All of It (3 page)

I reach the gym and see Dimitri through the glass doors. He’s talking to a guy I’ve never seen at school before, but he looks familiar. He’s shorter than Dimitri, a full head shorter, 5’6”, maybe 5'-7". His hair is fair, almost white, and hangs just past his shoulders. It’s wavy and intentionally messy. It’s way better than girl hair; it’s model hair. Guys having better-than-girl hair is so unfair. His eyes appear dark from a distance. His chest is broad and he’s definitely muscular, it shows through his fitted shirt. His clothes are the same type the other guys at school wear, but are obviously higher-end. He holds himself confidently and his stance reminds me of someone. He doesn’t look arrogant, but unapproachable. He’s definitely going to get a lot of attention from the girls around here, but I wonder who’ll be brave enough to try? My money’s on Chloe Murphy. The thought of it brings up a strange feeling inside me. Nothing like jealousy—I don’t feel attracted to him in that way. He’s nice looking, but he’s not at all my type. I like tall, dark, and skinny. Always have, always will. The feeling I have is more protective. The same way I feel about my closest friends. Weird …

I watch them talk. They can’t see me from where I stand, so I take advantage of being inconspicuous. And it finally dawns on me why the other boy looks so familiar. It’s like he and Dimitri are looking in a mirror. Despite the extreme height difference they both stand tall, unquestionably confident. Physically they don’t look alike at all, but their mannerisms and hand gestures are similar. They are obviously at ease with each other. These two know each other well.

I shift my eyes to Dimitri. I’ve been so focused on myself and my obligation that I haven’t taken the time to fully size him up until this moment. He’s tall, at least six feet. He’s taken off the long sleeved, button-up shirt he was wearing earlier to reveal a fitted T-shirt that shows off his physique nicely. His face and arms are bronzed, like he’s been out in the sun all summer. He’s skinny—not scrawny skinny, just really lean and fit skinny. Just
right
skinny. I
love
just right skinny. His hair’s the color of dark chocolate, not short or long, but somewhere in between. It’s perfect. Not perfect because he spends a lot of time on it though, he just has an incredible head of hair. He wears dark burgundy glasses. They’re rectangular and stylish, but not the type any our classmates wear. His clothes are different, too, a mix of different styles, nothing expensive or flashy, but neat. He looks artsy or European. I get the impression he doesn’t even have to put effort into looking this cool … and that somehow makes it
so much better
. The height, the hair, the build—he’s tall, dark, and skinny …

I’ve come to the conclusion that he would look good in anything, or nothing, I imagine. Okay, time to rein in my imagination; I’m drifting.

Now that I’ve actually taken the time to notice him, I realize that he’s quite possibly the prettiest guy I’ve ever seen. Guys are rarely pretty or beautiful. Handsome is an inadequate description in his case. He’s definitely handsome, but he teeters over into the beautiful range—off-the-charts beautiful, but in a very manly way. How has this fact escaped me all morning? My god, he’s lovely …

The blond boy looks toward me and grins slightly. It’s the same small smile I’ve already seen on Dimitri’s face this morning, but it’s warm. I can’t help but smile back, feeling the protective, motherly instinct rise up inside me again. He puts his fist out toward Dimitri. They tap knuckles and Dimitri turns around to come outside.

Watching the two of them has put me in some strange calm state. It was wrong to stand and watch them, like some sort of snoop, but it didn’t feel intrusive. It wasn’t like I was watching two strangers, but exactly the opposite. I felt like I was watching old friends. It’s eerily familiar.

“How was P.E.?” My words come out sounding more like myself than anything else I’ve said to him all morning. The edge is gone. We talk as we walk back to our lockers in the main building.

“It was good. Mr. Cannon seems all right. It should be fun I suppose,” he says reflectively.

“Did Mr. Cannon start with soccer or flag football this semester?” Before he can answer, I continue, “I took his class my sophomore year. I remember playing basketball at the end of the semester because it was too cold to go outside, but I can’t remember if we started with soccer or flag football.” I love sports and I’m pretty athletic. I was quite a tomboy when I was younger. I preferred to play with boys and they accepted me, and me alone, as one of their own. I don’t think I had a friend that was a girl until I was in sixth grade. I was always captain when we picked teams for recess in elementary school. I’m still friends with all of them, too. Guys, I learned early on, are much easier to relate to and be friends with. They aren’t petty. They don’t play games and they’re always honest. They are the brothers I never had.

