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cookies & cream
❤ -
chapter 5:
It was Wednesday afternoon, and
school had just finished. As usual, we’d all reconvened at
our local Starbucks until our parents picked us up, or – like
me – until everyone left, so you could start making the bus
ride home.
Emily and Sasha were
seeing who could do the whole Periodic table song in under a
minute, at the forfeit of their macchiatos, and Haydn was
painting my fingernails a dark midnight blue. Her parents
were going through a messy divorce, and her all-time cure for
stress was doing her nails. But hers were proudly sporting the
LGBT rainbow in support of her gay brother, Martin, who was
coming out this week, so she’d taken to doing mine
instead.
I wondered how long the teachers would let me get away with it
for.
“One minute over! My macchiato!” Emily
hollered, whooping and snatching the prize from the centre of the
table.
“NOOO!” Sasha screamed, swiping at her. “You
cheated! You cheated! Nula, tell her she
cheated!”
“What did she do?” I asked.
“She stopped counting at 59! Swear down – I finished
just on the sixty; I was looking at the timer!
“No way, you were just over the sixty mark, my
friend. And please, you’re not a chav, your parents are
paying for you to go to a private school; please save your
‘swear downs’ for the uncivilised.”
“Ooh. Snobbish much, Emily,” Haydn whistled as she
finished my left hand.
Desh said Swear Down. All the time.
“What’s up, Nukie?” Haydn asked. She always
called me Nukie; it was a tribute to her first goldfish who died
of obesity. Flattering, wasn’t it?
“Nothing,” I said, looking up at her.
“Why?”
“You’re very quiet today,” she said,
concentrating on my middle finger.
I never understood when people said that. I was always quiet;
they never noticed all the other times, and then suddenly
they’d pick up on one occasion that was ‘out of the
ordinary’. But then again, I was ever-critical of anyone
who assumed those kind of things about me. Like they knew me at
all.
“Nah,” I said, smiling at her blue eyes. “Just
sorting some stuff out in my head.”
It was now the second week into January. Two and a half weeks
since our conversation on the couch at Ellorei’s, and the
brief goodbye outside my aunt’s. Little had I known then
that would be the last time Desh spoke to me.
I’d seen him at least three, four times since then. And
each time, Desh was always busy doing something else. Talking to
someone else. Tightening his drums, messing about with Leo and
Carval, winding up my mum, Sonia, Maya.
Anyone, but me.
Okay, I know it sounds over-egocentric. I mean, who was to say it
had anything to do with me?
Because, a little voice in my head said, you saw
what happened that Sunday.
That Sunday, after the session at Aunt Fariha’s. It was our
official meet of the weeks, and as usual, I lead the chants at
the front of the ladies’ side, in my prime position next to
the aisle. Desh practically sat next to me, on the other side of
the aisle. I’d never made anything big of it before –
I hadn’t even started to know Desh in all the six months
he’d started attending our group sessions until the
Christmas party – and I was determined not to make anything
big of it then. Wish I could’ve said the same for Desh.
Every time I turned slightly to his side, he’d be facing
the other way. Leaning closer to his drums for close clearing, or
distracting himself with the list on the other wall.
Coincidental. He wasn’t supposed to me looking at us girls,
anyway. But then I’d turned unintentionally – I
wanted to check what Leo was going with the PA – and Desh
turned his whole body around to face the other way a whole split
second after he saw me turning. Then I noticed every time I made
the slightest movement towards him, even with my hair, he’d
be turning too.
It bothered me, the whole week. I’d asked Kaira about it,
one of my closest friends at school, albeit self-centred and
eccentric.
“Well, it makes sense,” she’d said. “You
caught him at his weakest, and you turned him into something
alien – even to himself. You broke his cool exterior;
wounded his ego. He’s probably trying to brush it
off.”
That made sense, I had to agree … except, then there were
the butterflies in my stomach. The cold whirlpool churning
anxiety every time I knew I was going to see him again.
Submissively ducking my head every time I saw him, because I knew
he wouldn’t talk to me. It was a hint of the darkness in my
past, eating away at the lining of my mind. And it scared me half
to death.
God, I begged inwardly of myself, please tell me this isn’t
what I think it is.
Please tell me it’s not coming back.
Or worse.
feedback appreciated at any time
thanks to anyone who bothers reading this - i dunno, i
think's it's more for my own self-expression
take care!
Love Dapz xxx