Inhale, Exhale

by Matthews, C. L.

  “Awe, come on! High school is so fun!” she responds cheerfully.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Then, how about you go to school for me?” I joke, stuffing another piece of meaty goodness in my mouth. And I wonder why I feel so winded while running.

  “Don’t be so stressed. Life goes by fast. Enjoy the small things, like school for example.” She nudges my chin before taking off her apron. Mom hums while she shuffles around the kitchen, cleaning and packing Dad’s lunch.

  Not sure how she does it, spending every extra minute she has making our meals, taking care of me and Nate... where does the time come from?

  After I finish scarfing down every bit of grease, I clean my plate and text Ellie that I’m heading out.

  “See you afterward?” I ask, heading for the front door.

  “Yes, and you’ll have a good day. Watch.”

  Always the positive one, my mom. I wave at her, dreading that it means I have to actually walk to school.

  You left yet? Ellie texts moments later.

  Yup. Be there in fifteen. I respond.

  Hurry up, would ya? I don’t want to be early and alone. That’s what losers do.

  I laugh at her text. She’s such a snob.

  After grabbing my backpack, since I haven’t actually left yet, I start my journey.

  It doesn’t take as long as I imagined. At least I only have to walk until I get my license. Mom and Dad said they’ll pitch in for a car, and if I do well this year, it’s mine.

  “Loren!” Ellie screeches, making a big scene as usual.

  She hauls herself over to me, flinging herself into my arms. I have to hurry and adjust so she doesn’t take us both down with her show. Such a drama queen.

  “God, Eleanor. Could you bring any more attention to us?” I roll my eyes, wanting to hide away in the bathroom and escape the watchful gazes of everyone around us.

  “Don’t be a buzzkill, Ren. It’s all fun,” she chastises, clucking her tongue at me. She smiles at the other kids staring at her, absorbing their stares, greedy for them.

  “Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” I return dryly. My eyes capture other girls that look like they’d be Ellie’s friends. When one of them gives me a quirked eyebrow that screams what are you looking at? I turn my attention back to my friend.

  “Okay, what’s stuck up your ass? It’s obviously not a cock. What gives?” Ellie admonishes, placing her hands on her dainty hips.

  “Really?” My face flames as people stop their pursuit, gawking at us like we’re the most entertaining thing since cell phones. I don’t even chance a glance at the girls that were acting like I was gum at the bottom of their shoes. “I’m not like you, Ellie. I don’t thrive from self-absorption.”

  She frowns, jutting out her bottom lip in a pout. “You’re my best friend, Ren. Don’t ruin the mood. Be happy and cheery, like when you get a new Crossword Mania book.”

  Books, I understand. It’s people, I don’t.

  “Fuck off,” I growl, only halfway meaning it. “Please don’t make my enormous weirdo spotlight any larger. It’s bad enough I’m the nerd with a cheerleader best friend. Label my forehead with a cliché sticker, why don’t ya? I don’t need more people staring at me like I’m a social pariah. I’m trying to fly by high school unnoticed.”

  “Fine, fine, but only because I love you,” she surrenders, putting her hands up.

  I scoff. She loves herself. Yeah, we’re best friends, and yeah, she always has my back, but Eleanor Graves has her own back first, and everything and everyone else comes after.

  I learned that the hard way.

  We walk arm in arm to the tables at the commons area. At least, that’s what the director called it. It looks like another school foyer to me.

  “Name?” the blonde woman asks us.

  “Graves,” Ellie says.

  “Tanner,” I reply at the same time.

  She thumbs through the files, her eyes scanning everything. When I’m about to ask her if there’s an issue, she’s pulling out two files. “Ah, here we are.”

  She hands me an enclosed envelope with my class schedule, picture times for IDs, and fliers. “Enjoy! Make sure to stop at the college prep tables. They’re super informative.”

  “Of course,” I say with enthusiasm.

  Ellie grunts and rolls her eyes. She’s hoping to graduate and stay at home forever. She wants to be a trophy wife. If you knew how many children she wanted to have, you’d probably pray for her at church.

