+1 (605) 123-4567

Wed, Oct 28, 17:41

Hey

How are you?

hi? who is this??

“Really? You’re texting while we’re watching a movie?” Kieran whined as he threw his head back against the couch. Kieran Samuels had been Max’s best friend since the day he transferred to Keystone Middle School. She was sitting in homeroom when they walked in. They both had blond hair, but his was a mess; the skin underneath his forest green eyes had a slight purple tint to it, almost as though he hadn’t slept in a while, and the uniform that he had on was wrinkled. In layman’s terms, he looked a mess compared to his blond counterpart. Maybe that’s what drew Max towards him instead. The teacher, Mrs. Daniels, pulled the pair over to talk and the next thing Max knew was that the messy one was walking over to sit in the desk next to her. Just as she was about to introduce herself, the teacher called for attention. As Mrs. Daniels droned on about attendance, Max took it upon herself to write out a note on a torn piece of paper. ‘Hi! I’m Max Jones,’ The note read. She folded it up and slid it onto his desk. She turned back towards the front and listened to the teacher for a while before she saw the paper in her peripheral vision. Underneath her handwriting was just one word, ‘Kieran Fischer.’ Now, five years later, they were each other’s closest friends. 

Max rolled her eyes at him and turned her phone off, taking a minute to stare at her reflection. A pair of mismatched eyes stared back at her. Her left eye was a deep chocolate color while the right one shone a steel blue that contrasted with the almond color of her skin. A few fake red curls escaped the bun atop her head and framed her face. Freckles draped across her nose and cheeks, some even rested in the crest of her cupid’s bow and spilled onto her full lips. She resembled her mom, almost strikingly so, and she hated it. 

Her mom died due to complications during childbirth and so she grew up without a mother figure present in her life. What she knew of her mother came solely from stories paired with pictures of mom that her dad would bring up when he wasn’t actively ignoring her presence. She would always catch the inflection in her dad’s voice whenever he talked about her mom, and it always caused a pool of guilt to settle in her stomach. Knowing that she killed her mom, the love of her dad’s life, always caused a horrible feeling to seep into her bones whenever he talked about her. Coupled with the fact that she was a carbon copy of her mother, she felt that she was the ghost of her mother, haunting her father with the reminder that his wife was no longer with them. 

Kieran grabbing her phone from her hands pulled Max out of her thoughts. “Give it back!” Max exclaimed as she reached her hand across Kieran’s chest in a weak attempt at getting her phone back. He was holding it above his head with his right hand.

“Do you not want to spend time with me? Watch the movie,” Kieran said in a weird tone as he tossed her phone onto the love seat next to them. She cast her eyes downwards out of guilt. She always ended up making him mad one way or another.

“Sorry,” Max muttered as she sat back in the couch. 

+1 (605) 123-4567

Fri, Oct 30, 07:10

Good morning, sorry I haven’t responded. I’ve 

been busy.

I missed you. 

08:23

You should wear your hair down more often. 

Makes you look more mature. 

23:11

Stop working and talk to me. 

The destination number you are trying to 

reach is blocked from receiving this message. 

“What the fuck,” Max muttered as she blocked the number. The same number had texted her two days prior, but she brushed it off as a mistake and now, she wasn’t so sure. Either one of her friends was pranking her, or it was one weird coincidence that she had also worn her hair down today. Deciding to call up her friends to interrogate them, she opened up contacts and dialled the first one. It rang a few times before he answered.

“Hello?” Kieran’s groggy voice answered.

From her desk she glanced at the clock on her nightstand.

“Oh sorry, I didn’t realize the time,” she said softly into the phone as she stood up from her desk. She had been doing homework for the past four hours thanks to her sadistic teachers.

“Well you already woke me up so you might as well make it worth it,” he said through the phone. She could barely hear him because of wind brushing against the mic.

“Close your window dude. The wind is more obnoxious than you are,” she said as she flicked off her lamp. 

The darkness enveloped her instantly with only the dim moonlight illuminating her massive room. Max walked towards her window seat and sat down as she looked out the bay window. Past the greenhouse and towards the skyline where her extensive backyard met the border of trees.

