4. NOAH
Chapter four
The sun pierced through the blinds like daggers to my brain. I peeled my eyelids open and was met with a pounding headache spawned from the fiery depths of hell.
“Goddamn it,” I grumbled, smacking my tongue against the roof of my dry mouth.
Forcing both eyes open this time, I squint at the blurry red blob on my nightstand. As the numbers come into focus, my stomach drops.
8:02 AM. Shit.
“Fuck—shit—fuck!” I lurched up. Bad move. The room spun, and then I was airborne.
“Ow, Jesus fuck,” I groaned, face-down on the carpet as something revolted in my stomach. Why past me thought it was a good idea to drink and tag the skatepark until the wee hours with Daniel, I’ll never understand.
I peeled my cheek off the floor and stumbled to the sink, swallowing down the toxic waste in my throat. After drowning myself in tap water and splashing some on my face, I noticed the leftover signs of spray paint on my fingers. I tried to scrub it off, skin turning red underneath the water, but the paint wouldn’t budge.
“Terrific.” I flicked off the light, stumbling out of the bathroom, wondering how the hell I was going to make it through the day. I kept cursing under my breath as I dashed out of my room, already half-dressed. I ran downstairs to see if my mom was awake, praying she’d offer some magical hangover cure, but I couldn’t find her anywhere.
I walked into the kitchen, but she wasn’t in there either, and neither was Dennis. No soul in sight. I sighed, grabbing a box of cereal and a bowl, blinking myself into existence when I saw the only thing we had was stale, depressing Cheerios.
My body grimaced as I filled the bowl before pouring milk over it and sat down at the table to shovel the cardboard-tasting circles into my mouth, staring out the window as I did.
The cheerful sunshine outside mocked my dark mood.
It had barely been 24 hours without the band, and I still felt like shit about it. There had been so much time and energy invested into it, and now I had to start over. I didn’t have the slightest fucking clue where to start.
The silence of the kitchen was deafening, and I was drowning in it, so I pushed away the pitiful cereal, deciding today wasn’t the day for a lactose allergy and wheat circles.
Grabbing my bag, I groaned loudly and slung it over my shoulder, then ran out the door into the spitefully chipper sunlight.
Time to face the music. Or lack thereof. Ha . I cracked myself up sometimes.
Being late was the cherry on top, or the cheerio on top , I thought to myself as I walked across the lawn to meet my English fate.
Christ, I wanted Mrs. Taylor to buzz off the second she started grilling me. I was in no mood to be bothered by teachers in my current state. Couldn’t she see I was dying over here? Have some mercy.
I just wanted to sleep. But I could feel the burn of eyeballs on me and when I opened my own, I saw a set of particularly famous green ones to the left of me.
And this time I knew her name.
My eyes stay glued to hers as I sink back into my seat, placing my elbow on the desk to prop my head up on my hand, waiting to see if she’d keep watching. She didn’t disappoint. An exquisite eyebrow arches as she gives me a long once-over before rolling those eyes and looking away.
Hello to you too, Wishmore.
Once the teacher quiets down, I lean over slightly and turn to look around the classroom. Everyone is busy watching Mrs. Taylor drop a stack of books on her desk when my eyes finally come back to her. Maybe this garbage day is salvageable after all.
“Something bothering you, Ms. Wishmore?” I drawl, laying the snark on thick.
“It’s Roxy,” she tells me.
“Okay, Roxanne.”
“It’s just Roxy.”
“Okay, Rox.”
She whips her head to me, emerald eyes glaring daggers. I very much enjoy the flare of temper in those eyes like she wants to spit down my neck.
“Rox, Roxy, it’s all the same,” I continue. “I could call you a different name every day and you’d still hate me for it.”
I’m not quite so angry from this morning anymore as I lean back into my chair, lacing my hands behind my head. Let her hate me… as long as she kept looking at me like that. Ian’s words still sting and I’m still lost and pissed, but I can at least try to antagonize this girl. This way I get to let out some of my pent-up energy without getting expelled.
She’s still glaring at me, her lips pressed together in a thin line.
“Alright, alright. I’ll call you Roxy. No need to be such a ballbuster about it,” I murmur, leaning in close enough to catch a whiff of sugar and what smells like onions. “Are you always this sensitive, Roxy?”
