“So why didn’t you do your physics homework again?” Marina Gardener asks as I frantically attempt to scribble it out at lunch. “Because my freaking sister would not shut the fuck up. I don’t care if learning ukulele is all the rage right now I need to get an A in physics!” She sits down next to me, and puts her lunch on the table, “I don’t know that Mrs. Hilbert will take that excuse.”
“No shit. That’s why I’m doing it now!” I say, “It’s the last two months of school, man, and this class is my only B. I don’t have room to–”
“Smart people schools, Journalism, blah, blah, blah. You’ve said it a million times, dude, I’m pretty sure we get the point.”
“What’s going on here?” Emily Johnson sits down next to Marina, adjusting her hair. Emily and Marina are close friends because they’re both in the orchestra; they bonded over that during our tour of the school. Emily started eating lunch with Marina, and then James started sitting with Emily so even though I’m on the varsity baseball team, I usually eat with the band kids instead of the team.
If Marina thinks that I’m stressed out about school, even just the stack of books Emily is holding would horrify her. Emily’s dream goal is to get into an ivy league and study biology and/or medicine, which is pretty cool except for the fact that she signed up for so many AP classes this year, that she swears she hasn’t gone to bed before two the entire semester.
“Peyton was just telling me about how hard his life is because he forgot an assignment for Physics.”
“Oh, you can copy mine if you want.” She says, looking through her binders until she finds one that says “PHYSICS” across the front, in giant green letters. “You’re the real MVP, Em.” I tell her as she hands me the binder and tells me where to locate the paper. Promptly, I pull it out and copy her work. “I know,” She says, “Now shut up. I have that big AP chem test next period.” She puts on her reading glasses, adjusts the headband in her super-curly, shoulder length hair, and digs around for another binder titled “CHEMISTRY”. If I wasn’t gay, I would absolutely understand what James sees in Emily. She has this gorgeous chocolate-brown skin, and her face is splashed with a sea of dark freckles. Her lips are full, her eyes are perfect almonds, she’s super smart, and she goes out of her way to make others happy. She’s, like, the epitome of perfection. I could never compete with her.
Our table quickly fills with orchestra kids and the occasional outsiders such as myself. There’s Alina the flutist, Trumpet Kyle, Drum Kyle, Dave the cellist, Connor from Emily’s chem class, Lucille the saxophonist, and a handful of other kids that I’m not terribly familiar with. I really don’t know many people even though I’ve been going to school here for almost a full year. I suppose I do know all the baseball kids, but I wasn’t really close with any of them until the start of the season, and that wasn’t until January. Besides I’d rather sit with James, and James would rather sit with Emily, so here I am.
The last person to sit down at the table is James himself. He’s pretty short; maybe 5’7 if you count his unruly blonde hair. I take in his oddly perfect jawline that makes him look older despite his height. I think it might be my favorite feature. No, I decide, no it’s not. The one thing I love about James’ appearance the most are his eyes. He’s got these bright blue eyes that sometimes turn sea green in the sunlight. It’s like oceans and sunsets all wrapped into one color. I notice that he has a streak of paint just under his right eye. He’s too busy shoveling ramen into his mouth and smiling at Emily from across the table. He’s so beautiful.
“Earth to Peyton.” Alina says.
"Hm?" I ask, snapping back into focus.
"Is there a baseball game tomorrow that you’re dragging your entourage too, or can I steal your friends?" Though Fridays and Tuesdays are our usual game days, I explain that "We shouldn't have one; it's a bye week." Alina smiles at Marina and Emily, "Cool, so do you two want to come over this weekend?" She asks the girls exclusively. "What about the boys?" I question, smirking at her. "No boys allowed, mainly 'cause my parents aren't home, but also ‘cause you're losers and boys have cooties," Alina winks, “Love you.”
"It's fine. We'll survive without you, pinky-promise."
"Are you so sure?" Marina asks, snorting. I scrunch my face, "Haha, very funny." Her focus then turns to James. "James, you might want to, you know," Marina makes a wiping movement motioning to the streak of paint under James’ eye. "Oh shit." He licks the corner of a napkin and wipes the paint off.
The funny thing about James is that he's usually covered in paint. He is an artist, afterall. Almost every article of clothing I've ever seen him wear is covered with paint; there's even some permanently streaked on his glasses. He's incredible though; probably the best artist in the school, in my untrained, completely unbiased opinion. Apparently, every year in Philadelphia there's a festival in one of the downtown parks, and this year James had about three paintings recognized. He applied for a contest back in July, and was called up as an honorable mention. I remember how excited he was when he told us. He insisted that Marina, Emily and I come with him to the festival that weekend. It was before we were really that close, but we were the only people he knew enough to feel comfortable asking. He dragged us to the finals where they announced the top three paintings and which of them won first prize. He was captivated by those paintings, and he told us that one day he hoped he could make something that amazing. "Yours is totally that amazing," I had told him. He humbly blushed, putting himself down, because that’s just the James thing to do. On that particularly temperate August day, Emily and Marina spent their time captivated by the musical aspect of the festival. They dragged us around and listened to all of the little local groups performing in various places, while I, the least artistic of our small group, watched James and his timid expression light up as he explained the thought and artistic finesse of hundreds of paintings around the park. I was pretty much lost the entire time, but I was captivated by his smile; the same one he greeted me with on the first day we met. That smile was one of the first things that hooked me on a long, downward spiral.
