There's a storm building. The dark clouds are hanging in place, waiting for me. That's how I know it will happen. I wish there weren't so many people around, but they won't notice anyway. They are too busy staring at their phones. They are checking out, relieved to be able to slough off the costume that allows to make it through a school day. Now they are becoming their true selves: slugs searching for a suitable leaf to sit on while their juices digest it and its nutrients are absorbed through their skin. Not that I am any better with my games and TV shows. I should read. I often fantasize about how finally reading will make me better than everyone else. Then again, Milo reads, and he's the biggest bastard I know, so what does it even matter?
Soon I will pass the shops and be on a separated path. This is where I will try. Some bimbos are in my way. If only they would move out of my damn way so I could pass and get this over with. I'll just go in the street. But wait, one of those bimbos is Emma. Christ, why is she here? I just need to ignore her, pass, get away from everyone, and get this over with. But I can't bring myself to. I need to see her face. Is that so greedy of me? It's only a moment. It's okay. I slow down and I get closer. I just want to see her face for a second. Even to look at her from behind like this does something to me. Her hair is tucked behind her ear. Her ear is perfect. She has two of them. She's talking, but I can't see her lips. She's moving in this animated matter, like her body is buoyant and caught up in the current of her mood. I wish I could be caught in it too, but I am happy just to witness. I can make out some of what she is saying. I don't mean to eavesdrop, but what can be done if one naturally picks up a few words in passing? She seems to be pleading with her friends about something.
"Remember when we all thought Mr. Kavanaugh was banging Ms. Gauthier? They were always talking in the halls, and giving each other looks. There was obviously chemistry between them, and we found out they were meeting regularly after school. When we followed them after they snuck off at the Christmas party, we found out he was just helping her with taxes. It's like any time two things are possible, the less interesting thing happens. When we thought there was a serial killer starting off with people's pets, it turned out just to be a hyena. When Katrina went missing, she was just staying with her cousin across town. When Dave drove to school in a lambo, it turned out that his dad's company was just renting it for a day for a video they were shooting. It's all so boring. Everything is so safe and consistent. I want variation. I want something to happen. How come the guys at this school never fight? Aren't we worth fighting over? Can't a student get caught fucking a teacher? Can't the principal steal a bunch of money? Can't one of you get pregnant? I want to change the channel—"
I want to listen more, but something is wrong. I'm looking down on her. When did I get so high up? There's static building up in me: a tension between myself and the clouds. Something calls to me. I see, it has happened. I am floating weightlessly. She's looking at me. How long as she been looking at me?
I can't think. Christ, she's beautiful: her straight black hair, her smooth skin, her eyes. She has dimples and she's always smiling. What's so great that she's always smiling? Bitch. I love her. She's beautiful and I am a nothing. She's beautiful and I am the biggest loser in the school. She's beautiful, and I am a slimy, snot-ridden child. I'm no man. At some point, everyone else suddenly became an adult. I'm still a kid. I'll always be a kid. But compared to her, I'm less than that. I am a poorly put-together puppet. I am a rat in a shambling meatsuit, and I can barely keep the whole thing from falling apart. She's beautiful and I want to kill myself.
Has she seen me? For her to discover my powers has been one of my most enduring fantasies. She catches me, becomes intrigued, and we grow close. My fantasies seem to skip a few steps, as next she is kissing me, slipping her hands down my pants, and saying, “It seems I have an inflating effect upon you,” “Wanna join me in the mile high club?” and, “Pin me to the ceiling and fuck me.”
Did I arrange this on purpose? That would be just like me. It would be just like me, too, to not be aware of my own manipulations. All the same, she's seen me, and now she knows. Could fantasy become reality? No, she is looking at me with an expression that says, “You? Why you?” In this instant, I can see that she hates me.
This was the only way it could turn out. I am utterly detestable. I am cretinous. When God looks down at his festering creation, commands his generals to line up his homunculi, and comes down to Earth to inspect us one by one, it will be my molting face that he gazes upon when he says, “Something has gone terribly wrong here.” And then, in his perfect wisdom, he will wipe the board clean and start over. The testes will be stored safely inside, geese will find somewhere less disruptive to shit, a second sun will negate the effects of the Winter Solstice, humanity will learn how to pass on the left, and miserable wretches like me will never again be allowed to spawn and sully the face of the Earth with our presence.
A shy erection, a deflating balloon, this blimp is going down. I'm falling, but I can't help but look at her. God she is beautiful. And she's making a new face I've never seen on her before. I will add this to my mental collection. My front tire crashes down, wobbles, and I topple over. The sky finally releases, and the rain and thunder starts. Her friends are laughing at me. She isn't laughing. Instead, she is just wearing the same face. Something does not compute. Where are your dimples now, Emma?
* * * * *
The next day in French class I was a wreck. She was sitting across the class, to my side, and she kept looking at me.
Milo was leaning over to tell me something. Getting way too close and breathing his disgusting humid breath on the side of my face, he whispers, "Voulez-vouz couchez avec moi, ce soir?" He did this every class, and then giggled to himself in satisfaction, completely uninterested in whatever reaction I might be having. This was good. Milo's idiocy was a welcome distraction. Why was she looking at me? What was she thinking? God I hate her.
"Jason."
"Oui, Madame."