“Yes,” she hisses, eyes flashing. “And you’re always an asshole.”
I bark out a laugh, giving her a slow look up and down, trying to figure her out. Those legs of hers are jammed tight against the underside of her desk, almost nervously. An intriguing contradiction to the bold person I saw last night.
My gaze travels down her denim shorts to the fishnets and white socks pulled up high over her ankles. Then I smile to myself when I spot drumsticks tucked into her boots.
Well, well, my vicious desk neighbor is a drummer. Wonder if she’s any good?
“Sounds pretty exhausting. Do you always overreact to everything, or am I just lucky?” I raise an eyebrow as I look back up at her. “Or did someone piss in your Cheerios again?”
“I am not overreacting to anything at all. I don’t know why you’re suddenly on me like this. And I don’t even like Cheerios.”
I chuckle and lean back. Riling her up is too easy. “Because it’s fun to mess with you. I love seeing you get all huffy and puffy. And this is how we act around each other, isn’t it? Teasing, arguing. We’re gonna become great friends, I just know it.”
Roxanne slams her palms down. “We are not going to be friends—”
“Mr. Jackson and Ms. Wishmore!” Mrs. Taylor snaps. “Do we have a problem over here?”
We both turn to Mrs. Taylor, who is staring at us from the front of the classroom. Always a damn joy kill, that one.
I brush her off with a shrug. “Nah, we’re good, Mrs. T.”
When I turn back to my desk neighbor, she blinks those striking eyes and is now giving me one hell of a dirty look, muttering curse words that I’m sure she’s made up just for me. Somehow it makes my smile widen.
Her eyes snap back to mine, and her lip curls in disgust as she spits out, “Take a picture, it’ll last longer. Or are you trying to figure out how many brain cells you’ve lost since yesterday?”
My grin only grows. Most girls would be falling all over themselves to get my attention, but not this one. No, Roxanne Wishmore is different. She’s got a spine made of steel and a tongue sharp enough to cut glass.
Now that I think about it, this might be the girl from freshman year who verbally eviscerated me in front of the whole cafeteria for cutting in line. I had been in a shitty mood that day, still reeling from my parents’ latest screaming match, and I guess I took it out on her.
She called me every name in the book and then some. By the time she was done, the entire lunchroom was dead silent, and I was left standing there with my tail between my legs.
I’m surprised I haven’t seen her around since. Anyone who could put me in my place like that is worth paying attention to.
Three years later and she still hates my guts. But that’s okay. I think I like it that way.
She’s different now that she’s underneath fluorescent and not lights with blue neon smoke. I run my eyes over her features quickly, logging everything that I can: her jet black hair is so dark, but the shadows in it almost turn blue in this lighting. Its long, straight yet wavy strands stop down at the small of her back, and parts in different directions down the middle like it can’t make up its mind. She’s got bright pale arms dotted with black, blue, and gray plastic bangles barely hidden by the long sleeve shirt she’s wearing. And her green eyes are even more bitter from four feet away, especially underneath the black eyeliner. All hot and annoyed.
Damn, yeah, she’s pretty cute when she’s mad. Wasn’t expecting that.
“Looks like we’ve pissed off the teacher already. I knew I liked you, RoRo.”
“RoRo?” Roxanne says with a smirk against her cupid’s bow lips. “You think that’s gonna stick?”
“Of course it is, Roxanne. Your name is already Rox. One slight alteration and it’s already stuck. Get used to it because you’re gonna hear it a lot.”
Her glare intensified to nuclear levels at the same moment one dark brow arches at me.
“Yeah, ‘RoRo’ suits you. Rolls right off the tongue.” I make a show of tasting every little syllable. “Has a nice ring to it.”
“Yeah, you call me RoRo again, and I’m gonna shove that skateboard up your ass.”
“You seem to be really obsessed with my ass.” I flash that same smile I’d practiced in the mirror last night. “Don’t act all tough, RoRo. We both know you wouldn’t last a second against me.”
“In your dreams, skater boy. I wouldn't touch your ass with a ten-foot pole.”
“You know, you are just a peach,” I retort, biting my lip when she looks ready to lunge across the aisle and strangle me. “Most girls enjoy it when I pay them this kind of special attention.”
