O Valencia!

IV.

“I swore to no compromise”

One time when Rosaline knocks on his door, Tristan actually answers, and stands awkwardly in the doorframe, avoiding her eyes. She smells just like Reuben, Tristan thinks when Rosaline places two gentle hands on either side of his face and raises it so that she can look him in the eyes.

“Tris, how are you holding up?” Rosaline asks, because it is almost January, and that is when most of his university applications are due.

“Fine.” says Tristan though it really really isn’t.

He’s only done with two of his essays, because every time he writes a sentence he hates it and has to rewrite it at least three times before he is even partially satisfied. With every re-write he feels more and more inadequate. His words fall short of the paper he dreams, when he is up late into the night working. They melt on contact with the air, turn back to liquid ink and seep into the sockets of his eyes, transforming the delicate skin stretched above into a bruised-looking wreck.

So Tristan closes the door on his sister, and sits back down to work again. But the view from his window reminds him of the long night drives he takes when he thinks about Reuben too much, and then his mind is snared again, and all he can do is fill his head with the way Reuben laughs. Groaning, Tristan walks to the window and shoves it open. Sticks his leg over the sash and sags into the embrace of the persimmon tree and barely makes it down. When he steps into the night and drives out past the causeway he goes the farthest he’s ever been.

Bear occasionally asks after Tristan. On a bleak day when they are all together at Starcrossed during Rosaline’s break, Bear asks Rosaline if he is OK; if he is talking or eating enough, because Bear never sees him eat at school. Rosaline sighs and says she is worried. Reuben just snorts, so Rosaline elbows him in the side.

“I’m sure he’ll be just fine,” Reuben assures Bear with only a slight hint of sarcasm, “He’ll get into whatever universities he wants.”

“Yeah, I guess. He’s really smart.” Bear squeezes Rosaline’s hand and she smiles at him, and says, “Thanks.”

Tristan isn’t okay though, and he can feel the tension building under his skin. His eyes burn and he feels stretched and blurred. He can’t remember the last time he ate, or slept the night through, until he’s so distracted by the ringing in his ears, that when Bear touches his arm during AP British Literature, he falls out of his chair violently. After the class has quieted down again and Tristan has resumed his seat, he turns around and hisses at Bear.

“What do you want?”

“I just, well, wanted to know if you were okay. I- I mean Rosaline, is worried about you.”

“Well, it’s none of your business.” Tristan sneers at him.

Bear doesn’t answer, so Tristan turns around again, only to feel a light touch on his back a few minutes later. He doesn’t respond, but Bear whispers, “Is there anything I can do?” anyway.

“No! And I already told you so GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FACE!” Tristan is surprised to find himself out of his seat and yelling. The teacher, surprised too, and less than amused, assigns him eight hours of Saturday school. Which is okay with Tristan, because it just means that there will be a change of essay writing location.

The ensuing detention is uneventful, and takes place in the school’s old library with the curious smelling carpet. Uneventful, except for the last five minutes. Tristan is sitting at a rickety plastic desk painted to appear like wood, and staring at the horrendous orange carpet mindlessly while he attempts to write a closing paragraph when it happens.

“Psst.” He hears a voice restrainedly whisper from the desk to his left. Remembering how he got into detention in the first place, Tristan takes a deep breath before turning around.

“What?” He asks in a tone he hopes approaches civility, and faces the boy trying to catch his attention.

“Do you have an extra pen?” asks a boy with dark hair, who Tristan recognizes from his Calculus class.

“Are you serious?” Tristan hisses back, all traces of tolerance gone. “There’s only five minutes left!”

“So?”

“So,” emphasizes Tristan, “how much work are you possibly going to get done with my pen in five minutes?”

“But after five minutes, you won’t be sitting there anymore.”

“What?” Tristan sighs in exasperation, but hands his ballpoint pen over to the other boy anyway.

“Thanks.” he says.

Tristan only grunts in response and eyes the clock longingly, all hope for a closing paragraph abandoned. When the bell rings, Tristan leaps out of his chair and is out the door before he remembers his pen. When he does think of it, he turns, and finds the boy behind him, smiling.

“Here’s your pen back,” he says, “safe and sound.”

Tristan takes his pen, and starts to walk away without another word, before the boy calls out from behind him, “Wait!”

Tristan stops, but doesn’t turn around. “What is it now?”

“It’s Tristan, right?”

“Yeah.” says Tristan grudgingly.

“I’m Marius.” he says, and confronts Tristan again. “Will you let me paint you?”

“What?!” Tristan splutters, at a total loss for words.

“I want to paint you. It’s what I was doing earlier; sketching you.”

“Um.” says Tristan. “Are you kidding?”

“Not at all. I really like your profile; it’s very elegant.” Marius says and gestures gracefully with his hand to indicate Tristan’s face. Tristan just looks down at Marius’s paint-spattered jeans and realizes that he should have known that Marius was an artist.

“But I’m not- I don’t-” Tristan stutters “Are you sure you want to paint me?”

“Didn’t I just say?” Marius grins.

“Um. Okay.” Tristan finally says.

“Awesome!” exclaims Marius. “Meet me at Cross St Park tomorrow at two, okay?”

“Okay.” Agrees Tristan, already regretting agreeing to sit for Marius as he watches the other boy fairly dance away.

What have I gotten myself into?

Track List for this chapter

“St. Simon” by The Shins

…

Can you find the reference?