Collarbones

5 - Biceps

 My biceps are like two unshapely knobs that grow on trees. They’re a flaw of the tree, awkwardly jutting out in strange directions that distract the eyes from the simple beauty of the tree with its odd deformities. While my arms are symmetrical, not too long or too short, nor too hairy or pale, I find that my biceps are these strange knobs. It’s not until the wind howls and rattles my bones, forcing me into raising my arms that I find myself feeling as if I have two deformities, the flab that hangs from either underarm flying in the wind.

It makes me sick to reach up and take the skin between my fingers.

I wish I could tear it off with my fingernails.

But I can’t. At least not in public.

I’m sitting on the front steps of the library, wearing a pair of sunglasses that are too big for my face and gym shorts. My long-sleeve shirt rests along the palms of my hands as I delve into another book that I’ve taken out. I ignore the passerby in the parking lot and along the sidewalk as I wait for my mom to return from her errands. I don’t raise my head or acknowledge the people walking around me.

I hear them, but I don’t listen intently.

For the past week, I have been dealing with a cold that won’t go away. The cold is accompanied by a cough, one that leaves my insides rattling as I cover my mouth. I cough a few times, feeling the pain in my stomach as I think about the lunch I had eaten with my mother earlier that afternoon.

The same lunch I relieved myself of in the girl’s bathroom at the back of the library.

Swishing the mint I snagged from the front desk across my tongue, I think of all of the pain that I’m dealing with. I feel so broken sometimes, as if I am an expensive vase that has been knocked off of its stand.

Who do I think I’m kidding? I was never worth anything.

I flip the page in my book and hear the sound of girls giggling. I bite down on my lip and force myself into staring at the page. My eyes stop moving and I find myself staring at one word on the page. I blink, slowly shake my head, and try to pretend as if I don’t hear the whispers that follow their giggles. 

When I hear the footsteps coming closer, I grip my book tighter. I don’t raise my head to see who’s coming and instead try and focus on the words that are written there. It’s still a useless attempt and just as I sigh, I feel someone sitting down beside me. I ignore them at first, nibble on the inside of my bottom lip, before I finally sigh again and glance across the small space between me and the person who has taken it upon themselves to sit beside me.

I try to bite back a gasp when I realize who it is beside me. Holden sits there like a stone at first, his shoulders square and his back rod straight before he says my name lightly, ‘’Ainsley.” And then the ridiculous posture slides away and he’s leaning forward, elbows propped on his knees and hands folded between his legs. I feel him looking at me intently, his head moving my way to peek over the edge of my book.

He’s always been nosy.

“Holden,” His name feels foreign on my tongue and I scoot over on the step, trying to create space between us.

“Look, Ainsley,” Holden says my name again, but this time he says it slowly, as if he’s rolling it around in his mouth and enjoying the taste of it on his tongue once more. “We really should talk about-“

“No,” I cut him off. “I’m busy.”

“You can’t ignore me,” He says and moves over on the step. Over the edge of my book, I can see the toes of his dirty Converse. I can see the black streaks on the laces, and I can see the heart drawn in Sharpie. My eyes momentarily burn at the sight of that heart before I shake my head and look back to my book.