The Other Side(10)

I spend the entire class period with my elbow on the desk, chin resting in the hammock of my cupped palm, breathing shallowly, nose and mouth, through the cuff of my sweatshirt that’s pulled up over my hand.

The makeshift poly-cotton blend filter works well because when I stand up post-bell, I’m a tad light-headed, but other than that, I’m fine. I’m fine until I walk past Alice sitting in her seat by the door and I don’t say anything. I feel guilty about that the entire walk to my next class. Guilty because I took advantage of her—she couldn’t see me. I walk past people all day, every day, and don’t acknowledge them, even the few who used to acknowledge me. But they can see me snubbing them, that’s the difference. They know I’m being an asshole. Alice doesn’t. To her, I’m the guy who fixes things, who makes things better.

That’s definitely not me.

I only make things worse.



When lunch rolls around, I scan the halls for her. I even walk to the lunchroom and peek in through the window in the door but don’t see her. Not sure why I’m stalking, I just need something to do. Something to keep my thoughts diverted away from the darkness. I don’t eat during lunch. I more than qualify for the free lunch program in the cafeteria, but free lunches are a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple, and a carton of milk. That’s different than the hot lunch you receive if you actually have the money to pay for it, and believe me, people notice. They notice you’re poor and can’t afford to pay for lunch. That’s not the part I’m worried about—my clothes, pretty much everything about me—already advertises I’m poor like a neon sign, and I don’t give a rat’s ass, because I am. I always have been. The part I worry about is being judged for taking a handout. I don’t take handouts. They make me feel like a complete failure. I’m already a card-carrying member of the Fuck-Ups Association; I don’t need any additional help with that.

I decide to go to the library because there’s an alcove in the back corner where no one ever goes. Comfy couch and all, it’s a respite about once a week. I like to keep my lunch landing spots on rotation and usually I end up walking, wandering. I, myself, love routine—I think because my mom never provided it when I was younger. But in a setting like school where everything is routine and predictable, I like to mix things up. That means finding new spots to escape to; it’s a game to discover places the masses avoid. I know every square inch of this school, public and private. As I walk through the library, I notice a few people milling in the aisles. Two girls are rifling through the shelves, searching for their next read. I can appreciate their dedication; I’m the same way around comics. And then there’s a guy and girl in the biography section making out. He’s backed into a corner and her hands are lost inside his coat, up his shirt. I can appreciate their dedication as well; nothing obliterates the outside world like surrendering all senses to the depths of a kiss. A kiss should feel like you’ve been plunged into an abyss that you may never surface from, or it isn’t worth doing.

Sitting at a table alone at the opening of the alcove I’m headed for, is a girl. Slouched down, her back is to me and her long hair spills over the back of the chair like a waterfall. Headphones wrap her ears and must be delivering something serene because she looks asleep; she’s utterly relaxed and unmoving. The closer I get, the static hum tingles in my eardrums. And when I’m directly behind her, I pause because the volume is turned up so loud I can make out every word. It’s Echo and the Bunnymen, “The Killing Moon,” which drags my pause out because good music has the power to control me entirely, it’s soul-steering. I’m pushing the limits of a typical pause toward what feels like lingering—I don’t linger—so I move on and tuck into the corner of the couch in the alcove.

The back of the sleeping girl’s head is visible in the two-inch gap between the top of the books on the third shelf and the bottom of the fourth. I’m staring at her, not luridly ogling her physically, but mildly envying the sounds being fed to her ears by those headphones. A great song is like catnip, a few notes can wind my insides up like a top, and always leaves me wanting more. Never mind that there are no good radio stations in Denver, no way to dial in new wave or punk on demand. I rely on my paltry cassette collection, trips to Wax Trax to hang out and listen to whatever they’re playing over the in-store speakers, or on the off chance that I’m near a TV late on Sunday nights and can catch Teletunes on public television. Teletunes is basically poor man’s MTV but with way better music, all crammed into an hour a week. There’s no Martha Quinn, but seeing Depeche Mode videos is a fair trade. Music is fleeting; it’s chance. So when I hear a good song, it feels like fate because it can’t be planned or predicted. Like the universe has turned it on to flirt with me, to blindfold my dark thoughts and lord over them, lulling them into a submissive union for three or four minutes.

Sleeping girl shifts in her seat before sitting up straight to remove her coat. The shifts she makes to wrestle it off give me a glimpse of her face. It’s Alice. I wonder if she’s hiding, escaping, or enjoying the silence. A quick look at the clock on the cinderblock wall tells me there are twenty minutes remaining in the lunch period. Twenty minutes to sit twenty feet from Alice and pretend I’m not here.

The librarian assistant materializes from nowhere, tapping Alice on the shoulder, to which she startles because the librarian assistant moves around these stacks with the stealth of a cheetah. “Alice, you have about twenty minutes left before the bell rings to end lunch period. I need to run down to the main office, but I’ll be back in time to escort you to your next class.”