Page 6 of Heartache Duet

Mr. McCallister turns his back, his focus already on writing down the semester’s syllabus on the whiteboard. It takes a second for the class to follow, fingers busy tap, tap, tapping on their keyboards.

“Hey,” a male voice whispers from next to me. I have no idea who he is, and I don’t look up when he says, “I’m Connor.”

I open my textbook to the first page, ignoring the dampness on the side of the pages from where I’d been gripping it.

“I’m new here…” my desk-mate says, his voice trailing as if waiting for a response.

In my mind, I say, “Hi, I’m Ava. Welcome to my personal hell. The only reason I’m here is because guilt forces me to be.”

Out loud, I say nothing.

Soon enough, he’ll know everything there is to know about me.

THREE

connor

The car didn’t stall once.

A miracle, really.

I got to school early this morning, about a half hour before I was supposed to be here. I thought it might help with the whole car situation. Not that I’m embarrassed by it, because I’m not. But you know what they say about first impressions. I didn’t want to go into the year being “that kid.”

It was pointless, though. One car in the parking lot, one kid on campus. Put two and two together, and you get my dumb ass.

I spent some time on the court alone, getting used to the hardwood that would become my playground for the next year. About twenty minutes in, my new teammates started to show.

Rhys, the team captain, was the first to greet me. His lackey, Mitch, was next, and then the rest of the guys. Everyone but Rhys seemed more interested in my car than in me, and when Rhys told them to quit raggin’ on me, they didn’t listen.

The first official practice of the season sucked. I’d spent so many hours during the summer learning the plays and memorizing my positions. I thought I had it down. I was wrong, so fucking wrong. I lagged. Hard. Balls flew past my head faster than I could catch them, names were called, threats were made. And that was just from Coach Sykes. Besides Rhys, no one said a word to me in the locker room afterward. This was all before the first bell, and my introduction to the shitty elite side of St. Luke’s Academy.

And then first period started, psychology, and things just went downhill from there. No one sat next to me, and other than a few girls with coy smiles, I was ignored.

Then she walked in, like a baby bird leaving its nest for the first time—a discombobulation of limbs flapping around. Thing is—after the morning I had—I thought people would laugh at her, but no one did. Maybe because things were taken more seriously off the court, or maybe it was because the girl was crazy hot; all naturally tanned skin and legs upon legs beneath her school-issued skirt, and I never thought I’d have a kink for the whole school-girl uniform thing, but hey…

She made an entrance, that’s for sure, or maybe it was just me that was paying attention. Maybe a little too much attention. She sat next to me, the only available seat… and said and did nothing. Even when I calmed my thoughts enough to introduce myself… nothing. While the entire class was busy taking notes, she stared ahead, picking at the desktop with her fingernail.

It’s not until the bell rings forty odd minutes later that she finally moves. We face each other as we gather our things. Our eyes meet. Hold. Her irises catch the sunlight streaming through the windows, a light brown—so similar to the maple I spend my days shredding. Her lips part and my gaze glues to the motion. I try again, this time extending a hand. “I’m Connor. It’s my first…” I trail off because she’s already making her way to the door.

I turn at the hand landing on my shoulder. Rhys is behind me, his gaze following mine. “She’s unavailable.”

With a shrug, I tell him, “I wasn’t interested.”

He shakes his head. “No. I don’t mean she’s unavailable because she’s seeing someone. I mean, she’s unavailable”—he taps at his temple—”because she’s checked out.”

“No longer part of this world,” Mitch adds, stepping up behind him. He rotates a finger around his ear—the universal sign for crazy—and whispers, “Certifiable.” He eyes me up and down, stopping at my worn-out sneakers. “Actually, you’d do just fine together. Ghetto with ghetto. A perfect match.”

I should punch him. Once for me. Then two more for the girl-with-no-name. Instead, I walk away, convince myself that people, in general, can be dicks, but people in high school? They fucking thrive on it.

Besides, I’m not here to make friends.

I’m here to make plays.

FOUR

ava

Healthy Ways of Coping with PTSD and Anxiety.

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