“Sorry Maxine, no can do. My mom has the heat turned too fucking high so I’m keeping the window open so I don’t die.” Shuffling could be heard as he paused for a moment. “Now why did you wake me up from the only good sleep I’ve had all week?” he joked. A small hint of guilt crept up her spine as she looked up at the full moon.

“Do you know if Arianna or Prisha mentioned any pranks or anything lately?” Max questioned before biting her fingernails. It was a bad nervous habit.

“No, why?” he said after a brief pause.

A sigh escaped her lips before she answered. “It’s nothing really. Someone has been texting me but it might just be a wrong number type thing.”

Kieran hummed before he replied, “You’re thinking too much about it. It’s late and you’re paranoid, so just…block the number and get some sleep.”

Max got up from the window and walked to the side of her king bed. She kicked off her slippers and slid feet first underneath her comforter. “Yeah, you’re right. Sorry for calling,” she all but whispered. Her cheeks felt hot from embarrassment over waking him up for something so stupid. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll even help you clean up after the party to show no harm done.”She could hear his smile through the phone. They said their goodbyes before hanging up. Max rested her head against the fluffy pillows and almost instantly fell asleep. 

+1 (605) 765-4321

Sat, Oct 31, 10:38

Blocking someone for no reason is rude. 

Did your dad not teach you manners?

haha guys ur so funny. great prank.

tricked w no treat, wow so cool

really great job, im scared shitless

It’s not some joke. Can’t I talk to you?

I know you’re not doing anything.

Why do you talk to Kierran, but not me?

get a fucking life and leave me alone

Incoming call from +1 (605) 765-4321

Call declined. 

10:45

 Answer me. 

The destination number you are trying to 

reach is blocked from receiving this message. 

+1 (605) 365-7456

Sat, Oct 31, 22:26

Maxine, I’m sorry for being so forward. 

Incoming call from +1 (605) 365-7456

Call declined

Maxine, answer my calls.

Incoming call from +1 (605) 365-7456

Call declined

Maxine. I love you. 

The destination number you are trying to 

reach is blocked from receiving this message.

The music was too loud. The noise penetrated Max’s skull. She leaned against the kitchen counter as a feeble attempt to keep from falling over. Some random redhead dressed as Fred Weasly dared her to take another shot of tequila with him and Max wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. She should’ve backed down since that was her 6th shot of alcohol all night and she was already too drunk to walk properly, but she was stupid. Fred shouted some cheer before stumbling past other people in the kitchen and disappearing into the crowd of people dancing under the LED lights. Being that Max’s dad was a well-known lawyer, they were well off and since she was popular around school, her house became the common spot for parties every weekend. It was Halloween, so her house was even more packed than usual. A sloppy grin graced her face as she followed behind him. She slowly maneuvered her body into the flashing lights. As she crossed the threshold into the living room, the sound of the music got louder and crashed against her head like a wave, making her dizzy. The smell of weed grew stronger as she walked by the couches. White powdered lines could be seen on the living room table. She turned a blind eye to it, as she normally did. She made her way into the throng of people, passing Jokers and angels, and started dancing with anybody and everybody, swaying to the music as best as she could. Whoever is on AUX needs a medal, she thought to herself. 

Time blended together until the next thing Max knew, she was outside on her porch, staring at the cars parked on her lawn while she caught her breath. It was cold out and the cop costume she had on didn’t supply the warmth she wanted at that moment. Everybody else was inside, so when she heard footsteps approaching from behind, she turned around to see who joined her. The person was dressed as Michael Myers so she couldn’t tell who it was, but based on their stature she assumed it was a guy.

“Too stuffy in there for you too huh?” Max slurred as she smiled at the masked figure. He only stared in response. Max turned back around and sighed, enjoying the state of silence they were in. The music from the house was pulsating slowly through the air. Crickets, or cicadas, she couldn’t tell which, were heard alongside the noise emanating from the house. Michael walked closer to her, his footsteps heavy on the floorboards, until his body heat could be felt right behind her. Too inebriated to truly sense the danger that she was in, she turned and smiled up at him. She was by no means short, but the guy easily towered over her 5’10 frame.

