Transfixed Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee
Transfixed
Seventeen Years Old, Tennessee
All day at school, I exist in a fog. I watch the floor as I navigate corridors and skip Advisory in the library to sit in my car. Since it’s the Wednesday before Thanksgiving break, we’re watching movies in most of my classes. Nobody seems to care that I’m zoned out.
Paloma texts: I’m here if you want to talk. Or, I’m just here.
Sophia texts: We love you.
Meagan texts: It won’t always be this hard.
All the way from Colorado, Andi and Anika post heart emojis in our shared thread.
Even Macy reaches out: Thinking of you, babe.
After school, I hide in the bathroom to avoid the mass exodus. Leaning against the closed door of the stall farthest from the entrance, I draw a breath and text Bernie: Lots of love to you, Connor, and the twins. Then I tuck my phone away, waiting out the shouts and whoops that filter in from the hallway.
When it’s finally quiet, I step into the corridor, which is startlingly postapocalyptic. Discarded papers are strewn across the floor. Someone dropped a full soda and left it, the upturned can floating in a pool of cola. A game-day rally pom dangles from the drop ceiling.
I feel terrible for the custodians who’ll be stuck cleaning up the debauchery.
Behind me, a low voice speaks a different version of that same thought: “Gotta feel for the janitors who have to deal with this shit.”
I whirl around to find a boy standing a few feet away.
The boy.
“Sorry,” he says, stepping forward. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
He and I’ve walked the same hallways for months and passed on the quad dozens of times, but I’ve done my best to banish him from my head. Still, every time I see him, I remember how I felt when our eyes caught that first day in the library. Like maybe there’s more in store for me than sorrow. Like maybe, in some distant future, my soul might really find a second match. Now, standing in closer proximity to him than I ever have before, I allow myself a moment to take him in: his jeans, his charcoal sweatshirt, the backpack chucked over his shoulder. His skin is olive and clear, his eyes bright with concern. It’s the shape of his nose, though, broken a time or two probably, that captivates me.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I stare up at him, breathing shallowly, lost in a memory from months ago, a wintery afternoon in Virginia. I catalog his dark hair, his height, and that crooked nose, combining his features like numbers in an addition problem.
Their sum total is like being shaken out of a deep sleep.
He moves closer, brows knitting together. “You okay?”
My bag falls to the floor. I swallow around the lump that’s bloomed in my throat.
“Shit,” he says with alarm, “you’re not okay.”
I haven’t been okay all day and this— this is enough to eviscerate the facade I’ve been hiding behind.
Now, I’m exposed.
Now, I’m crying.
It’s been twelve months. Three hundred sixty-five days, and I’m a fucking mess.
A weaker human would turn and run, forget the melodramatic sad-sack-weirdo making puddles at his feet.
This human, though… This human drops his bag and pulls the weirdo into a hug.
Sobs shake my frame, sparking spasms in the muscles of my neck. For a series of terrifying seconds, I can’t catch my breath. In a stranger’s embrace, I gasp and cry and sputter, and I’m mortified , but I haven’t lost it like this in a long time, and now that I’ve given over to emotion, I’m done for.
Finally, finally , I get control.
Backing up, I weigh my options: explain or run.
I’m inclined to the latter when I find the courage to look up at him. Anguish is chiseled into his expression, and my tears have left dark splotches on his sweatshirt. He hasn’t picked up his backpack, probably because he thinks I’m going to fall apart all over again.
“Better?” he asks quietly.
We’re standing so close, I can smell his wintergreen gum.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I mean…” I heave the world’s deepest sigh. “…no. Not even a little bit.”
His mouth lifts in a hopeful smile, like, Maybe she’s not totally unhinged? “I’ve seen you around,” he says, gaze steady on my face. “You’re new this year, right?”
I run my fingers under my eyes, trying to erase evidence of my meltdown—like he’ll forget so long as I’m not rocking streaked mascara. “I enrolled in August. I’m a senior.”