  “Shit, these classes are all boring. The only one I’m excited for is the cheer one,” Ellie complains. Her eyes scan her paper, the unease in her expression nearly has me laughing at her expense.

  Meanwhile, I’m dancing on the inside with all the courses I have. Culinary. Home Ec. AP Chemistry. 3D Art. Everything I asked for. The others are inconsequential. They’re only necessary to graduate.

  She grabs my schedule from me, her gaze flying over the paper. She’s not much of a reader, so I know she’s only looking at the teacher’s names.

  “We have zero classes together.”

  Thank the Lord up above.

  “Oh, no,” I feign sadness. “Maybe next semester?” Whenever Ellie and I had shared classes, she always copied my work and did nothing. When we were paired as group partners, she never participated. And worst of all, when boys asked her for help, she asked me to do their work and pretended she did it. She’s unbelievable.

  “Ugh. This sucks,” she complains. “You need to stop being smart, Renny. I can’t keep up.”

  “Let’s go get our picture taken,” I say to change the subject, turning around and heading toward the auditorium.

  She follows behind me, and I pray she doesn’t cause any more of a ruckus.

  “Get your picture scan cards ready!” a young guy with shaggy hair and a similar taste in clothes to my own yells. He lifts a laminated paper with a barcode, showing everyone. “It looks like this. You’ll find it in your packet.”

  After he turns around, I search in my envelope and find it. Taking it out, I see it has my name, my grade, and a barcode.

  Everyone’s busy. People mull around, some like chickens with their heads cut off, some like zombies. Others, like me, are stuck in a trance—unmoving and stale. We are separated by three lines. Ellie gets put in the one on the left of me. I’m out of sorts here. People give me anxiety and crowds make me feel claustrophobic. It doesn’t help that they’re all taller than me, too.

  When someone bumps into my shoulder, I’m nearly thrown to the ground. I stumble for my footing, trying to steady myself.

  “Oh, fuck! I’m sorry!” a tall, brown-haired guy apologizes but doesn’t turn or even offer to help me. He hurries off before I get a good look at him.

  Of course, that’s just my luck. Asshole.

  I hurry through the line, get my picture taken, and hustle through Orientation. I stop at every class, find my locker, and make sure I know all the shortcuts so I’m not late to the classes that are on opposite sides of the school come Monday.

  I’m ready. Or as ready as one can be for high school.

  chapter two

  Lo

  It’s the first week of school. Yay. Insert sarcastic remark here...

  Ellie and I only have one lunch together, and our schedules suck, too. I might not like her antics or constant requirement for attention, but I wish I wouldn’t have to be alone at a random table in the middle of the cafeteria for thirty-five minutes a day. She fills the noiseless room full of people with her incessant chatter, helping to distract me and keeping randos from trying to be friendly. I’m not like normal teenage girls. I don’t have friends. It’s just Ellie, and it’s not like she needs me either. She has other friends, her cheerleading bimbos who make my skin itch. I’m a loner, the comfortable-in-my-silence kind. An introvert by choice. Being alone hasn’t ever scared me, but not having Ellie at all is depressing while at school. How can I joke about all the cheerleaders and snobby drama kids witho
ut her around? I can’t. Not that I should do it while she’s around since she’s one of them, but she also makes fun of them, too. She only hangs out with them to catch Francis’ attention, her newest crush.

  Making my way to Home Ec, I spot a kid I’ve never seen before. He has dusty but shaggy brunette hair with those natural sun-made highlights giving it several tones. It’s pretty.

  Pretty? A laugh slips through me. I just called a guy’s hair pretty.

  It’s also familiar.

  Not in the way that means I know people that have glowing hair but more in the sense that he’s giving me déjà vu.

  I can’t see his face. He’s turned too far away, but he’s tall and bulky like he plays sports or exercises too much. We only offer a few sports here at Hollow Ridge, and he looks like the regular jock type.

  Squinting at the back of his head, I realize he looks more than vaguely familiar to me. When it finally hits me, it takes everything not to swear at his stupid face. He’s the fucker who hit me at Orientation, the one I didn’t quite see.

