The Opposition

Chapter 11: Sadie

It's the last day of the second semester and I'm lying on the floor of the art studio. We had set up a circle of plastic chairs to do a reflection on the pieces we completed this semester, but now everyone is bustling around the room trying to scrape paint off palettes and pastel off tables for the next round of classes. Grades have already been submitted, so Ms. Gillian can't lower my mark for not helping with the clean up. I already wiped down my station, so I don't think they're missing my labour.

I raise a hand to block out the lights that are shining directly in my eyes when a shadow falls over me. A muscular frame stands over me and I don't need to guess who it is. I don't bother looking up at him, and I close my eyes instead, feeling the cool–freshly cleaned–tiled floor on the back of my head. It's funny that just lying on the floor summons a slew of memories. Maddie and I would always pretend to do snow angels on the tiled kitchen floor while we waited for dinner. Her arm would bump into mine and I would get mad until she laced out fingers together and continued to create one conjoined snow angel.

After getting into Fairridge, she kept her promise and visited me on every holiday. She would stay until the last possible date of return and curl herself up on my bed and tell me about her classes and her friends. Ms. Gillian was her favourite teacher because she would let her come in after the school day and paint until 8 pm if she wanted to. Everyone loved Maddie. She was a ray of sunshine that shined her brightness onto everyone else. Except me. Instead, I dulled her until there was no spark. I'm sorry, I say to Maddie, silently, wondering if she can hear me. I'm sorry I stole your spark. Every time I didn't come back home after my first year, she slowly stopped asking me to come back, and everyday I'll scream at myself for giving up on Maddie when she never gave up on me. You didn't give up on her, I try to tell myself, but if I didn't give up on her then maybe she would still be here.

I give my head a little shake, burying down any feelings that threaten to rise like bile. I've gotten good at it; shoving my feelings down my throat and to the pit of my stomach. You'd never know that they stir, enough to make me nauseous. Some nights I'll lie in my bed–when everyone's asleep–and let the feelings rise to my chest and squeeze my lungs until I can't breathe. The tears will fall and my breaths will grow heavy until the world goes blurry and black. Then, I'll wake up with my head spinning and plaster on a smile bright enough to have made Maddie proud. On good days, I'll convince myself that nothing is wrong, but I know that I'm a liar. A selfish, pathetic liar. One. Two. Three. Bury it down. The lump in my throat disappears and I attempt to convince myself of a worthless lie: I'm fine.

It's only then that I realize the shadow hasn't disappeared and I squint my eyes, which feel glassy, to stare up at Carter. He's wearing a green t-shirt and black sweatpants. He looks really good in green. It's a casual day because it's the end of the semester, but, if I'm being honest, most students get away with non-semiformal wear on a regular day. Fairridge isn't too strict with the dress code.

"Awe, Jones, don't cry. We'll be seeing each other quite a bit next semester," Carter smirks. It surprises me when he gets down onto his knees and then flops down on his back to rest beside me. I can make out the sounds of water running and desks scraping, but I'm hyper-focused on the sound of Carter's steady breaths from beside me.

"I wasn't crying, but now I certainly am," I respond. "Though you are fortunate to constantly be in my presence."

"Whatever you say," he replies, and a small smile that reveals his dimples dances on his lips. He's a pretty, pretty boy.

"Uh huh," I murmur.

All of a sudden, he spins onto his side, reaching across my torso to grab onto my arm and turn me to face him. I hold my breath. His face is inches from mine and I can make out the rim of gold surrounding his bright green irises. He's got long lashes that are slightly lighter than the colour of his hair, which is as unruly as ever. I swear there's even a light dusting of freckles on his nose. And when he looks at me, he smiles. I don't think we've ever been inside a classroom and smiled at each other without it being laced with contempt.