The wind picks up the moment my thumb leaves the flint wheel of the lighter. Taking a drag off my cigarette, I lean against the tall fence surrounding the school and observe the students. It's a painfully typical high-school, I suppose — one where you can immediately spot the different cliques. The funny thing is how alike they all are. They like labelling themselves into neat categories of "jocks" and "drama freaks" and such, but their behaviour is identical. They live to boil each other's blood and they all gossip about whom gave who a blowjob. It would've been okay if it was only the sophomores or something, but the fucking seniors as well. I'd expected them to grow out of it by now, but no such luck. But hey, who am I to talk? Maybe I'm being too harsh; I just hate it when people act immature. Maybe I'm just asking for too much.
Anyway, I'm just standing behind the lovely oak tree, minding my own business, when a fucking soccer ball just bounces off my head. What the fuck?
My cigarette slips from my mouth, catching on the web of skin between my thumb and index finger before hitting the ground. Mother fucker. Now I've wasted a perfectly good cigarette. I look up in time to see Declan Miller running in my direction, blond hair ruffled and red tie askew. Great. All I need to make this peachy scenario better is this fucker.
Declan Miller is just one of those kids that, well... get on my nerves, quite frankly. The kid fits the definition of perfection down to a tee. He's beloved by teachers and students alike; he has perfect grades; he's on the debating team and the hockey team—I know, a weird combination, but it doesn't hinder his status as Mr. Popular. I don't really get it, though. I mean, who wears a fucking tie to a public school? Everyone else would be labelled nerdy for that alone—and mind you, I'm actually quite found of nerds; they make the most obscene sounds underneath me—but the point is, Declan isn't held to the same standards as everyone else. I try to refrain from making rush judgments, but Declan is just so...immaculate. Even the way he looks. I mean, he's a handsome guy, I'll give him that; but he's almost too handsome. His hair is always neatly combed—not a single strand out of place—and his eyes are unnervingly grey. He looks like a goddamn Calvin Klein advertisement come to life.
This isn't the case right now, however. The clothes hanging off his 6'2" frame are grass-stained, blond hair plastered to his forehead in sweaty strands. He looks disheveled and ready to fuck. But I'll be damned if I'll let my dick overcome my common sense.
"Are you alright?" he asks, still panting. "Sorry. We were just throwing the ball around. I guess my aim is a little off today."
You mean there's something you don't do perfectly? I snicker to myself, but don't say anything. I pick up the soccer ball and throw it to him. I bend down to pick up my cigarette—disgusting or not, these things cost over ten bucks a pack and I'm not about to waste one.
Declan is still standing there, staring at me.
"Something you need?" I ask impatiently.
"Smoking is bad for you, you know," he proclaims like he's a fucking Public Service Announcement before jogging back to his team.
Thank you, Doctor House. The kid seriously gets on my nerves.
I fish out the lighter from my jeans pocket, trying to get a flame; it's pretty futile with the fucking wind blowing in my face.
"Logan!" I look up to see Charlie heading toward me, her small frame nearly swept away by the gust of wind. I let the unlit cigarette fall, hiding my lighter back in my pocket. The last thing I need is to have her on my case for smoking again.
"Where have you been?" I ask, pulling her flush against my chest the moment she's close enough to reach. She has to be freezing.
"I had to stay back in Calculus," she replies, teeth chattering despite the warm winter jacket she's wrapped up in.
We stay like this for a few minutes, Charlie's fingers digging into my back as I try to warm her up. We sit down on a dry patch of grass and dig out our respective lunches. Charlie hold out an apple in offering and I take a bite, choking on laughter when she winks and says, "Gotcha, Adam!"
I guess this is the sort of thing that gives people the impression Charlie and I are a couple. They'd be wrong, though. The reason Charlie and I are so comfortable around each other is that our relationship is completely platonic; there's nothing there romantically. Sure, she's an attractive female—but I've known her since I was five years old. She's like a sister, only closer; what we have goes beyond blood. She calls me up at three o'clock in the morning, demanding I go out and buy her tampons. And I do.
We never deny or confirm any of the rumours, though. Our relationship is just that—ours; it's no-one's business. People can make their own hasty conclusions; it doesn't make a difference. Neither one of us is interested in dating people from school (I, for one, am just not interested in dating, period), so it's not like we're salting each other's game.
The bell rings before we get a chance to finish our lunch.
"Damn, why does lunch hour has to go by so fast?" Charlie complains, packing up her unfinished lunch.
"Come on, let's go to English," I help her up, wrapping my arm around her slim shoulders.