  A few girls litter around him. New guy means new bait for the sleazy girls that need attention. He didn’t go to my junior high, but there are three in the city limits. He’s new to me, and I notice most people. What a bore.

  I try to walk around their little group, but they’re too close together, completely blocking entry to the class. Good lord, do they not have priorities? College isn’t that far away.

  Actually, it’s thirteen-hundred and seventy-one days.

  That’s too close for comfort.

  “Excuse me,” I grunt, trying to get in the door. I’m not exactly opposed to shoving them out of my way. As I said, priorities.

  The girls look at me, curling their lips and not moving to let me through. When the boy turns to me, his facial expression goes from amused to wonder. Or, at least, it looks like wonder. Maybe he’s curious as to why I take education seriously. Because I’ll have my culinary degree in no time but not if they keep blocking my way. Not if they stop my studiousness. Most kids my age couldn’t care less and this bunch fits the bill.

  “Excuse me. I really need to get to class,” I muster again, trying my hardest to be polite.

  After all, there’s no need to create enemies so early on. It’s only my first week, and being an outcast freshman doesn’t sound pleasant.

  Still staring at his soft, hazel eyes that seem to eat me up with each passing moment, I try to smile. His mouth tilts in a smirk, and the devious glint reflecting in those irises already warn me of trouble. Trouble I don’t have time for.

  “I’ll move if you promise to go to the Sweetheart’s dance with me.” It isn’t a question, but it also isn’t demanding.

  If this cocky jockstrap thinks I’ll go to some lame ass event, that I’ll waste my study time, he’s sorely mistaken. Pushing the strap of my backpack back onto my shoulder, I narrow my eyes at the stranger. “Nice try, cowboy, but I’d rather never graduate from high school. Thanks.”

  Without another glance at the dude, I shove past him, knocking his shoulder harshly. Bullies can suck it, and if any guy thinks he can barter his way into something by being a douche, I’ll show him where he stands. Or sit, after I push them on the floor.

  After getting through the door, I notice most seats are taken. Fantastic. In the back, my least favorite place to be, there are two long, joined tables. In this class, we’re given tables like ones from a kitchen. They have a compartment that holds a sewing machine. You can flip it inside with a simple press of a few buttons. It has an area for books and the tools you’ll need throughout the course beneath.

  I sit down, avoiding eye contact with the last of the stragglers. Pulling out my notebook and favorite mechanical pencil, I start my Cornell notes immediately. Right as I’m about to finish the left column, the chair next to me scrapes obnoxiously. My body tenses at the intrusion. The sound making me cringe, like when someone grinds ice between their teeth, or scrapes a chalkboard with nails, or even rakes a fork against a plate. Cruel and unusual punishment if you ask me.

  Braving a glance in the general direction, I spot Douche Boy. Oh, the wonder. He grins smugly, his eyes seem to smile along with his mouth. It’s annoying, especially how perfectly white his teeth are. With my coffee habit, mine are already stained. Not even my whitening toothpaste could do what his seems to accomplish.

  He pulls out a notebook and pen. My eyes connect with the black Bic utensil. Bad move if you ask me. Pens are permanent. You can’t erase or fix anything. The marks are there to stay. You’ll end up with scribbles or ink blots if you’re not satisfied with what you’ve done. Messy and needless. The fact that I’m thinking too diligently about a pen only shows how much avoidance I’m putting into staying silent by not saying anything to him.

  “You know, there’s this sparkle of mischief in your eyes when you glare at me. Like you’re plotting the next ten years of torture, writing them out accordingly, and waiting for the go-ahead,” his self-assured voice muses.

  I can’t help it. I laugh. If I were that person, that’d be an accurate description. I don’t hold that much contempt, though, especially barely knowing the guy. My mom taught me to let the hard and frustrating things go. Inhale the cool shit. Exhale the bullshit. My mom, the most insightful woman in the world. She always guides me in the right direction.

  “What’s your name? At least give me that much,” he says with another small smile. It’s charming in an annoying way.

  I can see myself being friends with him, and even thinking that has me wanting to do a double take on life. Who is this Loren, and where did she come from?

