COLSON: ?
ME: Are you that dense?
COLSON: What did I do?
I don’t know what’s so difficult to understand. If I specifically invited someone to a party, saw them there, and just ignored them, I don’t think I would be confused as to why that was bothersome. Did he forget? Who forgets something like that? Does he slight people all the time and that’s just how he rolls? Is he a fucking sociopath?
ME: Idk, acted like I didn’t exist on Friday?
COLSON: You left before I could talk to you
I clench my jaw, his response scrawled in blue pen sending a lightning bolt through my chest. What fucking arrogance. As if I bailed on him. As if he didn’t convince me to go to Cade and Anderson’s destroyed house with the collapsed porch, decaying carpet, furniture that may or may not have had dead animals hiding inside them, and linoleum that felt like it was lacquered with caramel.
ME: We were there for an hour. In the same room. You seemed busy.
I pause, turning over the words in my head. What am I debating? I can see the writing on the wall, so I might as well just say what I have to say even though I’m the most avoidant person ever. If Barrett was sitting next to me, she’d die of shock at what I’m about to say. I wiggle my purple pen between my index and middle fingers before putting it to the paper again.
ME: Do your friends ever ask why you sit with me or do they already know you just use me when you get bored?
This time, Colson stares at the notebook for much longer.
Before he can write anything else, I reach over and swipe it off his desk. I flip to the next page and began scribbling notes from the PowerPoint slides on the board. For the remainder of class, I stare ahead, refusing to look at him.
After dismissal, he stands up and steps in front of my desk, casting a shadow over me as he leans on the edge of my desk. That’s another thing, he’s also really tall, and now he’s hovering over me like a giant fucking umbrella that smells like peppermint and fabric softener.
“Brett?” His voice is soft, like he’s figuring out how to diffuse a bomb. I hope he blows both hands off.
I still don’t look at him, “Yeah?”
“Have you started your paper yet?”
“A couple pages,” I deadpan.
“Want to go to the library and work on them?”
I toss my notebook into my tote and look up. He’s looking at me intently while his fluorescent blue eyes wait for a response. “No,” I growl before sliding out of the desk and swinging my bag over my shoulder, refusing to look at him as I saunter out of the room.
Thursday is much of the same, and this time I keep my elbow planted firmly on my notebook because I don’t care what he has to say, written or otherwise. I stare at Selter’s PowerPoint comparing Dracula and Twilight while he interrogates some Junior over whether or not it’s acceptable for vampires to be sparkly emo kids. Selter’s going to lose. Once a girl in ripped jeans and crop top brings up Jacob Black and starts in on the modern relatability of werewolves and the duality of man, it’s over.
Meanwhile, all I feel are Colson’s eyes on the side of my face the entire class period.
Why does he even care what I think? He sure as hell didn’t last Friday. But for two hours straight, my left cheek tingles each time he triggers my gaze perception. I always thought that kind of thing was hokey, but I can feel him just like if he were to reach out and poke my shoulder. Maybe Colson is a vampire, with his telekinetic energy and stupid blue eyes that glow when the light hits them just right.
They’re not stupid. You love them, just like everyone else.
OK, fine, maybe I do. But he’s still a fucking prick.
Finally, the goddamn class ends and I can escape, if only to the virology lab for work. But by the time I pack up and rise from my desk, Colson is already standing in my path, blocking my exit. I remain motionless, glaring at his chest, and then realize he’s holding something at his side.
“I brought you something,” he lifts his arm and offers me a book.
I glance up at him with disdain, then at the cover. And when I do, I have to steel my reaction, clenching my jaw so that it doesn’t fall onto the floor.
It’s a first edition of Carrie, with original artwork, from back when Stephen King wasn’t Stephen King and the title on the cover was larger than his name. It looks old, the spine cracked and the pages feathered and worn with time. This book has gone through decades of redesign, where did he find an original one in short order?
It’s beautiful. And I love it. But I don’t like Colson. So, that’s a problem.
“Well,” I scowl, hiding my excitement as I study the cover, “I guess I should be grateful there wasn’t a prom for you to invite me to.” Then I shove the book into his chest and brush past him, getting angry at him all over again because I can’t keep the book purely out of principle.
It does, however, make a good story for when I tell Barrett about it in the coffee aisle at the grocery store that evening.
Barrett pushes her cart past me, stopping in front of the sugar-free syrups, “Man, you really shat him out like a goose crossing the road.”
“And the book was so cool, which of course just pissed me off all over again. Like, you blow me off to get laid and then gift me a rare book in class the next week?” I screw up my face and chuck a bag of dark roast into my cart, “Psycho…”
While scrolling through my shopping list, an Instagram notification pops up on my screen. I examine the preview, trying to register whose face I’m seeing, and stop dead in my tracks.
“Hey,” I call up to Barrett, “come see this.”
Barrett backs up her cart and peers over my shoulder. A second later, she arches her brow at Colson’s face staring back at us from the icon next to the message.
COLSON: I’m really sorry about the other night. I was a huge dick to you. Can you please talk to me?
“Well, well, well…” a sardonic grin creeps across Barrett’s face, “I think you should ignore him until tomorrow.”
“He can see I read it.”
Barrett snickers, “Even better.” She’s pretty wily when it comes to doling out punishment for social indiscretions.