“Whoa there, bud. Personal space is a thing you know,” She said with a nervous chuckle. An eerie feeling overcame her as she felt goosebumps rise on her arms. Michael placed his arms on either side of her, trapping her in a small cage. “Okay. Seriously, get away from me.” she slurred as she raised her hands to his chest to shove him. He barely moved. “This silent and brooding thing isn’t attractive. Back off asshole,” she said while preparing to knee him in the nuts, but before she could, the arms that were caging her in suddenly wrapped around her body and lifted her off of the ground. 

A scream erupted from her lips while she struggled against his hold, but the volume of the music drowned out her cries for help. He roughly hoisted her over his shoulder; her face slamming into his hard back. She balled up her fists and pounded them against his back. She watched the ground move by as he walked farther from her house. Different emotions swirled through her head as tears started to form behind her eyes. Fear. Anger. Disbelief. There’s no way this was happening with a house full of people. Someone had to hear her screaming. If no one else was going to help her, she had to do it herself. Realizing that her punches weren’t holding any weight, she resorted to flailing her legs around. The unexpected movement caused his grip on her legs to loosen so she took his surprise to her advantage and managed to fall from his shoulder. Not spending any more time on the ground then when she initially collided, she stumbled up to her feet and ran towards the separate garage. Max made it to the back door and slammed it closed behind her, taking care to lock the deadbolt. Nothing but her quick breaths could be heard. She backed farther into the dark garage, trying to catch her breath. Silence elapsed for minutes before someone banged on the door.

“Max! Are you in there? It’s Kieran,” Kieran said while rapping his fist against the door. She let out a sigh of relief and cautiously went to unlock the door, but as soon as she turned the lock, Kieran forced himself inside. To Max’s surprise, and misfortune, somebody else followed behind him too. That somebody was the person dressed as Michael Myers. 

Upon seeing his mask, Max’s heart plummeted. “So was this just some sick prank between you two? Because it wasn’t funny,” Max yelled as she backed away from the pair. Kieran held his hands out towards her as an attempt to calm her down. It wasn’t working.

“Yes! It was just a prank Max. We didn’t think you would be so lame about it. Lighten up,” Kieran said as he walked over to wrap Max in his arms. She hesitantly relaxed into his chest as the person behind him took their mask off. An identical copy of Kieran stared back at her. If there was one person she couldn’t stand, it was Kiel, Kieran’s identical twin brother. They had the same face; the only thing that could tell them apart was Kiel’s hair was dyed brown. He had always creeped her out, whether it was from his incessant staring or the way he would always find his way around her during school. She didn’t understand how Kieran could be so normal, but Kiel turned out so…weird. She was nice to him regardless.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Max sighed as she wrapped her arms around his waist. “Those texts were creepy though, guys. Did you actually have to watch me?” She awkwardly chuckled as she tried to pull away from Kieran. He wouldn’t let go. A deep, gravelly voice spoke up from behind him.

“Maxine, you have to understand that we would never hurt you,” Kiel said as he inched towards the pair. Max’s heart rate rose, despite being with someone she fully trusted. She felt a small prick in her neck, which made her look up at him. He had an almost remorseful look on his face as he avoided eye contact. The struggle drained from her body as she felt her motions slow. Her vision started to go black around the edges as she struggled to keep her eyelids open. “I’m sorry, Maxie,” was the last thing she heard before it all went black. 

Tommy was a wizard with the yoyo. His hands whipped around at record speeds as he flung his spinning blue orb up, up, higher, higher, higher, higher…before letting gravity slam it towards the ground. He used the momentum to purposely guide it backwards—a rookie move, actually—and onto its string, creating an impossible knot that only the best competitive yoyoers could defeat.

Could Tommy slay this epic monster of a move? It truly did not matter to me.

I was caught up in my own battle: It was a Friday night, and here I was again, sitting on a dirty church-basement linoleum as a Jesus nerd forced me to watch his yoyo freestyle. Am I not supposed to laugh?  I looked around the room, trying to catch someone’s eyes, but they were all smiling proudly up at Tommy above. As always, I was the only one who found this all a little weird.

