Page 209 of Vicious Saint
“Okay. Imagine every person’s soul represented by an element. You do know the elements, don’t you?”
My razor thin glare on him answers for me.
“Right, of course. So, take Stevenson for example. A guy whose emotions run deep, forward, intentions pure, crystal clear like…”
“Water.”
“Like water.”
It’s disturbing how quick this analogy is making sense.
“Now…let’s do you,” Archer suggests with a jut of his chin, implying for me to do the honors.
Given I still have no idea what my feelings were for Stevenson—andarefor Saint—pretty sure it’s safer to leave the existential answers to the only genius teenager in the room.
So, when I press my lips together Archer does just that…
“You’re explosive by nature. Fearless. Full of passion. Especially about the people and things you love.”
The comparison to what lives and breathes inside me makes me uncomfortable enough to shift in my seat.
I repeat Archer’s words in my head, and how…positivehe made them sound. Normal…even though I don’t understand how they relate to me completely.
“Sounds like you just proved why Stevenson and I are endgame.”
This garners me an Archer sized grunted huff.
“What I just proved is that any world where you choose water as your endgame is a world where you’re settling.”
“How the hell did you just prove that?”
“Because your soul is a collection of sparks, Hendrix, and you should be with someone who takes them. Ignites them. Sets your entire soul on fire.”
Spoken with such certainty, but little does Archer know, I found someone who already has.
And, thanks to my best friend’s analogy, I end up spending the rest of the game wondering if he feels the same.
The victory was nothing short of a sweep for The Royals, making this the tenth year in a row our school defeated the rival team at homecoming. A streak nobody at Riverside with half a brain thought Saint would allow to get broken.
After what feels like a millenia, the crowded field finally starts to empty after the winning touchdown, something Vic and mymother were waiting to happen before not-so-subtly insisting I join them on it to congratulate Saint.
We just made it to the sidelines, where most of the team is still celebrating, but Saint’s off on his own several feet away.
“Terrific game, son.” Vic pats him on the back. “You played well, as always.”
Saint’s gaze is ahead as he ruffles the soaked strands of his dark hair, yet to make eye contact with any of us.
“It was a team effort,” he responds dryly, ignoring the pats on the back and congratulations from people in passing.
Vic seems both surprised and proud of this answer, no matter how disconnected his son is from it.
A default setting Saint has been stuck on for weeks now.
Not only with me, but most people around him.
Even Theory who’s rubbing his arm.
“Well, big bro, we’re proud of you nonetheless.”