“Same,” he says. “On your way home?”
Home. Mom and Dad. The rest of this day and its bleak, bleak night.
Begrudgingly, I nod.
He picks up his backpack and extends an arm, like he wants us to walk together.
Shit—he does.
“I’m Isaiah,” he tells me as we navigate the messy hall.
“Lia,” I say casually, as if I didn’t just weep in his arms.
He matches me step for step until, without warning, he stops. I do too, like I’m tethered to him. Bending, he gathers a pile of papers and dumps them into a nearby recycle bin. Again, he stoops and scoops, dumping refuse along the way.
I follow his lead, collecting litter, leaping up to grab that lone pom because it’s helpful. A good deed to counter the darkness of today.
At the end of the corridor, we look back the way we came. Now the hallway looks like a strong wind blew through, rather than a cyclone. Isaiah holds out his fist, and I give it a light bump, like the last ten minutes haven’t upended my world.
Outside, he crosses his arms against the cold. “Need a ride?”
“No, I’m good.”
He looks over at me and says, seriously, “Are you?”
“I’ve got a car,” I say, knowing full well he’s no longer asking about transportation.
When he stops at the curb, he rakes a hand through his hair, revealing a scar on his forehead, pale and V-shaped, befitting yet arresting.
…scarred on the surface and deep within…
My stomach bottoms out.
He says, “Well, Lia, it’s been real.”
I might as well be free-falling. Passing my keys from one hand to the other, trying hard to pull it together, I stutter out a string of words that I hope come across as authentic gratitude. “Thanks for that…in the hallway. For being decent. I know it was awkward, the way I acted.”
Light finds his eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You could’ve made it even more awkward,” I say, calling up a smile. “I appreciate that you didn’t.”
His face breaks into a grin, and the neurons in my body jolt awake. I see with true clarity the boy standing in front of me: the soulful depth of his eyes, the enviable height of his cheekbones, the fullness of his mouth. I feel his presence, campfire warmth on a chilly night. I bask in his kindness, in the lingering comfort of his hug. My stomach flutters and my fingertips tingle and my cheeks go hot. God, maybe I’m getting sick. But then, as my heart jackhammers, I recognize what this is.
Two magnets—north pole and south pole—drawn to one another.
He’s tempered his grin, leaving his expression cloaked in mystery. His gaze sweeps my face. His tongue wets his lower lip, tasting the energy between us, and the restraint that’s kept me tottering on this side of rational goes to pieces.
Woozy and overheated, I step into his space. He smells like winter: smoke and juniper and cool mint. I lift onto my toes, pressing my mouth to his. If he’s surprised, he’s also willing. He tilts his head, coaxing the kiss open, sighing into it. Closing my eyes, I offer and accept, lost in sensation.
When his fingertips find my face, though, I remember who I am and what I’ve been through. More so, I remember the significance of this day and jerk away, staggering back.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell him.
I’m so sorry , I tell Beck.
Isaiah nods, touching his mouth, his expression both dumbfounded and desirous.
The sound of an approaching engine distracts us from the fuckery of the last thirty seconds—thank God. A silver Suburban veers into the lot, driven by a middle-aged Black woman in a burgundy sweater. She stops in front of us, Beyoncé’s “Crazy in Love” audible even though the SUV’s windows are up. She waves, grinning at Isaiah.
He waves back, then turns to me. “My ride.”
“Beyoncé’s the best,” I say, the inanest possible observation, but our interaction is becoming more uncomfortable by the second, and commenting randomly on a pop artist seems less incendiary than acknowledging the tremendously inappropriate kiss I just initiated.
He smiles, dubious. “You sure you’re good?”
Clipped, I say, “Yeah. Definitely.”
He nods, unconvinced, possibly offended. “Have a good break, then.”
“Okay,” I say, watching him open the Suburban’s door. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
I drive home sobbing, salty tears mingling with traces of wintergreen left on my lips.