“Soccer. You like sports don’t you? I bet you take P.E. every semester, even though it’s not required.” This should’ve come out as more of a question, but it didn’t. He says it as a statement, just something he already knows to be true.

“Yeah, I do like sports.” I stop and think about his last statement. I
have
taken P.E. every semester even though we are only required to take it for two. I’ve never really thought about it. I just automatically enroll, kind of like French or English. “And yeah, now that you mention it, I do take P.E. every semester.” I laugh at myself as I say it, not because it’s funny necessarily, but because a complete stranger has just pointed out the obvious. But how did he know? I don’t look like the hard-core, sporty girls that live in sweats and running shoes. I always dress fairly nice and girly, thanks to my mom. She loves to shop. I wear a little make-up and spend too much time on my hair—hardly your typical jock.

He holds the door again for me as we enter the main building.

“Thank you. So, you have lunch this period?” I ask, not offering that I also have lunch.

“And you?” He’s looking at me … at my eyes.

Ugh, I’m not going to get out of this one, am I? I can’t lie; he’ll see it written all over my face. Honestly (no pun intended), lying is too much work; that coupled with the fact that I’m utterly horrible at it, so I don’t bother. Even if I did he’d just find out eventually, so I confess, “Yeah, I do,” though it’s not as painful saying it as I thought it would be.

“What are our options?” He’s still looking at me.

“
Our
options?” Does he mean our as in the student body, our as in the two of us, or our as in just him (an “our” variation on the royal we)? I wait for his answer, for clarification, suddenly hoping he’s referring to the two of us. This is crazy.

“I
mean
do I have to eat in the cafeteria? May I leave campus?” His expression changes though he’s still smiling. He’s looking at me like he can hear every word running through my mind.

“Oh, of course. Option one is eating in the cafeteria, though I have to warn you that you’d be taking your life into your own hands. And I don’t think I could live with myself or the proverbial blood on my hands resulting from the recommendation of your last supper. So let’s forget that’s even an option. Option two is eating off campus. There are a couple of places within a mile or two.” I’m still not sure what to think of this guy, but I wouldn’t subject my worst enemy to cafeteria food. Besides, I have to admit he’s kind of growing on me … and not just because he’s good looking.

We stop in front of our lockers and the conversation ends. He opens his quickly, puts his books and P.E. clothes away, and shuts the door before I manage to find the small piece of paper my combination is written on. Man, my short-term memory sucks. I open my locker and empty my bag of books—everything except my notebook—and grab my lunch sack to stuff it in my bag. I haven’t heard him leave, but assume he has. It’s quiet. I rearrange a few more things and hang the mirror, a few photos, and a sticker with my favorite band’s logo on it on the inside of the door. I shut the door and involuntarily jump back, my hand to my chest, when I see Dimitri still standing there, looking at me.

“Holy mother of—,” I shout. “You scared the hell out of me. I thought you left five minutes ago.” My heart’s attempting to pound itself free of my chest.

He’s standing with his back to his locker three down from mine. His arms are crossed against his chest waiting patiently. He lets out a quiet laugh, making it clear he thinks it’s funny that he’s nearly given me a heart attack. “Easy there, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay.” My heart is beginning to slow down and I can’t help but laugh. “Still weighing your options, huh?”

“Well, as tempting as the cafeteria sounds I think I’ll pass. The thought of you left to mourn my death shrouded in all that guilt is far too much to bear.” He mockingly clutches his heart.

“That would be tragic.” I deadpan.

“Tragic,” he agrees and then he shrugs, “And I don’t have a car today, so it looks like I’m out of options. I think I’ll just grab a soda and a bag of chips from the vending machine.” The laughter’s died away, but it lingers playfully in his voice.

“I’m just going outside to eat in the courtyard. You can come … with me … if you want to.” My voice is noticeably quieter as the last few words escape. Did I actually just invite him to join me for lunch?

No need to ask twice apparently. “I’ll meet you out there,” he blurts and turns to jog down the hall toward the vending machines.