  “It’s none of your business,” I return with an awkward, toothy grin. He’s not swooping in and getting whatever he pleases because he has a pretty face. Lots of guys have pretty faces, and they’ve received nothing from me. This particular one won’t change a thing, either.

  “Then, I’ll be calling you Sparkle,” he confirms with conviction. His face appears serious, and in return, I shake my head at his nonsense. The teacher finally comes, pairing us off and jumping in with the lecture of using the right sewing needle with the correct fabric and string. The look on my table mate’s face has me stifling a giggle. He seems absolutely horrified.

  Not me. I’m excited for the babies and cooking. For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to become a fancy chef and a mother of two. A boy and girl preferably. My mom told me that since turning seven, I came up to her and told her I wanted to be a mommy like her. She said she knew that I’d be the best mom because that’s all I’ve ever dreamed of being. Now, I’m in Home Ec, waiting to take home a plastic child. Yay me.

  Please don’t turn into Chucky while I sleep, okay?

  “You know, Sparkle. I’ll eventually wear you down,” he challenges twenty minutes later with a joking lilt to his voice, reminding me that he’s here and being in la-la land doesn’t get me straight A’s.

  “Or I’ll get a restraining order for your ego. Because let’s face it, that’s what’s wrong here.” I wink at him, his mouth hanging open. Speechless. “If you can possibly put aside the fact that you have a penis and will eventually want to bone me, maybe we can be friends. I’m all about being focused until college. No matter how cute you are, you won’t be ruining my five-year plan, jock-boy.”

  “So, you think I’m cute?” I roll my eyes and make an unladylike intolerant noise, wanting to smack the back of his head for being such a child.

  “Of course, out of all of that, that’s the only thing you absorbed from this conversation.”

  “Well, it’s the first time you’ve said anything nice to me. And jock-boy? Really? How about Tobe. Toby the Great. Or even, oooh, baby? I like those alternatives a lot more.”

  “Of course you do, Tobias,” I grumble. Picking that name out of my ass ‘cause I don’t know this guy, and Toby is generally short for Tobias. How biblical sounding.

  “Hey, there we go. Much better than the jock comment.”

  “And, n
ow you’ve ruined it again.”

  “We are going to be best friends, Sparkle. You’ll see.”

  And that’s when Tobias Hayes became obsessed with me. He can’t seem to let go. I’ve caved to his humor, but his attempts at being more than friends... yeah, that’ll never happen.

  chapter three

  Lo

  “Sparkle! Wait up!” Toby yells, running across the courtyard toward me. If he hadn’t already seen me, I would book it in the other direction. For the last few months, he’s been relentless. He’s always wanting to study, hang out, or go to parties, and I’m sure this is no different.

  I never said yes then, and my answer won’t change now.

  He always walks me to class, which isn’t that special since our schedules are nearly identical. Who says jocks can’t be intelligent? He’s a walking contradiction. He’s a muscular ab-fest and also a geek like me. It’s good we have some things in common, or I’d completely ignore him.

  “Come on. Slow the fuck down!” he gripes, practically tripping over his feet.

  I laugh at his calling me out. He already knows me better than Ellie, and we’re best friends. I’m an avoider connoisseur.

  “I can see you laughing, Sparkle!”

  God. Will he ever give up?

  “Don’t make me tell them about our torrid love affair!” he shouts dramatically right as I’m preparing to escape.

  I halt, my body frozen. Why are boys such dicks?

  People around us stare with curiosity. Girls give me the stink eye while guys make crude gestures. They’re openly gawking, and I hate when people do that. If there’s an opposite for socialite, it’s Loren Tanner.

  Toby reaches me, his chest heaving with exertion, his hands on his hips attempting to catch his breath. I muster the dirtiest look imaginable, throwing him every disgusting word in the Oxford dictionary with that one expression.

  “Are you constipated?” he asks a bit too loudly.

  Smacking his chest, I groan. I flip him the bird, “You’re such an asshole, Toby.”

  “And you’re always avoiding me. I told you, Sparkle. We’re going to be best friends.”