Pulling At Skin

The girl in the light blue sweater shuffles her feet and twists her fingers around in a way that makes me look up at her face and notice the slight downward tilt of her smile and droop in her eyes. She doesn’t want to be here and the sweater is too tight for her liking. I can tell because she pulls at the sleeves in a nervous way that I sometimes do to my skin. 

She might be a little tired and very scared and I see her. I hear you, I want to whisper down the invisible line. Instead, I watch as she’s led away by the loud girls around her that she must call friends. My eyes follow her little blue sweater as she shuffles slowly away in a ring of pressure and so-called besties. 

I cross my arms in the thick hoodie I’ve swaddled myself in and wonder if anyone else has watched me be led away like this and heard my silent cries. 

They probably walked away too.

Fourth period calculus makes my brain hurt a little bit. Not actually, this class is actually fairly straightforward, and math is a rather safe subject for me. But any class this late into the day is enough to make my brain hurt. I keep trying to pay attention but I can’t find a notch to latch my brain onto. My professor’s words seem to slide over my smooth brain and avoid my general bubble of thought. 

Instead, my eyes scan across the room and pick through the people like sand going through a filter. I always do this. I always find someone. 

Two years ago, it was the girl in my PE group, the only other person in my grade. She was a bit taller than me, and wore her hair down like a cape. She asked for my name with a smile and then she would jog over to her friends. But even from afar, I could see the way the other girls revolved around. What a presence. She moved away a month into the school year and I’ve never seen her again. 

Last year, it had been during a volleyball match. She caught my attention on the way in, not too tall but still taller than me, with wispy bangs and jet black hair tied in a bun. When the ref called for coin toss, two captains walked up alongside our captains, but it was easy to tell that she was the real leader. She’s so pretty. And her touch made the ball seem sentient, so in favor of her. Every touch of her ball was controlled and calculated, and I wish I could do that. Her team beat ours 25-11. I didn’t even mind. 

A few months ago, during dance auditions, I found another person to watch, another girl to catch. She wasn’t in my year, and she acted like it too. Proud, and happy, and so very free. Every step she took was full of expression and when she danced she made the music see alive. A slight tip of her head, and a twitch in her fingers and the whole world would pale in comparison. She made it in and I didn’t, but I think it makes sense. I couldn’t possibly be put amongst people like her. 

The point is, I always find something, someone my mind latches onto and won’t let go. It’s almost instinctual, I don’t know. It just always happens. Almost every group of people I have ever met, I always find one. And I don’t know what it is about them, they always seem perfect. Or at least, perfect in all the ways that matter. 

Today though, it is the boy sitting at the back of the class, in a dark gray hooding and sweats wearing an expression so bored I bet it could’ve rivaled my own. No, it didn’t just rival, it beat mine. His white pen spun smoothly in his pale, long fingers in a practiced motion. My eyes couldn’t leave. 

As subtly as I could, I raised my eyes and gave him a once-over. Inky black hair with a faint curl that brushed across his forehead, pale skin even for the winter, and a silver cross earring on both sides. How bold. How easily beautiful. 

I’m not exactly beautiful, but I’m not an eyesore. It’s not easy for me, though. 

He wears his face like the glassy reflection of a lake. Smooth and still on the outside, and yet something inside me says that if I just brushed the surface, I would find deep waters and secrets in the sand. 

Even though it’s almost two months into the semester, I don’t know his name. I’m not usually awake enough past fourth period to learn the names of my classmates. In fact, I’d hardly paid any attention to anyone except my own dreams and imagination, as well as the occasional lecture. I haven’t been too present, these past weeks at school. I keep feeling like I’m somewhere else. 

I do know that he’s quiet, and a loner, and that he doesn’t like this class any more than me. I know that he shares one other class with me, and that he doesn’t know who I am. I know that he probably won’t want to. Not many people I choose actually want to know me, even though I ….. So badly. 

He turns to me, eyes narrowed, but I turn away before they can catch on mine. 

I personally don’t believe in meeting things by chance.

In my life, there is no by chance. I believe in magic, and fate, and dreams coming true— but something about that happening to me by chance doesn’t make sense. Instead, I will watch to see when they come out of class or where they like to hang out, or what interests them, and I will put in the work to stand out to them. 

Which is how I find myself staring at the mystery boy’s locker, a hallway away from mine, and wishing mine were right here as well. Because then, maybe I could meet him by chance and find something in those lakes.

But I am standing here as people pass on by like I’m a stone jutting out of a rushing current. I wish I were in the lake instead.That the people around me would fall flat like the stillness of smooth surface. So I turn on my heel and don’t look back at the green metal locker as I walk away. 