I head out and sit on the bench next to the flower garden. I usually sit under the maple tree, but I can’t resist the sunshine today. The flowers smell amazing and won’t be around much longer before they die off to cold temperatures. The courtyard is empty, as always. It’s so peaceful and quiet here. I open my lunch sack and remember I made myself a tuna salad sandwich. It’s one of my favorite sandwiches, though I don’t usually have the time to make it. I was up extra early this morning though. I unwrap it and open my mouth to take a bite as he walks up.

“Is this seat taken?” He asks politely, though I get the feeling that he would sit down regardless of the answer.

“Wide open. You can sit with me if you don’t mind answering a few questions.” I’m beginning to feel much more comfortable with him than I ever imagined I would. If you’d have asked me at 7:30, or even 10:30 this morning, I would’ve bet money that he would’ve ditched his guide by now and probably wouldn’t even acknowledge me if he passed me in the hall. And yet, here we are eating lunch together in the courtyard, seemingly enjoying ourselves.

“Me first: what are you eating?” His nose wrinkles up and his face wears an expression of disgust. “Because if that has mayonnaise in it I’m going to have to excuse myself to the other side of the courtyard. I have a nose like a bloodhound and an unparalleled gag reflex.”

“That’s an unfortunate couple.”

“You’re telling me.”

“It’s tuna salad. Do you want half?” I offer, unable to tell if he’s serious or not.

The near dry heave serves as confirmation. He scoots to the end of the bench. At what appears to be a safe distance he rejoins the conversation, “I’ll pass. I never could figure out how you, I mean people, eat that stuff. It’s disgusting.” The words are harsh, but his tone isn’t.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” I throw back at him, in the same mocking tone.

“Afraid I do. There was a time, and I shudder at the thought of it, that I used to eat,” he swallows hard, “and enjoy mayonnaise. But after a fantastic and colorful episode of food poisoning a long time ago, I can’t even stomach the thought of it.”

I can see by the look on his face that he truly recalls something unpleasant. “I had no idea a simple, yet tasty, condiment could be so repelling. I’ll eat quickly.” The taunting subsides and my voice softens and becomes serious, apologetic, “And while I have your attention I want to apologize for my behavior this morning. I’m usually not so moody … or bossy … or whatever.” I exhale, searching for the words, “What I mean is, though I can be an ass sometimes, I really am a pretty nice person. I’m sorry for the way I acted.” Apologies are usually much more difficult for me. I don’t like admitting when I’m wrong. I’m stubborn like my dad that way. Still, it’s easy to talk to Dimitri now.

He nods and flashes a beautiful smile. “Apology accepted. Now what are your questions?”

“This has been bugging me all morning. When we were in the art building, why did you ask me if I’d just come from French or English class?” I’m brave at first but feel silly by the time I get around to the actual question.

Matter-of-factly, he answers, “Because you looked so happy.” He has the same look on his face now that he had earlier when he’d asked the question. Like it’s some inside joke, though I have no idea what he’s talking about. He can see his answer has thoroughly confused me.

“I’m not following you, so enlighten me oh-wise-one. How did you even know I took French?”

“I saw your book this morning in the office when you were putting it in your bag. I’m not psychic, Veronica.” He rolls his eyes. “And everyone is required to take English.” He’s already anticipated my next question. He says it as though it’s so obvious anyone could’ve figured it out.

“Okay, I forgot about that. I’m actually surprised you even remember what books I had.” He’s consistently, continually, perplexingly, always one step ahead of me.

“I have a very good memory,” he interrupts, tapping his temple with his finger again.

“Yeah, I guess so. It’s Olympian. You’ve proven that today. But, that still doesn’t answer my question,” I persist. “How did you know, based on my
mood,
that I’d just come from French or English?”

“They’re your favorite subjects, aren’t they?” He has this strange way of making questions sound more like statements.

And suddenly I don’t want to answer. Where is this going? But I succumb to curiosity—which killed the cat, and will quite possibly kill Veronica as well—and I proceed, “Yeah, so …” I sound like a defeated child who isn’t getting her way.

He sits back against the bench, takes a long drink and begins looking around the courtyard, subtly, yet unquestionably, indicating the conversation is over.