"Quelle est le conjugation du passé composé pour dire qu'un group avait dansé?"
"Nous avions dansé."
"Non. 'Nous étions'. Veux-tu être ici?"
No madame, je very much does not veux être ici. Je would like to go home and watch T.V. Shows about people in high school, because actually being here sucks. T.V shows have characters, and friendships. Real life had a ice-witch who was trying to shatter me, and Milo, with his braces, bad hygiene, poor jokes, and gameboard pieces that smelled like skunk. Every other thing about Milo was an odd smell. A nerd that wasn't any good at school: now there's a good joke. In fourth grade, the teacher said that everyone was special and the best at one thing. I immediately knew this couldn't be true, because there was Milo.
Madame went back to her lesson, and I went back to mentally defending against Emma's torment.
Milo is nudging me with his elbow. He had been carefully peeling the skin off of grapes. I knew he wanted to show me something, but I'm already tired of him. He elbows me again.
“Hey Jason,” he says, holding the naked grape up to his lips, “every grape’s a virgin.” He proceeds to bite halfway into the grape, popping it and sending juices flying. He was such a disgusting piss-ant. Even Milo’s antics can't distract me. I knew she had been staring at me all this time.
Her eyes are like cat scratches on the door to my mind. She is eye fucking me, but not in the way I want. I couldn’t sleep at all last night, instead I spent the whole time alternating between fits of mania and dread. I'm on the verge of passing out, but fear and adrenaline animate me. Of course, what I feared has come to pass, as I can see plainly in that look she keeps giving me. The look. It says, “You're vermin. You are beneath me. How dare you make me notice you.” So sorry, Emma, you're right of course. I am a nothing. It was improper of me to float in your presence. I forgot myself. Now, you look at me as though I am something unpleasant that you’ve stepped in. Might I suggest, my dear, that you wipe me off on the nearest curb, at your convenience. Better yet, take me to a professional cleaner. Erase my rotten memory with industrial soaps. Dissolve me in bleach. One such as yourself should not have to lower yourself to deal with scum like me. Of course, there are none others 'such as yourself.' There is only you. And this is only a game I’ve been playing in my mind—this mock scorn I am pretending I feel towards you. Even now, in truth, as I carefully pick my moments to glance at you, and each time, see confirmation of your hatred towards me, the resentment I feel is but a flash in the pan. Because, Emma, when I look at you...
I get out of my desk and walk out of the classroom. I beeline for my locker and open it. There's a portal inside of it. It smells like patchouli. I know what patchouli smells like because of my uncle's cologne. He lives with us because he lost a lot of money over-purchasing supply for his door-to-door beef rib sales business. Every morning, my uncle takes a sip of coffee, takes a huge shit, and drowns himself in patchouli cologne. The smell of his cologne and shit are seared into my nostrils. Does this portal lead to his toilet?
Suddenly, something smacks me right in the back, and I am flying towards the portal. There's no smell of shit, but instead I notice hints of pine and lavender. I am flooded with flashbacks to being led through walks in the park, holding my mother's hand. I am safe. I am secure. I am happy. I am going to be decapitated by ominous, unfamiliar physics. I catch myself on the edge of the locker. I whirl around and see that source of the sudden pang in my back is Emma. She is the source of many of my pangs.
"You bitch," is all I can manage.
"Go through the portal, you fucking pussy."
"You go through the portal."
"I will. But it's obviously your portal. It's in your locker. You go first. You have some kind of power. I don't know why it's happening to you, but something is happening and I want to see what it is. I don't care why. Don't tell my why. I just want to see what's through the portal. I remember learning about vikings yesterday in history. I couldn't tell you what I ate for breakfast, what I learned in French, or math, or what I did last evening. I don't give a shit about vikings. It just struck me that I bet they didn't forget entire days, or weeks. While they were killing and pillaging and freezing to death. I bet they lived every moment. I don't even exist. Does that mean anything to you? No, shut up. I don't care. Just go through the portal."
She shoves me again, this time softer, like she's asking instead of telling. I kind of like it. She does it again. I grab her hand and hold it. Something seems to be flowing from her into me. She was the sun, and all of my insides were rearranging themselves to face her. This is real magic. I know now that there is a purpose to my life, a reason for me to be here, something that made everything else worth it. The purpose of my life is to be touched by her. She is ranting and raving about the portal, but I don't hear. I only thank God. I praise Allah. I bless the holy Madonna. I give Buddha a pat on the rump, I kiss Odin, I surrender to oblivion. I have transcended and entered into the interstice of reality and dream. For, surely, to be allowed to look upon your face for so extended a period of time is a blessing I could never have hoped to have been granted outside of dreams. Yet, there you are, with all the detail and clarity and beauty reserved for the waking world. Your voice is like warm honey dripping down my throat. And your eyes—both of them—to see them up close, looking right into mine. I've never realized how many hard edges existed inside of me, or how desperately I am gripping in every moment for no reason. For, in this moment, as you look into my eyes, perfect ease is transmitted into my soul, and every fibre of my being becomes soft, warm, and effortless.Your voice reverberates in the glass walls enclosing my heart, and the dust and grime wash away. I can see now, in this brief moment, how others have managed to believe that life is worth living.
But now things are getting weird, so I fall back, I pull you with me, and we both head for the portal.
Peanut Gallery