When eighth period finally starts, the hallways drain out and I’m free to walk around without the noise or suffocation. I meander my way to the library, and I don’t know why I take the extra loop around the commons room. Maybe I’m hoping someone will find me and ask how I am. I don’t want that, though. I don’t want someone to ask how I am because then I will have to avoid the question and dance around the topic. Because I don’t want to lie. I don’t want to like the one person who might finally want to know me.

So I make my rounds and end up in the library, letting out a sigh of relief at the sight of the near silent room and sprinkled people studying in chairs. It’s too much work to sit down at a table with someone else there, and risk not being able to focus because of their presence, so I pick a small empty table and set my backpack on the only other chair with a huff. 

It’s not that I dislike people. 

I like people, probably too much for my own good. I want someone to care about me, to stare at the doors waiting for me to walk in, to save an extra spot for me at lunch, and to rush out of class to walk me to the next one. I want a best friend, one like in the movies. 

More than that I want someone to understand. I know, however, that no one like me would ever offer to talk, or have a relationship, or be friends with me, because I wouldn’t either. And so neither would they, though I don’t blame them. I blame myself. It seems like the fool-proof fill in the blank answer nowadays. 

I sigh and pull out my algebra textbook, looking over the next few units. My eyes glaze over the words, none of it sinking in, but I don’t look away either. I can’t, because I don’t want to see the world right now. The textbook is boring, but the textbook is safe. 

So I sat in my never-ending staring contest with the text book for the next twenty minutes, but maybe I spent that whole time waiting for someone. 

They never come. 

On my way out of the library, my eyes feel like they’ve just survived a bucket of bleach and I’m pretty sure I’ve caught myself dissociating. The feeling of a long school day is kind of an endless number, a feeling that settles over your bones like a protective layer of grease. It’s kind of comforting and disgusting at the same time. 

I’m still disassociating when I walk headfirst into a pole, until the pole becomes soft and moving in front of me. God, maybe I took dissociating a step too far. 

“Sorry,” A voice mumbles and I take a step back to squint up at the not-pole. I choke on my breath and then swallow it anyway because it’s him. 

“You’re good,” I stutter a little but I hope he doesn’t notice because he’s rubbing the back of his neck and diverting his eyes. I do the same. And while I’m still trying my best not to blurt something stupid or get too lost in a train of thought, something must click inside his head because he looks up abruptly.

“Hey, you’re in my math class, right? Reira?” I nod mutely and blink at him. “I left my book at my dads house, mind if I borrow yours for the homework? I can be quick.” I nod again, and then he hesitates, so I start my U-turn and start walking towards the library. He’s quick to follow. 

How lucky I am, to be sitting in front of the boy, Asher, I learn is his name, whose locker I stared at for all of passing period. How fortunate that I am now watching as he completes the homework for the next two classes in record time. Truly, how coincidental. 

I still don’t believe in coincidences. 

He talks a little as he does his work, long fingers spinning a thick metal mechanical pencil. I watch, hypnotized. When I was younger, I once told my mom that I wished I had long, pretty fingers. God, this world works in such twisted ways. But his fingers never stop and his eyes stay on his book, still and focused and everything I try to be. Such ease, such practiced motions. Such simple, undeniable, easy beauty. I wonder what it’s like to live with that.

And then he’s putting his pens away and closing my textbook. I suck in a breath, but I might have imagined that because I’m pretty sure I’m suffocating. No, I can’t just let him leave now, not when I’ve finally been given a chance. 

“Wait-” 

He turns around.

I freeze. 

“What?”

I suck in a breath and he tilts his head 

“Nothing.” 

He turns away. 

“Just—”

He blinks at me slowly, his gaze heavy but comfortable. Like a weighted blanket in the winter. I blink back, suddenly forgetting everything except the weighted blanket watching me slowly in the cold, cold winter. 

Asher cocks his head and I snap back into reality. 

“You, uhm, did the math really fast. Do you mind helping me?” I stutter the words out and he watches me, raising his eyebrows just barely. Red fans slowly up my neck and I try to will my cheeks paler. 

“Sure. I don’t have time right now though, does tomorrow after school work?” He speaks evenly and smoothly, like another sheet of smooth water on a lake I’ve been throwing rocks at for the past hour. So far, every pebble I’ve thrown has skipped over the glassy surface. Maybe I will never break it. But maybe I will. 

