HIM & I || BXB

I

One Friday, when the weather has turned cold and we huddle in dark sweaters and thick lace-up boots, he sits next to me.

"It's Isaac, right?" I hear him ask, soft against the murmur of the classroom, and my stomach drops. I force myself to meet his eyes and nod, too jerky and quick.

"The next lab," he's saying, "the one with the cell model, we have to do it in partners." I'm lost in his voice. "Mr. Johnson paired us up together yesterday, when you were absent."

Oh god, oh no.

"Oh, alright," My heart pounds. His lips are such a lovely shade of pink.

"So should I come over to work on it?" he asks. His eyes are a deep brown. From a distance they seemed black, but up close I can see every line and hue in his irises.

"Today?" My voice seems caught in my throat, a toneless whisper.

He shifts in his chair. "Is that alright? I mean, he's not giving us a lot of time to work on it in class, so-"

"Right, no, it makes sense. I, yeah, sure." I rub my neck and look at the lab sheet. "I'll have to check with my parents first, but I'm sure they'll be okay with it," I glance at him and smile slightly, then wince away.

"Great," he says. "I mean, I have to check with my parents too, but it should be fine." He laughs a little breathlessly and my stomach drops. He clears his throat. "So, do you ride the bus home?"

"Right, yeah. Bus 65. It's usually the last one to arrive."

He smiles. "That's alright, mine's usually pretty late too. What part of town do you live in?"

"It's sort of near the mall. Like, do you know where Forster Road is?"

We keep talking for a bit, awkward smiles and quick glances, and somehow it's nice. I agree to meet him after school by his locker.

(He takes my wrist in his thin fingers and writes the number, D112, on the pale underside with a bright blue sharpie. I already knew it, but the feeling of his thumb on my pulse kept my mouth closed.)

-

The euphoria of first period quickly wears off and gives way to anxiety by second. God, what was I doing? What if my room smelled bad? No, I'd vacuumed yesterday, it should be fine. But what if it wasn't? Should I light a candle? No, that would be weird. I frowned. That would be really weird.

I stare at my Geometry homework in horror. What if he gets weirded out and leaves? Then what do I do? I walk to English in a daze.

My stomach twists itself into coils too tight to force food into. I do my French homework and worry about whether he'd like my room or not. What will we talk about? What if I say something that offends him? I don't think I could handle the shame.

Now that I've had a taste of what it is like to really talk to him, to be friends even in the most impersonal sense, I can't imagine going back to how it had been before. I want to see him smile, and know it was because of me. I want to hear him laugh, and know it was from something I said.

When my French class starts I realize I've filled in all the blanks with the word 'merde'. This is hell.

I see him again for a moment before seventh period. He's walking with a few of his friends, and catches my eye. I'm walking alone.

I smile at him slightly, not sure if he'll acknowledge me or not. We hadn't spoken at all before this, and I know that, but I can't help but hope. (That's all I ever do, hope and wish and dream.)

He smiles back, crinkling his eyes, and raises his sleeve covered hand.

The coils in my stomach loosen, and I wave back. He's still smiling, until he's jostled by one of his friends, who glances at me. We have English together, but there isn't any recognition in his face. Part of me aches.

Finally, it's eighth period. I skip the last fifteen minutes of Studio Art to stare hopelessly into the mirror and apply some hasty deodorant. I'm already a hormonal teenage boy, and those hormones combined with crush-anxiety result in a sweaty, nervous, hormonal teenage boy who's freaking out over whether or not he might get hard in front of the boy he loves.

The coils clench around my lungs, and I squirt soap into my palm.

I start washing my hands, glaring at the water as it flows into the rusted drain.

Do I really love him? I always describe our relationship in my head as love (from me to him with nothing in return) but how can it be that?

Simply and honestly, I don't know him. I don't know how many siblings he has, what he does to feel happy, why he changed in a bathroom stall during the swimming unit in gym. I don't even know his favorite color.

Blue, I suddenly remember. There was a get-to-know-each-other activity on the first day, and he said his favorite color was blue. It's oddly comforting to know.

The bell rings. I clear my throat, scrape the water off my hands with a paper towel, run my fingers through my hair a final time, and walk out of the bathroom. I put in my earbuds and push my way through the hallway to his locker, on the other side of the school.

It may not be love, what I feel for Tom, but it's something. It's something strong and very much there, and for now, until something gives, I'm going to hold onto it.