Page 7 of To Hell

It was the fuel that kept me flipping through stolen fashion magazines all night and trying to model in front of the mirror to look half as perfect as her designs.

It’s just the both of us out here. School hours have long ended. The sun is depleted on the gray and white colors of our school building.

I can still hear low chatter from some students around the field at the back of the school building.

“Listen,” she hangs the camera around her neck, her chestnut cardigan a little too big for her small body, her hair tied up measly. “You don’t have to do all that,” she waves her hands in her face like she is conjuring, “You are…”

She chews her lips. I can take it that she is trying to sound kind with her next words, but it appears that she is trying not to mention them at all.

“Virgilio, just don’t do too much,” she smiles warmly. “You don’t have to. You don’t ever have to.” She beckons me to move away from the tree I was sitting close to, and I obey, going as far as possible from the tree.

“You need the sun?” I squint because I’m directly opposite the setting sun now.

“I need you; the sun can take a back seat,” she throws it casually, but it feels heavy when it lands on my heart.

I nod, smiling, then try something simple as I pose for her to continue with the shoot.

“That will be all,” Zoe does a courtesy bow. “You should be on the front page of every fashion magazine.”

I smile now, lapping up the compliments I have been getting from her.

“Where did you get those poses?” she asks, picking up her backpack from the side of the waiting bench. “Not bad.”

I chuckle and pick up my backpack, too, “Stop teasing,” I grunt, throwing my head back to soak up the sun that she prefers me over. “I wanted to do something nice for you,” I pull out my pale blue shirt.

“Thank you,” she chews her lips.

I stand from the waiting bench, pretending to be looking around the expanse of greens when I’m only trying to prolong time with her.

I gently take off the royal blue shirt she designed with gold embellishments and then slip into my boring dress shirt, not missing how she keeps her eyes on her black sneakers.

I throw my backpack on and flip to face her. I am about to hand her designer shirt back to her, but she shakes her head and starts strutting in front of me.

“What is that now?” I trail behind her, “I will return the pants, I just don’t want to change up here.”

“It’s not that,” she flips, so she is now walking backward, “Keep them,” she shrugs, “they were made for you anyway.”

“Keep them?” My hold on the shirt tightens, and a different feeling of possessiveness weaves through me. “You mean it?”

She nods. “Yes,” she laughs softly, “I want you to, I only need the pictures.” She winks at me.

“Th… Thank you,” I stutter, a little lost for words that she would be this kind, to gift me her creation.

“You are welcome,” she flips, facing forward, and I scurry after her, meeting up with her.

“I saw some fashion magazines at a store and borrowed them,” I open my backpack and tuck the shirt carefully.

“Borrowed?” She snorts. “Virgilio, no one lends fashion magazines from a store, not to a teenager.”

“I will give them back,” I go after her to hold the barred gates open, “I will.”

She laughs harder this time, “Sure you will,” she steps out.

“No, I will.” I’m smiling, too, because the chances of me returning to the store with the magazines are nonexistent.

“I hear you,” she nods, still laughing. They came in handy with all those poses for the camera,” she winks mockingly at me.

“I was doing my best for you,” I try to defend myself. “You worked hard, and I wanted to match up,” I stand in front of her. “Okay,” I lift my hands, and she halts, rotating her eyes. “How about I edit the pictures? You know I’m a pro at those things.”

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