I had never heard of competitive yoyoing before Tommy launched into his excited solo a few minutes before, and, honestly, I would’ve been okay living in ignorance. He was already spazzing out about it by the time I arrived, speaking frantically with his hands in a way that only Italians and homeschooled geeks do:

“And, gosh, it was so cool. I mean, man you gotta join me next time. All the people and the moves and the collector’s items. And it’s right here in Pittsburgh. Come on, dude—come to my club meeting next week,” he begged breathlessly to Bella, the innocent looking blonde batting her eyes next to him. 

“That’s so cool! I’ll ask,” she said sweetly back to him. Bella’s voice always made my skin crawl in annoyance.

“Wait, what are you talking about?” I interjected.

“CYOA: Competitive Yoyoing of America.”

“Oh,” I responded awkwardly. 

Please don’t tell me more about this.

“Tommy, you should show her your routine!” the girl crooned.

God, shut the fuck up, Bella. 

“Oh yeah! Watch this!” 

And, that’s when Tommy went on the longest, most excruciating yoyo solo that I had ever fucking seen. He swung his little blue yoyo out like a switchblade, stabbing at imaginary aggressors. He became King Tut, walking like an Egyptian as the yoyo danced above his head. He was an exotic dancer, moving his rigid rectangular hips as the yoyo crashed towards the floor. He was a cowboy and the yoyo was his bucking thoroughbred. He was the devil incarnate, because this was truly living hell. 

When he finished, he took a big dramatic bow, and we all cheered heartily—pretending that this was the greatest thing ever. God, I hope I wasn’t the only one pretending to be impressed. That would be so embarrassing for those Jesus nerds. I get that they want to be nice…but seriously…do I really need to be nice about competitive yoyoing?

“Did you like my routine?” he said softly as he pulled me aside. 

His sweaty blonde hair had escaped from his ponytail. 

“Yeaaaaah, it was definitely interesting! I’ve never, personally, been able to yoyo.”

God, he looked like Paul Revere. 

“Oh my gosh, let me teach you!”

The alarm bells in my head began to ring. The British are coming! The British are coming!

“No…that’s okay.”

That took him aback. We kinda just stood there in silence for a few seconds. He broke the silence:

“Are you coming to that concert next week with us?” 

“The Christian Rock one? Uh, probably not.”

“Why?! You gotta! Crowder and KB are playing!”

“I don’t know who those are.”

“HOW ARE YOU UNEDUCATED?! Does this seriously mean you don’t know ‘Church Clap?’”

“Yeah—I like, don’t listen to Christian rock.” 

I might’ve been at a youth group, but that didn’t mean that I was a dork.

“But, oh my gosh, it’s so good. The lyrics,” he opened his mouth to sing. 

Oh no! He opened his mouth to sing! He launched into a high pitched screeching singing voice:

“Gimme that God Almighty, That good ol’ Bible, That old school—”

“Stop, stop, stop, stop! I know it! I know it!” I lied.

I know it’s a sin, but I had to save myself. 

“Yeah, but anyways, this concert is always so much fun,” he remarked as his face became serious, “It would just be you…and me…,” he noticed my face turn white, “and a sea full of other believers,” he quickly corrected himself.

Jesus, I had to shut this shit down. Perhaps that’s why I felt motivated to say the following:

“I don’t believe in God though.”

“What the heck do you mean?” He was offended. 

“What do you not get? I said it straight up: I don’t think God is real.”

“Why are you even here then?” His eyes were daggers. “It doesn’t make any sense why you’d come to a Bible Study if you thought it was all fake.”

I’ve been coming to our youth group forever. What else was I supposed to do? Hang out with the meth-heads in the back alley? I didn’t say that to him though. 

“Why would I come here if I had a better option? Rubix cubes, yoyoing, and the New Testament aren’t exactly the funnest Friday night plans. If I was allowed to be anywhere else, I swear I wouldn’t be here.”

He knew what I actually meant. His eyes were brimming with hurt, and he opened his mouth, but paused and closed it again. I had just rejected him. His lips were pursed in angry thought. 

“But, like, you get it, I mean—” I stammered, my cheeks getting hot. 

I felt a little guilty.

“You know, my brother has an incurable disease,” he interjected purposefully.

“Uh, what, okay?”

“He has an incurable disease.”

I had known Tommy forever, but I didn’t know that. 