Her eyes round with renewed annoyance even as two spots of color rise on her cheeks. “Well I’m not most girls, clearly. Don’t you have someone else to bother?”
“Nah, think I’ll stick with you, Roxanne. You’re way more fun.”
She looks positively murderous now, and this is way better than sitting here dwelling on my own shit. Those nostrils flare and the challenge is enough to grab Mrs. Taylor’s attention. She turns to face the two of us, pissed by the disruption we have caused once again.
Roxanne and I exchange one last glance before turning away from each other and feigning innocence like we weren’t talking at all. Mrs. Taylor sighs in irritation and continues her lecture, launching into a poetic description of Cathy and Heathcliff’s relationship while passing out paperbacks.
“You better quit talking to me, or you’re gonna get me in trouble with the teacher,” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth when I feel her eyes still shooting those death rays at me, but I don’t look this time.
I don’t bother to look back again.
As fun as our little chat had been, I have bigger things to worry about—especially given the events of yesterday and the news potentially spreading around on the first day of school. I don’t need a teacher getting on my bad side on top of it.
My attention stays on Mrs. Taylor, taking the book dutifully from her hands, and I keep my focus on Heathcliff and Cathy’s doomed romance.
The teacher drones on and on about the lovers. Something about Gothic symbolism and the wild Yorkshire moors. My eyes keep drifting to the clock above the classroom door, watching the minutes tick by at a slow pace.
By the time she had forced many students to stand up and answer questions no one knew the answers to, I open the book, reading the same sentence six times before I could actually soak the words on the page into my head.
Three more minutes of this literary torture.
I drum my fingers impatiently on my desk, my leg jiggling as I wait for the bell to ring.
Two more minutes.
I lay my chin in the cradle of my arm against my desk, already planning to skip the next class and sneak underneath the bleachers in the gym to take an hour long nap. Lost in thoughts of freedom and the clock’s ticking, I completely miss the person sliding out of their chair three rows away, crawling down the aisle with bracelets clinking against the floor, slowly making their way toward me—until they stop right in front of my desk.
I jerk back, then relax when my eyes fall on the familiar mop of dark hair and a spray paint speckled forearm resting against my table.
“Noah,” Daniel—or Danny boy, as I like to call him when I'm feeling particularly annoying—says, his warm brown eyes crinkling with his bright smile, straight white teeth gleaming against his tan skin.
“Dani.” I lightly kick his knee under my desk. “Have you been in here the whole time?”
“Yep, right under your nose, dude.” He chuckles when we lock eyes. Both bloodshot to hell. At least he was probably as miserable as me.
Iron Fillings might be ready to write me off, but Daniel’s had my back since I can remember. I’d known him since I was in middle school, but it wasn’t until we met at the local skatepark when we were sixteen, bonding over busted rails and scraped knees, that we actually sealed the deal and really became friends. He taught me to skate. And later, boosted my first pack of cigarettes.
Plus, he sold me weed. But that’s beside the point.
Some of my best stunts and laughs are thanks to Dan’s spirit. He’s a tiny firecracker, always bursting with energy and unpredictable like a squirrel on a sugar rush.
Sometimes we skip class to spray graffiti on the old brick wall beside the park, or sneak off to the local bar to drink beer, or even hide in the alleyways behind the park to smoke weed. But beneath the ball of energy, what sets him apart from everyone else is his scary ability to read me like a fucking book. I think he has a secret decoder ring that unlocks when looking at me.
It’s no surprise he can sense my escape plans now, even when I’m lost in my own head.
“Man, I know that look. Are you serious right now?” my best friend asks, his straight strands swishing softly against his cheeks and behind his ears as he shakes his head. “You’re skipping class.”
“What’re you the hall monitor?” I whisper back. “You gonna catch me skipping and put me in detention?”
There’s a blast of wintergreen gum as his grin stretches ear-to-ear. “Nah, I’d never narc. I just thought I’d come keep you company. If you’re not in class, that means I also won’t be in class. Plus, I already have second period off for a ‘personal emergency.’”
“Personal emergency? What, like a date with your right hand?”
“Nah, just a bad case of the shits,” he says with zero care to share this information.
