Vol. 1: Ten

+ LOVING ELIJAH MCCAY +

VOL. 1: CHAPTER TEN

The day has ended slowly, with Rick and I whispering secrets across the classroom in our sixth period. We haven't spoken on the Elijah topic, which brings me sovereignty. Considering, I was preparing for him to grill me on whether or not my feelings had resurfaced.

But God knew I'd be far too embarrassed to admit out loud, and so did Rick.

I'd been debating on whether or not I wanted to attend the afternoon practice, my limbs feeling like they were bound to fall off due to exhaustion. And during gym, I refused to participate, my P.E. teacher writing me a pink slip that I'd have to hand into Abba.

After finally deciding, I sling my backpack over my left shoulder, and make my way toward the exit. Rick follows, "you're skipping practice?"

With a shrug, I punch in my code into locker and pull it open, reaching inside for my watch that I'd left in there, hours before. "Yeah, not feeling like running drills for the next hour and a half, you?"

Rick shook his head, leaning against the locker beside mine, "no, I've gotta go. My dad's been on my ass about keeping up attendance."

A chuckle left my lips, my hand reaching up to push a few curls above my forehead. "You guys having issues again? I thought you were cool after the whole Rachel situation?"

Rick and his father had always had difficulties. Whether that was because of Rick's personal decisions or actions, or because of Samuel, Rick's fathers many wives. His father had a tendency to hop from relationship to relationship, which Rick was not afraid to share his dislike.

The cycle had started around fourteen-years-ago, when Rick had lost his mother, Judith, in a car accident, to which Rick still couldn't speak on without crying.

And baseball seemed to have been a distraction—which I could completely understand. "I don't know what his deal is. Not even two months ago, Farrah was leaving our house, screaming about how she hated him—and now, he's taking this girl Rachel on his boat, while I eat dinner alone."

I take a step closer, shutting my locker behind me. "I'll come over tonight, and we can play video games and eat pizza like when we were little, okay? Just leave the door unlocked and I'll slip in when my parents fall asleep."

Rick nodded happily, his teeth pulling at his bottom lip to dull the smiling. "Yeah, man—sounds cool."

We part ways, me turning to walk out onto the main courtyard, ready to begin the short walk home. Just then, my watch begins to fizz, the time not matching the time on my cellphone.

I pause, my eyebrows sewing in together in pure confusion, as I begin to tune it on the left side. The watch was a gift from my grandmother who still resides in Tel-Aviv, who I only see about once a year.

I curse under my breath, hoping that it isn't broken, because I know that in order to get it fixed, I'd have to face my father—who wouldn't hesitate to lecture me about taking care of my things.

I take a seat at the bench right beside me, my bottom at the edge of the seat. The watch doesn't budge, reading 7:45, instead of 3:25.

I can't help but feel disappointed in myself, as though I could've prevented this item from breaking. But I soon begin to realize that I'm not angry that the watch is broken, I'm angry because something else is.

Since the night before, I hadn't been able to get Terrance out of my head. And I'm beginning to think it's because of my enlarged distaste for him, whenever he's nearby.

As a child, I'd always been taught to spread appreciation and love, rather than anger and hate. But after what he'd said at the party, I couldn't help but want to bash his head into the nearest wall.

Just as I had been tuning the watch, a familiar car pulls into the side of the sidewalk in the courtyard, the drivers seat window rolling slowly.

I don't bother to look up, knowing that it's most likely one of teachers asking why I wasn't in practice. They all seemed to know my schedule, which I wouldn't doubt due to my father popping up into the school every few weeks.

A sharp honk of a horn causes me to jump inches into the air, a hand coming to reassure my chest as I finally pay the visitor attention.

Elijah raises an eyebrow, his dimples pulsing through his cheeks in a way that's foreign to me. "We've gotta stop meeting like this."

I try to suppress how fast my heart is beating by staying put, and tucking the watch into my pocket. "Like what?"

"With you, stranded on a sidewalk, all alone—freaking out about something." I let out a chuckle, my cheeks most definitely darkening under the evening sun.

"I'm not freaking out," I defend myself, "just a little worried."

This seems to have sparked his interest, "about what? That guy giving you trouble again?"

"No, no," this isn't a lie, because technically, Terrance hasn't said nor done anything to me, but still—I'm angry. "It's my stupid watch. It's broken."

He takes a moment to think, his fingers reaching to press the unlock button on the drivers side door. "Get in."

Even though I'm itching run and hop into the passenger seat, I sit back, both arms crossing across my chest. "I thought we had to stop meeting like this."

He laughs aloud, head being thrown back into his headrest. "I swear I'll leave you here."

I find myself laughing, too, especially when this feeling becomes familiar. As though Elijah and I have somehow—become friends.

Once I'm settled into the passenger seat of his car, he doesn't hesitate to take off, music exhilarating seconds after.

I lie my head on the window, Elijah reaching one hand out, me scrunching my eyebrows together in confusion. "What?"

"Your watch—give it to me." His words hold purpose, as though he isn't joking.

"N-No, it's okay—"

He reaches his hand into my pocket, pulling over onto the side of the lonely street. A surprising screech leaves my lips, as I was not expecting Elijah's curious hand to brush a patch of skin.

The silver, battered watch is pulled out of my sweaters pocket, me reaching forward for it, but him pulling it back. I let out a groan, not wanting to be judged by someone I think so highly of. Why—I'm not entirely sure, but I'm certain it has something to do with my enticing social anxiety.

His light, flittered green eyes wander over every detail, tongue darting out to lick at his drying lips.

"This is old, isn't it?" His eyes return to mine, eyebrow raising in question.

I nod, "yeah, my grandmother gave it to me at my fifteenth birthday. I've kept it in my locker ever since. But today, I decided to take it out, and it was all messed up."

He chucked once more, thumbs rubbing over the sharp and silver surface.

"Yeah, apparently it's 8:00 pm." My fingers play with the hem of my sweater, my palms beginning to sweat heavily at how fluid our conversation seemed to be. And I am now certain that the fluidity wasn't because of how intoxicated I had been.

Why are you being so nice to me? I want to ask. This is our second conversation and it seems like we've been friends all of our lives. And I now notice that this is the first time this has happened with someone.

And I like it.