“What does that have to do with God? If God was real, why would he give your brother an incurable disease?”

“So that He can cure it and we can proclaim Him,” Tommy spat.

I was getting flustered. 

“That makes absolutely no sense.”

He’s seething with anger now. 

“Well, you know what? After this week, then don’t come back,” he spat, turning away, “Don’t sit by me during the movie.”

He left, and I was alone.

The Princess Bride was flashing across the screen in front of us, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the devastated expression on Tommy’s face when he sulked away. 

Tommy has never really been real. He’s always been a caricature of a Jesus freak—shamelessly droning on and on and on about Christian rock, yoyoing competitions, Dr. Strange, rubix cubing, and other weird nerd shit. But for the first time, as his hurt doe eyes cement themselves in my brain, he feels so real. And I feel so guilty. Maybe I shouldn’t have rejected him like that.

Whenever he talks, it’s always with this endlessly innocent stupid dopey smile. It was there when he was yoyoing. It was there last week when we were serving dinner at the soup kitchen. Hell, it was even kinda there when we were talking about Abraham almost killing his damn son. But, this is the first time I’ve ever seen his face drop completely. His signature smile was still missing when I looked at him now. How awful of a person do you have to be to break Tommy?

I still don’t believe in God. And, I definitely did not appreciate his reference to his probable crush on me. I think that Tommy’s delusional and that nothing truly all knowing or all good would make someone suffer needlessly with an “incurable disease.”  But, for the first time, Tommy’s unusual evangelistic zeal made sense: he was terrified. 

It is terrifying: when the pediatrician’s professional smile scrunches into concerned pursed lips; desperately waiting for the phone to ring with that one glorious word—”negative;” feeling your thoughts get trapped in your throat because it’s just too hard to tell people; the awkward silence that shrouds every conversation, because what are people even supposed to say to you anymore; the chronic pain that keeps you up at night; those horse pills that ruin the taste of every meal; the drip, drip, drip, dripping of the IV as you waste away—incapable of even pulling yourself to the bathroom; the chokes as your visitors try to try in vain to silently contain their sobs, but they can cry out loud for all you care, because you are too weak to comfort them anyways. Everyone knows that you won’t make it through the night. You know that you won’t make it through the night. And that’s terrifying: grasping that everything—all the suffering and pain and hospital bills and effort—might just be for nothing. 

I should probably apologize.

Westley and Buttercup kissed on the screens in front of us. The credits rolled. Tommy got up. He didn’t look at me. God, why won’t he look at me? This all would be so much easier if he just made eye contact. 

I noticed his prized yoyo laying abandoned on the ground and grabbed it as I left. I ran my fingers over its smooth surface. To my surprise, it actually felt sort of nice in my hands.  

I stalked him down the stairs, so close I was almost stepping on his heels. Yet, still he wouldn’t turn around. The agonizing silence was only broken by the quick clop, clop, clop, clopping of our feet as he tried to outrun me. Was I so awful that I needed to be outrun?

“Tommy—” I broke the silence as we opened the chapel doors onto the street, “Wait up! I have your yoyo, and I want to talk to you!”

We were alone. (Except for Meth Head Steve, of course. Steve was perpetually passed out on the church steps.) 

Tommy turned to me, our eyes meeting momentarily. His were black. 

“I have your yoyo. You promised you would teach me how—”

“I have to go,” he said gruffly, swiping the yoyo from my hands, leaving behind only a tingling feeling of emptiness, “Thanks.”

He was in his car now. 

“Tommy, wait!” I cried desperately, “Jesus said you have to forgive me!”

“Jesus isn’t real though. You said it yourself,” he spat back as he slammed the car door. 

His words reverberated through my head as I gazed into oncoming traffic. It was just me and Steve. I was alone. And my heart hurt with unshakable guilt and self-loathing. 

“We have plenty of time.” 