“You know you could have lied right? You didn’t have to actually tell me that.” I don’t know what face I make at him, but whatever it is, it has him laughing and slapping at my shoulder.
“I’m fucking with you, man. I don’t want to go to Spanish. Mrs. Weaver thinks because I’ve got a bit of color that I can speak it so she always calls on me. I don’t think she realizes I’m Japanese, not Antonio Banderas.” He snorts, making me shake my head.
“Weaver is always off her marbles.”
“Speaking of odd ladies…” Daniel leans forward, the skin of his face pulling back as he slides his chin across my desk and gives the left side of me a quick glance. “What’s up with her? She seems off her marbles.”
I shoot a wink at him as I look over at Roxanne. We both catch her staring at us, darting her eyes back to the book Mrs. Taylor assigned.
“Ignore her. She seems to have a bug up her ass about everything I do.”
Daniel fixates on Roxanne, squinting and eyeing her up. “Is that why you’re skipping class? This chick have something to do with it?”
Once more, I steal a glance at Roxanne, catching her not-so-subtly eavesdropping again.
“Not really, no. She just seems to have a problem with me.” The corners of my mouth curl up when she starts to tap her boot against the ground. I raise my voice just so she really hears. “Hell, I think she actually thinks she’s better than me.”
There’s the slightest grin on her face that she’s failing at keeping hidden behind her hair, and she brings her book closer to her face.
“Ooh, she got a grudge, huh?” My friend laughs before up-nodding her while gesturing a finger between her and I. “Yo, you hear what this loser just said?”
She lowers the book right below her nose, rolls her eyes before speaking quietly to her pages, and leans further over her desk, gripping her pencil tightly and shielding off her book with her arms while she scrawls something on the pages. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was digging the attention.
“Damn, she hates you.” He nudges me, popping his gum. “I bet she’s totally into you.”
I laugh at the thought.
“Fat chance. I don’t think she’s capable of liking anyone.” I check to see if she’s still watching. She darts her eyes back to her fortress, so I notch up my voice a little higher. “Who am I kidding, she probably has a massive crush on me.”
The second Roxanne’s pencil snaps, Daniel and I’s eyes lock and neither one of us can fight back the slow grin, my cheeks tightening while I try to suppress the bubbling laughter sitting in my chest. Coughing, I mask the laugh into seriousness when the bell for next period rings.
Students spring up in sweet freedom. Heathcliff can brood on those moors without me.
Daniel hops up, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and grinning down at me. “Come on, let’s motorvate before your girlfriend decides to narc on us.”
The rest of the class leaves in silence as I flip him off. Roxanne avoids both of us as she scoops her half-broken pencil into her bag, pulling her headphones out from underneath her hair. When she zips her backpack shut, I sling mine over my shoulder and stand, tempted to brush against her to see if she’d shiver. Instead, I leave the room without another word.
“Yeah, I’m gonna go with crush. See that? A pencil break.” Daniel laughs behind me and smacks at my shoulder. “She’s totally into you, bro. She broke that pencil like she wanted to break your neck! That has to mean she likes you.”
I blink, my bag bouncing against my back as I keep walking, racking my brain how breaking a pencil could mean anything but the opposite.
My knowledge of Roxanne is limited, except that she had been present at the bar last night, which means she shares my taste in music and apparently goes to Bellpond High. Oh, and plays an instrument.
“You should ask her out.”
I slam the brakes, sending him crashing into my board on my back. “Ask her out?” I bark, then start picking up my feet again. “Yeah right. I’d rather run naked through the streets.”
Daniel righted himself, flicking hair from his eyes. “What’s wrong? Scared of girls?”
“Please—” I stop in the middle of the hallway while everyone else moves around us, listing names out on my fingers. “Jessica, Jennifer, Andrea—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a ladies man. I get it. Save some for the rest of us.”
Shaking my head, I hitch my backpack up higher and continue walking down the hall. With Daniel marching along with me.
“I don’t know Noah, you’ve been messing around with them for a while. You might be losing your charm.”
Another stop. The sound of my shoes squeaking against the floor echoes throughout the hallway and over the mess of classmates. Slowly, I pivot on my heels, directing my glare toward my friend, and slice both of my hands in the air.
“Dude. What are you doing?” I ask.
