He wasn’t a guy you noticed. It was like he made a point of blending into the background, dressing in dark, muted colors that labeled him ‘teen’ but not much else. But there was something about the way he carried himself. Like he was afraid of where he’d come from and even more afraid of where he was headed. He kept his eyes down to avoid connection, but his hands were always fidgeting like he was desperate for someone to steady them. To hold them.
He was new. But not new enough to have made zero friends since he started going to school with us. He had to be making a real effort to remain a loner, because he was far too interesting to stay off everyone’s radar.
I couldn’t keep him off mine.
I liked the way he cracked his knuckles before he opened his locker. He did it one handed which was cool. His right fingers cracked louder than his left and I wondered if he played an instrument. Like the piano or the harp. Who plays the harp? He might. For all anyone knew he could have been a harp prodigy.
But all anyone knew was that he showed up every day, moved around silently, and then went home. If he spoke to anyone, it was out of necessity, not desire.
I don’t know how he managed it. I never stopped talking. It was like a reflex. If there was a person within hearing distance, I was talking to them, whether or not they asked me a question or gave me a look to say, “hey, you look like you’ve got something to say, let’s hear it.”
It was probably my hyperactive chattiness that kept people from wanting to be my friend. I knew everyone only ever wanted to talk about themselves, so a kid who ran their mouth off with the determination of a toddler on the pageant circuit wasn’t exactly what most people were looking for in a confidante.
Despite being alone, I didn’t feel lonely. I could always talk to myself if there was no one else around. And I did. A lot. But sometimes I missed having a face to look at. A laugh to work for. A little hum on my skin that reminded me I was a person and not just a loquacious mist floating around my peers all day long.
His face was nice to look at. Angular, but not hard. Like he was molded from clay rather than chiseled from granite. His eyes were dark, brown or green, I didn’t know. I’d never been close enough to find out. And his skin was pale. Like vampire pale, but with a wash of freckles over his nose and upper cheeks.
I’d never heard him laugh. Ever. But that didn’t mean he didn’t laugh or couldn’t. I was sure I could make him laugh. If I really worked for it.
And I didn’t need to talk to him to know he made my skin hum. It was enough to know he was a person, and that he had skin, too. Capable of humming.
After several weeks of hallway stalking, I decided a forced conversation was just what the two of us needed to break the ice. But as he passed me in the hallway, something unexpected happened.
He looked right at me. And for the first time in my life—I was speechless.
And not just because his eyes were actually blue. Dark blue. Like twilight.
My heartbeat kicked up a few notches as the back of his head disappeared down the crowded hallway. “Wait,” I said, so quietly only I could hear it.
I shuttled down the corridor, ignoring the few “hey”s and “what’s up”s I’d earned by making a recent effort to be more succinct in my greetings. I was laser focused on his tangle of dark brown hair and his swaying gait as he neared the main entrance of the school.
I was running now, dodging the shoulders of meandering locker loiterers, until I reached the doors and pushed my way out. The row of idling busses triggered my autopilot setting, but then I saw him, crossing the parking lot and heading toward the woods behind the school.
As I jogged after him, I started to argue with myself.
This was weird.
I was following him.
Like the crazed fan outside a restaurant stalking the lead singer of the band that was playing that night to his car. And just like that crazed fan, I was putting together a list of valid excuses to give him when he turned on me and asked what I thought I was doing.
“This is the way I always walk home from school. You’ve just never seen me because I’m a liar and I’ve never been on this side of the parking lot in my life.”
“Oh, you dropped this … invisible item I fabricated to give me an excuse to talk to you.”
“Look, I think you’re really cool and you have a really beautiful face and you make my skin hum and the way you crack your knuckles makes me want to tell you a joke to find out what your laugh sounds like. Did you hear the one about the psycho who followed the guy into the woods?”
I was close enough to him now that he should have sensed my presence. But he was wearing earbuds and couldn’t hear me approaching. This was good and bad. Good because I still had time to come up with a decent excuse for why I was following him. Bad because if he turned around for some reason, he was probably going to wet himself or pepper spray me in self-defense.
He stopped suddenly and slid his backpack off his shoulders. He set it down on a rock and opened the smallest pocket. He took out a folded piece of paper, opened it, and spent few moments reading it. From my hiding place behind a wall of bittersweet vine that was attempting to strangle a spruce tree, I could see the paper trembling in his hands. He folded it back up and put it in his pocket. Then he took out his earbuds.
