Inhale

2.

"What does the brain matter compared with the heart?" - Virginia Woolf (Mrs Dalloway).

I'm not saying it was Josiah's fault that the day started as murkily as it did, but his tendency to natter about nothing in particular made a poor start to our morning. It made a poor start to everyone's morning, in fact, his more than anyone else's. His words were lost in the fog as we crossed the corridors, dutifully ignoring half the greetings thrown his way.

"...I thought mum would be coming with us, but she changed her mind and I ended up sitting in the back. Then when I asked for the radio he let out this sigh, as if I had requested he sing the songs himself." He lobbed the lighter he had just spent the last five minutes fiddling with into a nearby bin. Out of his blazer pocket, he conjured up another one. "I really did ask to take the coach...was Kaspar on the coach? I needed to speak to him, about the team this year."

I gave him a deferential look. "Does Kaspar strike you as the type to take the coach, Jo?" He wasn't listening. He was already fishing for a smoke. "Jo."

"What? I'm listening," he mumbled. "So, was he on the coach?"

We had reached a small opening in the roof of the corridor which was covered by a large dome of glass. Each pane was lined in a burnt gold which shaped the glass into a warped honeycomb. The downpour was hitting the top of the dome and drizzling down, giving the appearance of a peculiar pudding. Josiah took this opportunity to make the most of his cigarette. I wasn't about to point out that, technically, although there was no glass in the spaces of the walkway walls, we were still indoors.

The smell of the smoke intermingling with the cold was beginning to burn my throat. I waited patiently for him to finish, but we had slowed our pace so much we had almost halted in the circle of light. He took leisurely breaths, exhaling each one like a childish bubble. The habit didn't bother me so much as the joy he felt from it did. He almost made it look fun. I needed a new topic.

"I thought you were quitting the team this year?" I nodded vaguely towards the playing fields, which were out of view.

Josiah turned his head this way and that, working out some crick in his neck. "Quitting is for quitters," he said. "I never had any intention to do so."

"That seems...Redundant." I moved to stand beside him, peering through the gap in the bricks. "I thought you said it wasn't your choice to begin with?"

He waved me off with his free, gloved hand. "Change of plans. Dad said that-" He stopped. Smiled. His eyes turned glazed and uncertain for a second before focusing on something beyond my shoulder. "Good morning, Evette."

***

I had no real expectations for the first day of term, besides analysing the new list of books I would be preoccupied with, and planning an ideal system of revision that involved the smallest amount of stress and need for outside assistance. Unfortunately, such level of organisation wasn't really my level of expertise, but I desperately wanted — needed — to have it sorted out. This is your fault, I suppose.

I was happy to be back in the classrooms, regardless of my anxiety. There was something extremely rewarding about leaving the classroom, with new trains of thought and ideas planted in my head. I gained deep satisfaction from absorbing the new knowledge, even when it wasn't all that valuable or exciting. I sometimes imagined that I could feel it permeating my brain, that it was working it's way into my memory. It became a game for me, to see how much I could learn in a week, and often I found myself disappointed if I didn't gain anything. My hunger for new knowledge quickly grew into insatiability.