Chapter III

The Girl Named "Ashley"

[Part I]

[R E A L I T Y]

   It was a strange feeling: a sort of dull ache in the chest, as if the heart was pressed into a tightened vice. There was a sense of heaviness, yet at the same time, a sense of lightness, as if the heart were a rock stuffed with cotton. It wasn’t too dissimilar from the dull ache of the heart one feels when seeing a secret crush or loved one; however, it was a twisted version of that. The same longing ache that longed to retreat away, rather than be drawn deeper. A foreboding ache. A sad ache. 

   It was this ache that awoke him. 

   Oddball’s eyes fluttered open. They felt damp, and there were stiff, dry lines running away from them down the side of his face. Had he been…crying? His ears were ringing a little. The world was askew. His head was barely perched on his folded arms and—as he slowly began to sit up—a piece of paper accompanied him, glued to his cheek. He peeled it off and glanced it over through hazy eyes, but couldn’t make sense of the gray shapes and lines covering it. 

   Must have fallen asleep… He yawned and rubbed the remnants of rest from his eyes. Something in the back of his mind was calling to him, but eluded his groggy grasp. Was he forgetting something? He shook his head to try and clear it away, and took another look at the sheet of paper he’d peeled from himself. It was a charcoal drawing: a depiction of the lonely road he’d taken a picture of the previous day in varying shades and hues of gray charcoal and silvery graphite. He lowered the drawing. 

   The desk was a disaster. There were sheets of paper everywhere; some were blank, others had partially finished sketches, others had completed works, and others were crumpled up to keep their contents—failures—from seeing the light of day. The sea of paper spilled over the side of the desk, cascading to the floor. The tiny waste basket next to the desk was overflowing with balls of parchment. Back to the desk: pencils of varying sizes—some worn down to nubs—and little, squarish rods of charcoal were strewn about the desk as boats on the paper-ocean’s surface. Amid it all were two islands: one, a stack of messy notebooks towards the back of the desk; the other, his camera—a black brick among the whites and grays. He picked up the latter of the two islands and looked it over in his hands. He pressed a few buttons, but the camera wouldn’t spring to life. 

   Dead… Oddball scowled. Should have plugged you in, I guess… He turned it over in his hands. There were a few marks and scuffs here and there that stood out against the black paint, and a few rough edges to go with them, but nothing out of the ordinary. It’s a good thing I caught you yesterday, he thought, I doubt you would have taken an impact like that. 

   Something clicked. The thing in the back of his mind that had been calling to him stepped forward into the light of remembrance.

   All at once there was a girl in a red raincoat, tightly gripping his sleeve. 

   “I’ll be here tomorrow. Nine o’ clock. Come if you want to talk more,” she said, “If you don’t, I’ll just assume you aren’t interested in being friends or anything…” 

   They were standing together at the railing now. 

   “Hey, Oddball,” she said, “why do you wear that mask?” What was her name again?

   Oddball opened his mouth to try and find the answer, but when he turned to face the girl, he saw nothing more than a wall—a cinderblock wall beneath a thick coat of vanilla paint. Nine o’ clock. He glanced over his shoulder. 

   “Promise me you’ll actually consider it,” Samantha said from the ether of memory. 

   The red numbers on the little alarm clock were flashing tauntingly at him from his dresser. 8:34 AM. 

   His heart plummeted from its resting place in his chest, a counterweight that animated Oddball’s limbs into frenzied motion. Papers flew; his camera thudded against the desk and made pencils and charcoals jump. He threw himself over his bed and dove for the shower. Meanwhile, his mind remained seated at the desk, watching all of this play out with a single question: why? He gripped the shower handle. Water began to jet from the showerhead. Why? He leapt in, wincing as steaming water splashed against bare skin. Minutes later, he was out and wrestling with a towel. 8:46 AM. Why? He was tugging on clothes now, grumbling curses as his head found both arms of the shirt before finally finding the neck. Why am I bothering? He threw on his hoodie and fought with his charger to plug in his camera. Back to the bathroom. 8:53 AM. He looked in the mirror.

   Why am I bothering? 

  Everything came to a pause. It wasn’t like Oddball had never seen his own face before, but that didn’t make it any less strange to see such a stranger standing there. Actually, when was the last time he’d seen his face? His facial features were on the sharper side—not quite the “chiseled-from-stone” look, but not necessarily soft and gentle either. There were a few freckles here and there, standing out sharp against pale, sun-starved skin. His hair was a messy mop of brown, wispy strands that spilled over his head in every direction. He could barely make out his eyes beneath it. He slowly reached up and pushed it away. His arm resisted, as though a weight had just been tied to his elbow. 

   Yeah. Why am I bothering? 