That’s what I tell myself amidst a work-induced breakdown. Mom says this as well, trying to get me to calm down. I tell her that this is not true, there are only 24 hours in every day. She tells me that is more than enough. She points out the pimple on my forehead and tells me the stress isn’t good for my face. She tells me it is getting worse. Apparently having too much work is not helpful. I sigh and fold my head between my legs, begging for this conversation to end soon. She yells that I am rude and that we can be done talking for the day. I duck past my reflection in the kitchen window and head upstairs, taking two at a time. I have been living in this repeated cycle of conflict and avoidance for almost 18 years now. I have perfected it. 14 stairs to my room from the kitchen. Enough time for her to drop the F bomb once, maybe twice if she was in a mood. Taking the stairs two at a time eliminated the chance for a third time.

These were my evenings. My mornings were almost the same. Lucky Charms and spilt milk. Smudged mascara and a forgotten water bottle. There was usually less swearing, though, because Mom was at work. Every day had a predictability. Every day I awoke with the same fears, insecurities, and dread of the next 24 hours. 

April 25, 2015 was approximately the 10,000th time this day had repeated. I woke up, picked out a sweater and a plain pair of pants, and threw on my boots. I hadn’t had time to do my hair the night before, so I put it up in a ponytail secured by a blue elastic and called it a day. I hardly ever looked in the mirror. My face was put together wrong, and I didn’t like to dwell on things I couldn’t change. Plastic surgery? you might ask, to which I would reply: Expensive as fuck and I’m a minor. It was easier to just avoid mirrors anyways. I grabbed my backpack, a snack, and my headphones, and I headed out the door.

I loved the outdoors. You were much less likely to run into a mirror there. There was lots of other stuff going on that took the attention away from me, and I loved it. I tried to put myself in scenes of chaos in hopes that I could melt into the background, become pixelated, and be forgotten. I kicked the leaves as I walked to school and stepped on every crack in the sidewalk. Crazy kid I am. 

The first period bell rang at 7:55, which meant that you could find me strolling into class casually at 7:54:35, folding myself into the chair furthest to the left and in the back row. You see, I had done this like 20,000 other times, so, everything had been timed out to a science. 1:30 to go through the metal detector. 45 seconds to go to my locker. 10 to get the code right, and another 10 to grab my books without looking at the reflective metal on the inside of my locker. Shit was so worn down, and yet I could somehow still see my face in its grimy reflection. Some world we live in. Anyways, it was 25 seconds to the classroom, and here we are. Every day, the arrangement was the same. Confident Nerds at the front with the Barbie Girls, followed by the Self Conscious Nerds and the Sport Boys, and then in the back, Me. There were a few other nobodies that sat around me, but it would be off-brand for me to know their names, so, I don’t.  I have a feeling that they avoid reflective objects too, though.  

First period is art. It’s stupid, vague, and useless outside of the styrofoamed walls of a disheveled public high school. Usually we are tasked with coloring some animal or making something out of clay. No matter the project, I always make the same circular blob because in art, you seriously can’t be wrong. The teacher always calls my work a “creative masterpiece” to which I respond with a slight scoff and then we both continue on our days. It really is that simple. Like I said, I’ve done this before. 

Today, Ms. Leechy, our rather plump, annoyingly optimistic teacher that ate unicorns for breakfast, came in with her store-bought smile plastered to her face like an advertisement. She was carrying a bag of something that was making a ton of noise and sounded faintly like a bag of cats being thrown against a wall. She heaved it on to the top of her desk and stood before us, grinning as if she had just cured cancer or something of the like. She reached into her bag of horrible things and pulled out something that was small and rectangular. I couldn’t make out exactly what it was, but her following sentence made me certain that I hated it.

“We are going to be making portraits!” 

Fuck. That is definitely a mirror. You all are probably thinking that I’m crazy, right? Like just draw your usual circle and stop having some weird fear of your own reflection… but I would tell you that a) This was worth 40% of our year long grade and b) F you. 

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, she continued: “And you’ll be drawing someone else!”

It wasn’t that I didn’t like myself. I hated everything about me. My eyes were too small, and my nose didn’t curve right. My bottom lip was way bigger than my top one and my hair was the kind of color you would forget about if someone didn’t remind you. I had a chin that was too pointy and a forehead that was too small. I had every reason to hate myself entirely, and although I had done my best to become invisible, you can’t hide from yourself. 