The four of us stayed for hours dragging each other to various different tents, confused by what the others were saying, but enjoying ourselves nonetheless. James looked at art, I looked at him, and the girls just chatted about jewelry displays and music. I guess that's what makes us such great friends. We listen to each other's interests, even if we’re nothing alike. Marina’s a national-ranking shot put champion that plays viola on the side, Emily’s an oboe-playing genius, with the music taste of a seventh grade girl. James is the humble artist with whom I’m in love. And then there’s me. The closeted gay, baseball-playing journalist. Despite our differences, after the festival, we formed a bond, and we've put up with each other ever since because we always listen. I think listening is the secret key to fixing the world.
"So Peyton,” Alina asks out of the blue, “what are you doing for prom?" as it is in two weeks, and I have yet to ask someone out. Damn Alina, always in everyone's business. According to the band kids, it's typical for flutists to do that. In my head, I think, No, Alina, I’m GAY. But in reality, I shrug, and respond simply "I'm probably staying home. I'm not really a prom kind of guy." She shudders, "So sad."
"Honestly, I might second you on that," James says with a mouthful of ramen. "Come on, Jamie! Not you too." Emily lifts her head up from her chemistry binder and draws a line from the corner of her eye with a finger like a tear rolling off of her cheek. It’s the only thing she’s commented on through all of lunch. "You guys are so lame," Alina says. She then goes on a tangent about how much she hopes that Charlie Box will ask her to prom. "I wonder what he'll do," She says, fantasizing a list of romantic ways he could ask her. Everyone, and I mean everyone, except for somehow Alina, finds Charlie super annoying. He's kind of rude and blunt and a little bit of a hypocrite. "I still don’t get what you see in him," Lucille says. Marina agrees, stating, “Yeah, if you’re so determined to make Peyton go to prom why don’t you just ask him and go with a real gentleman. One that won’t tell you that your instrument sounds like a dying cat.” I feel my face flush, but no one notices. "How are you still not over that?" Alina complains, “It was two years ago!”
“He told trumpet Kyle that he was single handedly the reason we didn’t win the Regional District Show last week. Charlie and Kyle don’t even play the same instrument!” Kyle shakes his head, “Keep me out of this.” I laugh a little at that.
The conversation turns away from me and returns to something simple: Kyle’s trumpet solo, the final orchestra concert, what to do for girl’s night on friday. I suppose that maybe prom is simple to them, but to be completely honest it's weird for me to even think about. Even if I wanted to go, which I don't, I don't really know what I would do. I don’t want to ask a girl, but I guess I can't really ask a guy either. I sigh and listen to the orchestra kids discuss something from their class, which excludes James and me, and technically Connor-From-Chem, but it’s not like I know him at all. I turn to James. "So, what's up?" I ask, though his mouth is currently occupied by another shovel of Ramen. He shakes his head and ambitiously swallows his noodles. "Interesting," I state, he frowns me in disappointment. "Give me a break, Peyton, I didn't eat breakfast.” I furrow my eyebrows in concern. "Why not?"
"Oh Peyton, always the mom friend,” he shakes his head at me and continues, “I just wanted to be out of the house before my dad got up." I've never actually met James' dad. All I know is that James hates him, though he’s never mentioned why. "And since neither of us have been grocery shopping in a month,” James continues, “I've literally been living off of Cup Noodles for like two weeks now. I guess I'll just go shopping by myself this weekend." He says this, more to himself than me. "You know, you could come over to my house for dinner on Saturday if you wanted,” I say, taking my mom’s opportunity, “though you might get roped into something as treacherous as watching a baseball game." James hates sports, even though he, Emily, and Marina come to all of my games. "Honestly, I'm so sick of ramen that I would take you up on that if I didn’t have an appointment."
“Really? What about tomorrow, then? During the Super Epic Girls-Only Hangout?” I ask. “Hm. I should be free. Call it a date.” He laughs a little, and I smile and look at him, enamored by his laugh. He catches me staring, and his ears slightly turn red. “What?” He asks. I clear my throat, “Oh, sorry. I lost my train of thought,”
The rest of lunch is pretty chill; the girls continue to pester me and some of the other boys about prom, and Marina, Emily, Alina, and Lucille make Friday night plans. Meanwhile James seems to have zoned out across from us. I wonder what he could be thinking about. For all I know, it could be anything. I don’t know him the way I’d like to. He cares a lot about other people, but he rarely talks to us about himself. He keeps all of his thoughts bottled up inside, and somehow that only makes me want him more. Isn’t that silly? To fall in love with someone that hardly lets you know them? Surely he must be thinking about something. I ponder what goes on in that brain of his. He doesn’t say anything for the rest of lunch, which is only about a minute and thirty seconds, before the bell brings and we all scramble to class.
On my way to journalism, I finally start thinking about something that isn’t James. I have this big paper due soon, so I’m mentally organizing how my thoughts will lay out in writing, and how that transfers to the paper. The art of words is a peculiar thing. It's a lot like painting a picture in a weird metaphorical way. Each word, like a color, has power and it demands to be displayed correctly, otherwise, the world would consist of utter chaos.
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