

About an hour in, you cut your finger with the scissors. I glanced over from my work, eyes widening. You stuck your finger in your mouth, sucking on it and then pulling it out to have a look. "Oh," you brushed off, "hardly even a scrape." I could see the blood from where I was sitting.

"That's more than a scrape," I said, pointing at your injury. "It's bleeding."

"I'm a football player," you retorted. Your voice was nonchalant, and you held your finger out for me to see. Blood beaded on your fingertip. "I've broken like, all my bones. I broke my nose last season," you remarked. "Linebacker smashed my helmet in my face. Hurt like hell." You shook your head, as if entranced in recollection. "Then, this one time, Peter Ross was running a flag, right? So I dropped into the pocket to lob it in the end zone, but he was covered, am I right? So."

You looked up to make sure I was listening. I was. You spread your hands apart. "Dave was on the wing, and this guy on the other team—real asshole, by the way—is about to sack me like a bag of potatoes. Five seconds on the clock, down by three. Last play of the game. I throw a lateral." My eyebrow rose. Mostly because I had no idea what a lateral was. You mistook it for surprise, which made you smile, your eyebrows doing their little jump. "Dave catches the lateral and dodges the lineman, and touchdown. 'Cept, asshole tackled me anyway! Broke four of my ribs. What a guy, right?"

I nodded. What a guy.

Just then, your mother's voice piped up from behind us. "I hear you swear once more, Christopher, and I'm grounding you for a month."

She walked into the kitchen. She was stony-faced, and she crossed her arms. I stifled a giggle, finding it funny when she called you by your full name. Your mouth fell agape. It looked entirely subconscious.

"Mom."

"Mom, nothing," she said. "And I'm sure Valerie doesn't want to hear about your sports hyperboles." She took a tray of cookies from the oven.

Valerie. She had just called me Valerie.

You shot me a smirk.

She spun to face us, and verbally addressed you. "Oh, and I was meaning to tell you. Don't be making any plans for this Sunday, because we're going to church. And—" She removed the oven mitt from her hands. "—if you wear your cleats to church one more time, you're grounded, Mister."

"I had a football game right after," you protested. "It wasn't my fault."

"Maybe you oughta tell that to the Lord," she replied matter-of-factly, handing me a chocolate-chip cookie from across the counter. I thought of refusing, but graciously accepted, nibbling around the edges like a hungry mouse.

"Jesus Christ," you exhaled, shutting your eyes.

"Christopher Atticus," she inflected, "I don't want to hear words like that come out of your mouth again, unless it's in prayer." Your eyes snapped open. You looked at me, as if wondering if I’d been listening, and then glanced in the other direction. Your mother returned to her room.

"Atticus?" I asked. I suppressed a laugh. "Your middle name's Atticus?"

"Nah," you said. You avoided eye contact. A shade of pink crept up your cheeks. I couldn’t believe it: Sir Arrogance was blushing. You were embarrassed. You rubbed the back of your neck bashfully.

I was fueled by your humiliation. The corner of my mouth turned up in a grin. "Like Atticus Finch?"

"No." And then, for fear of sounding like a book nerd who remembered the characters in To Kill A Mockingbird, "I don't know who that is."

"Chris Atticus," I pondered aloud. "Christopher Atticus."

"Hey," you said, "cut that out."

"What," I asked, "You don't like your middle name?"

“It makes me sound like a president," you admitted. You fixed your shirt.

"I think it makes you sound important. Plus, it's kinda dashing," I said. Afterwards, I wondered why I would say something so nice to you. You didn't need reassurance. You wore your confidence on your sleeve. It was about as obvious as a crimson stain on a white surface.

"Whatever you say," you relented. Then you turned to face me, resting your forearms your knees. You smiled. Your cheek crimped, lips spreading till I could see your top row of teeth. "It'll be our secret, alright?"

The question was almost laughable. A week before, I wouldn't have thought secrets could exist between us. We lived in two entirely different worlds. You, on the inner circle; captain of the football team, and me—somewhere else. Now, it seemed that our universes had overlapped, and I hardly found it plausible that the cause of the offset had been some epiphany of yours to start an entrepreneurship.

"Sure,” I said. “Or, I could tell the whole school. Maybe announce it over the P.A. system. That way everybody would know and laugh at you." It was a playful threat. We were sitting close. Your head was bent below my chin. I could've kissed your hair if I'd moved two inches forward.

"Don't," you said. "I'm serious. I'll move away."

"Maybe I oughta do it, then."

"Right," you said. "’Cause you're still wound up about what happened between me and J.J."

I dabbled in your poor English for a moment, battling a primal urge to correct you, say "It's J.J. and me". I had a hunch that you'd only blink at me and drop your jaw as you tried to distinguish your version from mine. You were expecting me to become defensive, but in reality, I was only exhausted by the tension between you and Jet. I was no longer surprised by your gall. I was no longer angry with you, which was something that ended up taking a long time for me to admit to myself.

Instead, I asked you a question.

"Why'd you do it?" I asked.