I slapped my hand over my mouth, because normally this would be when I started talking at him. He jerked his head in my direction, and I froze. He narrowed his eyes, trying to focus on the trick his mind was playing on him. Me.
His expression softened and he started walking again, toward the sound of rushing water. The bridge over the river was close. I trusted the sound of the rapids to cover my footsteps as I followed him there.
Then I kept following him, out onto the bridge, where there was nothing to hide behind. He stopped in the center and leaned against the railing. He reached into his pocket and fingered the folded paper inside.
My mouth tasted like powdered milk and my throat felt scratchy, like first thing in the morning before you’ve said a word to anyone. If I tried to speak, would any sound come out?
But I didn’t have to speak.
“Do you ever wonder if anyone would notice if you stopped showing up?” he asked. His voice was warm and higher pitched than I’d imagined. But lovely. Really lovely.
I cleared my throat, bringing up a wad of phlegm which I promptly swallowed. “Showing up where?” My voice was thin and airy. An echo of my voice.
“School … home … life.” He cracked the knuckles of his right hand and my heart fluttered.
“I think people would notice,” I said, “if you stopped showing up.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t ask if you thought anyone would notice if I stopped showing up. I said you.”
“But you meant I,” I said, the sturdiness of my voice returning. “You just asked it in that sneaky way that makes it sound like it’s hypothetical, but it’s obviously about you. Everything is always about I, me, mine.”
He cocked his head toward me, and I watched in amazement as a smile spread across his pale face. His teeth were startlingly straight, like he’d worn braces, and he had a very deep dimple in his right cheek. When his smile softened, the dimple left a little impression, like it had been out of practice and forgot how to disappear back into his cheek muscles between smiles.
“Oh yeah?” He raised one eyebrow skillfully.
“Yeah. I mean, the universe is really big, right? But all we ever see is what’s in our own galaxy. We know what’s happening to us is important because it’s in our orbit, right? But it takes us being brave and exploring other galaxies to learn that other people’s stuff matters, too. It can’t just be I, me, mine. It has to be us. And it is us. Which is why people would notice if you stopped showing up. It would be like a planet just fell out of the sky. It would throw everybody’s orbit off. And it would be … sad … to lose such a cool planet.”
He sighed and pressed his face into his hands. His fingers were long and delicate, and I started to imagine them moving over the strings of a harp. No. A guitar. I wondered if he played. If he did, he would probably have calluses on his fingertips from pressing on the strings. I wanted to ask him if he played. Or ask to see his fingers. But both seemed weird.
“It’s just hard,” he said into his hands.
“What’s hard?”
“School … home….” He reached into his pocket again and dragged out the folded piece of paper. He turned it over and over in his hands like he was trying to absorb the contents without opening it. “Would you notice if I stopped showing up?” he asked.
“Well, I’ve been secretly stalking you for two months. Does that count?”
And then I finally heard it. His laugh.
And my skin started singing.
“That counts.” His cheeks blushed in a way that changed his whole complexion. Like a dam of warmth and color had burst under his skin. “And I should probably tell you, it wasn’t all that secretive. I noticed. I noticed you … noticing me.”
“Oh,” I said, suddenly at a loss for words. “Oops.”
He laughed again and his eyes misted over. He glanced down at the folded piece of paper in his hand. I didn’t ask him what it was. Something in my gut told me not to.
He cracked the knuckles of his left hand and tore the paper in half. And in half again. And once more. Then he threw the pieces over the railing and watched them float and spin like falling leaves. The rapids sucked them down into the rush of water. He cracked both sets of knuckles and turned to me.
“Thanks for visiting my galaxy,” he said. “That was brave of you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I really like the way you talk about things.”
I really liked having his face to talk about things to.
As we made our way back, side by side, our hands drifted together, and my heart jumped.
Calluses.
I laughed and he turned his head and smiled. “What?”
I shrugged silently to say, “nothing”.
Then I watched his dimple disappear completely.
To the place between smiles.
Galaxy Stalking
This easily could have gone dark with the boy on the bridge revealed to be a killer or a ghost.
The same tension you excel at drawing out for romantic tension could just as easily apply to the weird, horror, or spooky tale.
Just saying.
I may be learning some tricks from you.
Hey Meg, was there a reason you decided not to reveal what was on the paper? I feel like it was leading toward a revelation or confrontation.