“Nothing...”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes...” I’d believe him if he weren’t trying to act cute by pursing his lips together, twisting his fingers down in front of him, and whistling up at the ceiling.
“Sure, whatever,” I mutter, narrowing my eyes.
Without wasting any more time, I turn and resume my stride towards the gym, ready for that goddamn nap. Kurt Cobain’s vocals fill my head as I walk through the hallway, passing the same wave of people that I do every year. Some hold their hands out for high-fives, while girls lean against their lockers and twirl strands of their hair, yet amidst the usual attention of fans, a nagging thought creeps into my mind.
What if Roxanne does have it out for me?
Does she have some sort of weird-way-of-showing-it crush on me? If all of the nails wiggling at me told me anything right now, it was who didn’t?
Or maybe she genuinely hates my guts, and all the rude behavior is her way of getting back at me for whatever the hell I did. It’s impossible to know for sure, and it’s really starting to fucking bother me that I’m pondering the enigma that is Roxanne Wishmore after only talking to her twice.
Navigating past the row of blue lockers, we finally reach the grand finale of the hallway—the double gym doors. I push my hands against the handles and fling them open, waving for Daniel to follow inside the vast expanse of the Bellpond High gymnasium.
Hold your breath though. It’s not that exciting.
It’s your standard gym fare. Polished blond hardwood floors stretch out, always managing to catch that one patch of sunlight just right to blind you. White brick walls sport two stripes in light gray and baby blue near the ceiling, flanked by rows of tiered timber benches with shiny gates for added flair. It’s nothing special, but I’ve spent countless hours here, skating, napping, and killing time. It’s as familiar to me as my own backyard.
“Where are we heading?” Daniel nudges me lightly. “Are we doing something that involves danger or illegal activities? Please say yes.”
“I’m crashing under the bleachers,” I reply. “Probably gonna sleep for a while, maybe fuck up these floors with my board later or something.”
“You’re so boring, dude,” he says with a laugh, grabbing my shoulders to shake me like a ragdoll, rattling my necklace against my chest. “Why do you always come down here to sleep all the time? You can do that in your own room.”
“Well, when my stepdad’s home, I’d rather sleep under the bleachers, thanks.”
“Ooh, Noah wants to be sneaky and avoid his stepdad,” Daniel sings, his voice contrasting with the violent shaking he’s still inflicting.
“You already know he’s a little too strict sometimes. Remember when he caught us smoking in the backyard?”
Daniel winces. “Shit, yeah. I thought he was gonna make us eat those cigarettes.”
I nod, breaking free from his grip. Daniel’s the only one who knows how bad it gets with Dennis around, and I’m not really scared to admit to anyone that he’s my only friend who knows that much about me. I kind of own the fact that I don’t let anybody in like that.
He turns, starting to eye the bleachers. “You’re gonna go under there and sleep? Doesn’t sound too comfy.”
I jerk my chin towards them. “Nah, it’s not too bad. It’s relaxing in a weird way. You should try it.”
He laughs as he elbows me. “You know I was about to ditch you, but if you’re offering, I guess I’ll go check out this supposed relaxing sleeping position with you.”
Taking a deep breath, I crack open one of the silver gates on the left side of the bleachers and quickly crawl underneath, motioning for Daniel to hurry up before I close it behind us. We both settle into a corner and lean up against a pillar across from each other.
I fish inside my pocket and pull out my Marlboro reds, placing a cigarette between my teeth and flicking my thumb against the lighter, igniting the white tip as I watch Daniel doze off.
My chest expands as I inhale, and I tip my head up, blowing thin smoke up into the air and watching it disappear through the slats of the bleachers. Time passes in silence, interrupted only by the distant sounds of slamming locker doors and the occasional whistle blower outside.
And, of course, Daniel’s snoring. To think he didn’t believe me that this is the best spot when this place is my hidden oasis.
As my cigarette reaches its end, I stub it out against the bottom of my shoe. The healing powers of the bleachers are already seeping into my body, making my hangover less shitty.
I shut my eyes, tilt my head back, and watch the blue dots popping against the backs of my eyelids that weirdly remind me of Roxanne’s hair. Those locks are the last thing that I see in my mind until eventually I’m met with the peaceful darkness.