"Do what?" you asked.

“Beat on Jet,” I said.

You cocked your head at me. “That’d be because he socked me in the jaw, V.”

“No,” I countered. “You could’ve easily just snapped a one-liner and been the bigger person. You could’ve walked away.” I was staring at my fingers. “I don’t think you're the type to kick a guy while he’s down. Not anymore.”

I looked you in the eye. You stared back with equal force. More in a deer-in-the-headlights kind of way, but I still failed to hold your gaze. Even your passive glances were intimidating.

"I thought we couldn’t talk about Jet," you said. You used his real name. You said Jet. That was how I knew you were being serious.

"I made the rule, and I’m nullifying it. I want to talk.” I crossed my arms. You were incredulous at my sudden dictatorial complex. "I wanna know why you did it,” I demanded.

Sobering up, you claimed, "A guy's gotta have his reasons.” You set the scissors down, long lashes blinking. Through observation, I realized that you’d been telling the truth. Your nose had been broken. I could see the vague bump branding its bridge. It was a good feature; rough-hewn and rugged.

I exhaled softly. The sigh spread through the room like a breeze. You never did explain yourself; you never felt the need to. I don't know if it would've changed anything if you had.

I didn’t press it.

"I guess so," I mumbled. In interest of switching the topic, I asked, "Your dad at work?" I kind of looked around, like he was hiding somewhere.

Your long fingers toyed with the scissors. A sudden motherly instinct came over me; I wanted to scold you and tell you to be careful. Despite my inclination, I kept my mouth shut.

For minutes, you didn’t speak. The noiseless moments were marionettes, waiting impatiently for you or me to tug on their strings. It was the quietest few minutes I'd ever sat through in your presence. It wasn't uncomfortable, but strangely tranquil. Like we were both thinking and unsure of how to free ourselves from our stupor. In spite of this, I hated it. I would rather have sat through your energetic retellings.

You tapped the scissors on the countertop. Tap. Tap. Tap. "I doubt it," you said.

"Where is he, then?"

"Probably out drinking,” you said. “Maybe even DWI. Wouldn't be surprised either way." Guilt tingled in my gut. I felt horrible for how casual I'd been when I’d asked of his whereabouts. "He left the Friday before last. I haven't seen him since."

You shrugged a shoulder, as if the short answer was “I don’t know”.

I tried to read your expression, finally able to look at your face without ducking for cover behind a downcast glance. I couldn't measure how upset you were; you wore a mask of indifference, always having been fantastic at shielding people from your feelings.

I found myself staring at your hand. My eyes trained on the rope-like tendons in your tanned wrist. I found myself wondering how someone got the muscles in their hand to look like that. I figured it was genes. My eyes flitted like shadows to the hollows in your bicep.

My hand flinched.

"Sorry," I ended up saying.

You mustered a straight face and tried pass it off like you did with most things. "It's okay," you said. As if I was the one who needed reassurance. "No biggie." You were loud again, fixing your shorts and fidgeting in your chair, like you could drown your incubi in a flood of noise.

"Grab that glue for me?" you asked. I put it in your hand. You ripped off the cap with your teeth. "Let’s get my crafts on.”

So we got back to work.

I tried to drive the conversation in other directions. Your carefree rambles loosened my tongue a little. I allowed myself to make conversation. You asked if I played any sports. I said track and tennis. You told me you could beat me at both if you tried. You challenged me to a running race, which I refused, claiming that I’d beat you by a landslide.

Your eyebrows jumped, lips curling. "Whoa. C'mon, sweetheart, I know why you really don't wanna play with me. I'm a white Usain Bolt. You better get an oxygen mask, ‘cause you’re gonna be choking on my dust."

“I wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings,” I told you. “But actions speak louder than words.”

"Is that a challenge?" you asked, craving juvenile competition.

"Maybe," I admitted.

You tapped your Sharpie on the table in a rhythmic succession. You then made oral percussionist sound-effects, before pretending to crash the cymbal (i.e. your Gatorade bottle). "I'm taking that as a challenge—“ You pointed at me with the marker. "—and you're gonna regret it."

"Seems like you're the one who's gonna regret it," I said.

"Look who’s talking now," you said, voice raising comically, "maybe you oughta put your money where your mouth is?”

My heart jumped, eyes widening. "I don't bet," I insisted.

"You do now, Sugar," you told me. "What do you think, ten bucks says you'll choke?"

I snorted. "You're insane."

"I'm serious, is what I am." A dimple flashed in your right cheek.

"Alright, fine," I said, feigning exhaustion, "You're on."

You grinned at me for a good ten seconds, saying nothing. Your eye sparkled with the upturn of your lips.

Then you lost interest. No sooner were you back at it, snipping away at the excess cardboard. Tongue hanging out of your mouth. Arm muscles tense with the effort.

My marker lingered over an unfinished square. I suppressed the pulse in my gut, and pressed for firmly on the paper, hoping to calm my nerves.

I had a feeling that spite would no longer do the trick.