Page 27 of Deranged Imposter

One sent me flying down the grassy slope. Mikah, who often has awful timing and a knack for predicting misfortune coming my way, saw the whole ungraceful roll.

He was frighteningly calm when he took the stairs down the hill. His eyes never strayed from my green-stained clothes and a stream of blood on my elbow.

I assured him it was an accident, and they weren't deliberately hurtful, but all seven students never came to school again. Confirmed rumors were that they transferred, and their parents’ businesses were in financial crisis.

I didn’t want to assume it had anything to do with me, but given the circumstances, it was a plausible thought.

That wasn’t the only time Mikah had gone to the extreme over something minor. I had to make him promise not to buy out an antique shop because the owner said the quill pen wasn’t for sale in response to my daydreaming compliment.

“Isa,” one of the bickering students calls, stomping his foot. “Baseball is better than football, right?”

That nickname is reserved for Mikah, and he’s quite possessive of the closeness the nickname implies.

“I don’t play sports,” I mumble, hooking my pen to the notebook’s spiral.

“Your boyfriend does,” the other one teases.

Mikah prefers boxing over other forms of exercise. I worry about his knuckles since his punches are frighteningly strong. I once jokingly asked if he was taking his anger out on the beanbag because he was chased by geese, and he threw his sweaty towel in my face.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I correct, and a pinch of pain flicks my heartbeat up into my throat.

“It’s not a secret. He does everything a boyfriend should do,” the woman tuts with a wave of her finger as her pace falls into sync with mine.

She aims a glare at her ex-boyfriend, who ridicules her mind games.

“He flirts and spoils the fuck out of you. There’s an online catalog of items he bought, totaling up in the low millions, and that’s not counting the vacations he must have taken you on. He told people you two were dating.”

There are so many things wrong with what she said, so it’s hard to point out which one I want to correct. At most, it sounds like a sugar arrangement.

“You hold hands, his on your waist, or sometimes he holds your neck affectionately.”

Probably because I said something that made him want to strangle me.

She doesn’t know he also walks on the outer end of the sidewalk and never minds the splashes of grimy water on his pricey clothes. Mikah offers his lap when I don’t want to sit on the couch, and the floor is too cold. He holds my hand when I tend to wander and window-shop.

I sleep with his arms around me because he's afraid of waking up and finding me gone, just like Zico. What happened with Zico altered his world, shaping the way he is now—reserved and selfish, yet still the kind and protective young boy.

He rarely eats food not cooked by me, stating he knows it’s safe to eat because I wouldn’t tamper with the food or his trust.

Yes, his attachment to me is a bit unhealthy. But he’s not harming anyone.

The psychologists he went to all suggested future sessions to tackle his trauma. He never went back for more insight. He claimed the ones he went to were solely for his mother, but therapy wasn’t it for him.

Time itself was good to him.

He’s slowly but surely moving on from Zico’s haunting memories. Things that used to trigger his explosive temper are now met with an uninterested glance. His temper is centered on me, mostly coming into play when it concerns my safety, but I’m able to pacify his fear of losing me with compromises.

If I let him have his way, I wouldn’t leave the house at all.

“Nobody is judging, you know,” the woman quips and swerves her arms carelessly. “Lots of people like him, but he’s got this death air around him. Besides, he’s not the only hot guy on campus. You should see the chess club.”

She squeals, purposely moaning dreamily to trigger her ex-boyfriend. “Oh, the glasses? Cardigans? My pants are dropping for those gorgeous Englishmen. One of them rolled up in a Bentley and winked at me. His name is Duke. Sexy, yeah?”

Why do I feel like she’s pulling a story out of her ass to make her ex-boyfriend turn green with jealousy?

Not the Englishmen part; that much is true. They are very handsome.

The ex, as expected, hits back. “Well, I met a nice and beautiful young woman. She wore a silk dress to dinner, andsheput my arms around herhourglassbody.”

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