“Okay. That works.” I murmur hastily as Asher packs his bags and hands me back my text book. Red has finally made its way to my cheeks and I hug the textbook tight against my chest. That might have been the most anxiety-inducing moment of my life, and the result might finally make my life worthwhile.

On Friday morning, I style my hair and curl my bangs. I dress in baggy jeans and a fitted long sleeve shirt that makes me look a little more like the skinny influencers on social media. The suffocating fabric makes my skin crawl. I also bring out the nice shoes that I wouldn’t usually dare to wear on an A-day. Friday means I have PE in the morning, which means I shouldn’t be working the nice kicks. But it’s raining outside, so PE will be indoors. And I feel like I need to be dressed to impress. 

I consider bringing snacks, but then decide against it. I don’t want to seem like I eat junk-food much. I do, though. 

That morning, a group of girls who I don’t know much about, just that they are pretty popular (certainly unlike like me) comes up and asks me to be a part of the girls theatre club. I hate theatre. They know that, and  I twist my fingers in my lap as they goad me on and on and on. They don’t stop talking and complimenting me, saying my hair is so nice and how good it would look on stage. How my sweater is so pretty and stylish and they all secretly admired me from afar. 

I know what they say about me from afar. 

So I nod and bob my head enough times that they take it as a dubious yes and go away. They don’t want me. They don’t want the someone that I am. They want something. 

I pay it no attention. 

I spend the next seven hours of school carefully avoiding all of the girls in my grade entirely. Truthfully, it’s quite impressive how predictable they are. By the end of the day, I’m buzzing with light nervousness like a bee hovering over the still water. This is my person and I have never talked to any of my people before. Never. 

It’s raining but none of the gloom reaches me. It’s cloudy and dark outside but everything is too shades brighter to my eyes because I believe my eyes can smile too. It’s like looking at the world through lenses a little foggy and a bit too bright; it smoothes out the sharp edges of the world and brightens the dark corners. 

So I walk to the library with a bounce in my step and wander around until I catch Asher at an empty table, spinning a pen in his fingers. He doesn’t notice me until I pull a chair up and set my backpack down on the floor. And even when he does look up, there’s minimal reaction. 

No matter. 

“Hi.” I muster up my courage and utter the first word. He hums in response and I force myself not to frown. I pull out my math textbook and he pulls out his work. 

“What do you need help with?”
At this question, I actually have to pry my brain awake and think back on my last math test. What did I even mess up? Did I lose any points at all? No, I’m sure I did. And I’m sure they were small, stupid mistakes that are completely unimportant until this starts piling up and ticking off points. Much like words. 

“Just, the last bit of unit 4.” And the lesson starts. I am just now realizing how similar this is to a tutoring session except Asher is way better than any non-existent tutor in my life. I know most of the answers but he’s patient when I calculate wrong. He points out spots I need to double check. He doesn’t say anything about the fact that I keep making the same mistakes and I know it. 

And he has a surprisingly interesting sense of humor. 

I like it. 

And so the unit ends but the conversation doesn’t, and he starts telling me about his favorite classes and what clubs he’s in. I tell him about my least favorite teachers and all the best lunch spots on campus. We talk about all the small things I usually leave for my shower walls. 

“Reira!” Someone calls my name, except it’s not my name because they pronounce it r-EYE-ra. I whip my head toward the sound and find the same group of girls that approached me this morning. I flinch automatically, and suck in on myself. 

“Come one! Reira, it’s the first theatre meeting, you have to come!”
“It won’t be nearly as awesome without you, and you still haven’t signed up!”

You don’t care about me, but you need seven official members to make a club, I think my head. The words pound at the edge of my lips but I swallow them. 

“Right now?” I look at Asher, who watches the girls slowly, as if he is trying to pick apart an invisible puzzle. 

“Yes, right now! Reira, come onnnn!”
I shuffle to my feet and sling my backpack on one shoulder, and everything starts to move in slow motion. My fingers wring themselves out and rub against my jeans as the smile lifting my lips starts to droop. Everything seems to go down three shades darker, almost as if my eyes are drooping too. 

Discomfort crawls up my skin, and I tug at the sleeves of my sweater and the skin on my arms. I murmur a quick goodbye to Asher. He’s still watching, watching me this time. I feel like he knows and I feel like he cares, but he doesn’t stand up and he doesn’t mutter a word. I wonder if he can hear my silent cries, I wish he could see everything else in my eyes. 

I let the tall, popular girls who don’t know how to say my name lead me to the theatre club. I let them walk me down halls even though my mind has left so long ago. They don’t need me after all, they just need something. 

From the other door to the library, I watch Asher walk away into the rain.