   Pale blue. Muddy brown. He could feel the dull ache in his chest sharpening. Of its own accord, his hand fumbled for the box on the counter and flipped it open. The lid clacked against the countertop, and his fingertips found something smooth and cold. Somewhere in the dorm, children were laughing. There was another laugh amongst them: it was so…strangely…familiar. Pale blue. Muddy brown. Pale blue. Muddy brown. Pal—

   He seized the mask and pressed it to his face. He held it there for a moment, letting his features rest in their nest of safety. Then, he secured the mask’s straps around his head and yanked his hood up to hide his hair. White. Now they were both white. Now there were no freckles. Now his face was smooth and dark. It was—no. Not yet. He reached up and adjusted the mask a little to the left. Then a little to the right. Then a little back to the left. There. Now it was perfect. The pain in his chest softened back to an ache, and he tossed one last sideways glance at himself on his way out of the bathroom. 

  Oddball gathered his belongings and wandered to the front door. Key, wallet, phone…no camera. His hand closed around the front door handle. He tried to lift the corners of his mouth into the ghost of a smile. Today won’t be so bad…today won’t be so bad…today won’t be so bad. 

  It was raining harder than yesterday. Sheets of downpour created thick, hazy drapes that obscured the landscape from view. The air was roaring the weather’s fury.

  I doubt she’s there in this… He started walking anyway. Why? Maybe it was only because he promised Samantha he would try. Maybe it was only because he didn’t want to be rude. Maybe it was only because he didn’t have anything better to do. 

  The girl with the golden hair wasn’t in the office today, probably on account of the weather. I wouldn’t want to work in this either, he thought. 

  His hoodie was soaked within minutes of the walk and his shirt was on its way to joining it. They clung to his skin in unison. The cold bit at his nerves. He shuddered, and a few drops fell from his hood, flashing and glinting all the way to the ground before gravity snuffed them out forever. Not much further now. 

  I wonder if she’ll even be there… The roaring air here changed tune. It softened a little, filled with the hollow patter of raindrops striking leaves. The smell of soil overpowered the smell of concrete. 

  9:35 AM. Truthfully, he hadn't planned on coming. He was going to just stay home and sketch—maybe find a new web-comic to binge or waste away hours on social media. He’d find some excuse to tell Samantha, maybe even give some kind of apology to the girl in the red raincoat if he ever saw her again. But he was here now, and through the veil of precipitation, he could make out the shape of the railing. 

  I’m sure she won’t be here. Amidst the grayish fog of rain, there was a faint red blur. I’m too late, and it’s raining anyways. It began to take shape and harden at the edges as he drew near. I wasted my time. I should just go back. He stopped. The girl in the red raincoat was leaning up against the railing. She was preoccupied, staring down at the glowing rectangle of her phone screen. In her free hand, she lazily supported the handle of a large, red umbrella that leaned against her shoulder. Ropes of runoff fell from its edges, surrounding her in mini-waterfalls. He could barely make out her face. 

  She was frowning that same frown of a child whose mother just denied them a trip to the carnival or the candy store. It was a frown that echoed disappointment for all to see and interpret without trouble. She was probably annoyed with him. Or was she hurt? Would she be mad if he approached now? It was his fault for forgetting after all. To be fair though, he wasn’t even planning to come in the first place…

  Oddball took a step back. I’m probably too late. Then another. Sorry. Wait, what was he apologizing for? Sorry… He turned around and started to walk away. I tried, at least…I can tell Sam that.

  “Hey!!” There it was again, the voice of friendliness that embodied positivity and cheer. Even when she looked upset, she sounded happy.

  His heart skipped and he almost tripped, just barely catching himself before he overbalanced and plummeted face-first into the concrete. Footsteps. Footsteps were racing up behind him. They stomped puddles, crashing and slinging water about on their noisy approach. Keep walking, he ordered himself, keep walking. His legs wouldn’t move. An invisible tug urged his head to turn back and look over his shoulder; he fought it with all his might. The steps were growing closer now. He could hear the soft rustling of a raincoat catching the air. She was running. He could hear the rattling of the falling rain against her umbrella. He gave into the pull and turned around. The smell of wet concrete smothered the stench of the ocean. The rain hid the taste of salt in the air. His clothes were cold. His muscles were tightened with shivers. The air was thick with rain. The girl in the red raincoat was running up to him, fighting to manage the umbrella with one hand while the other hand gripped the edge of her oversized hood. Then, she was standing in front of him, quietly catching her breath. She was standing close, and it was only now that he realized he was a little taller than her, because she had to look up a little to lock her wide eyes with his. Her cheeks were reddened by the cold and each one of her breaths quickly turned to vapor. She studied him for a brief second, then her eyes lit up and she smiled at him. Oddball’s heart quickened. This was too close. He could feel some sort of magnetic push, repelling him. He retreated back a step, but she quickly countered this by holding her arm out a little more. He glanced up. The umbrella was barely providing the both of them a haven from the downpour. 

  The two of them stood there for a moment, a black and red smear through the sheets of rain. He remembered her name now.

  “You, mister,” said the girl named Ashley, “are late.”