We got paired up “randomly,” which meant that she paired all of the memorable kids with good faces with each other and then paired up whoever was left. That meant I was with Liam Torry, a short kid who was also forgettable. She sat us each at our own table and forced us to face each other. We both had a mirror, pencil, and sketch pad. Why do you need a mirror if you are drawing another person, you might ask? I would tell you that you don’t, but Ms. Leechy would tell you that “The best art happens from observing things from more than one angle, all at once.” Load of shit. 

I absolutely refused to look in the mirror. No way in hell was I going to study my reflection, analyze my face, and then draw it in year-old crayon. Not happening. So, I decided to focus on the other piece of the assignment. 

I wasn’t entirely excited. Mom said that art was not a career. Mom said art was dumb. So, I rarely drew. While the other kids colored, I was doing my multiplication tables and fixing the too-tight bow on my head. It was a waste of time that had resulted in me having no artistic ability whatsoever. 

Anyways, Liam picked up his pencil and started drawing without saying anything. My face was burning and I tried my best to hide it behind my hair. I figured that the only chance of escape here was to focus on something else and hope that an asteroid hit the school at some point in the next 30 minutes, so I started to sketch. Liam’s head was a normal shape, sort of like a squashed circle. His eyes were dark blue, navy, and round. I had no idea how to draw noses, so I fudged it the best I could, although his wasn’t half bad. His lips were small and angular, pressed together now in focus. Overall, his face really wasn’t all that hard to draw. It wasn’t spectacular, but it was good enough. And much better than mine. Although I was looking down at my paper, I could tell he was staring intensely at my face. I don’t know why he was taking this so seriously, or maybe he was just an angry kid, but it seemed weird that he would be this into drawing MY face. It was sort of weirding me out, and I really wanted to go into the bathroom and slam my head against the wall. I shaded a bit more before glancing over at the clock, and holy shit: 3 minutes left in class. If this kid didn’t hurry the fuck up, he was totally going to wreck my schedule. I only allotted myself 45 seconds of buffer time in between first and second period. 

The clock continued to tick its rhythmic song as Liam curiously peered at my face, occasionally scribbling something down, erasing it, and then replacing the original pencil marks. I had basically finished mine, and although it was in no way an accurate representation of what this kid looked like, my art skills were limiting and it was “adjacent” to what a portrait of him would look like. I tried to hide my face in the neckline of my sweatshirt — didn’t work. I couldn’t bring myself to look in any of the mirrors that were plaguing the classroom, so instead I focused on the clock, hoping that Liam would be done sometime this century. A few seconds before the clock read 9:30, and the class ended, I felt Liam staring at me. I turned my head back and he had set his drawing in his lap, obviously at peace with whatever he had managed to draw up. 

He swallowed twice, relatively awkwardly, and then said, “Uh – you wanna see?”

Just to be clear here, I would rather – slam my head through the drywall of this dilapidated classroom and stay there until death could relieve me – than look at this drawing.

 But he looked sincere, and I could tell he wasn’t going to leave me alone until I saw whatever horrific thing he made.

“Sure.” 

He spun around the clipboard and I squinted, hoping to distort whatever picture would soon be in front of me. To my dismay, I could still see relatively clearly. Hopeful, he grinned and awaited my reaction. 

The picture was definitely not going in a museum, but it was way better than mine. The lines were cleaner, and this picture looked much less like a blob and much more like a fully formed human. The eyes were even and almond shaped. The hair was neatly tucked behind two semi pointed ears and parted right down the middle. The lips were tucked neatly between an almost straight nose and a smooth chin. 

Is this what I looked like? There is no way that the reflection I gawked and cried over is the same person represented in this picture. It felt like maybe he had messed up, or was trying to make me feel better about myself. I mean, who could draw someone that looked the way I did? My features were beyond modern art techniques, and I don’t mean that in a good way.

Liam was still sitting, goofily smiling, waiting for me to say something. 

“Is that really what you think I look like?”

“Well, yeah… Do you not like it?”

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I do, I do. It’s much better than mine. I’m sorry.”

I turned around the sketch I had made and he laughed a bit.

“No worries, I like it. Plus, they say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so, no use stressing about it.” 

My pulse slowed for the first time that day. 

Liam said, “Look at the clock; I guess we’re running a little late.”

10:03.

We were never going to make it.