Maybe that’s why you love acting so much. Maybe you’re tired of being yourself.
The girl still sits in the auditorium every week. Sometimes, she writes. Mostly, she watches. When she’s not watching you, you find yourself watching her. Your eyes meet on occasion in the middle, and she always smiles. Always.
Somewhere, within the past month, things changed. The two of you grew closer. She kissed you for the first time last week. In the library, during lunch, she just leaned over and did it, making the first move. It was unexpected.
You’ve stolen kisses from her every day since then.
Well, except today.
You’re having a bad day.
You mess up a few lines. You’re distracted. You’ve had this look about you all afternoon, like you’re not quite there.
“Christ, Cunningham, get it together,” Hastings says, running his hands down his face. “If you can’t handle being Brutus—”
“Fuck you.” You cut him off. “Don’t act like you’re perfect.”
“I don’t make rookie mistakes,” Hastings says. “Maybe if you weren’t so preoccupied with trying to screw the new girl, you might—”
BAM.
You shut him up mid-sentence with a punch to the face, your fist connecting hard, nearly knocking him off his feet. He stumbles, stunned, as you go at him again, grabbing the collar of his uniform shirt and yanking him to you. “Shut your fucking mouth.”
People come between the two of you, forcing you apart. Hastings storms out, shouting, “I can’t deal with him!”
Drama Club comes to a screeching halt.
You stand there for a moment, fists clenched at your side, calming down. You flex your hands, loosening them as you approach the girl. She’s watching you in silence, expression guarded.
You sit down near her. There’s an empty seat between you today. It’s the first time you’ve not sat right beside her in weeks. You’re giving her space.
It doesn’t take long before Hastings returns, but he isn’t alone. The administrator waltzes in behind him. The man heads for you, expression stern. “Cunningham, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t expel you.”
“Because my father gives you a lot of money.”
“That’s what you have to say?”
“Is that not a good reason?”
“You punched a fellow student!”
“We were just acting,” you say. “I’m Brutus. He’s Caesar. It’s to be expected.”
“Brutus stabs him. He doesn’t throw punches.”
“I was improvising.”
The girl laughs when you say that. She tries to stop herself, but the sound comes out, and the administrator hears it, his attention shifting to her.
“Look, it won’t happen again,” you say, drawing the focus back to you. “Next time, I’ll stab him and be done with it.”
“You better watch yourself,” the administrator says, pointing his finger in your face. “One more incident and you’re gone for good. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And rest assured, your father will be hearing about this.” The administrator’s attention shifts back to the girl. “Garfield, some advice? If you want to be successful here, find yourself a new friend, someone with their priorities in check… someone more like Hastings.”
Hastings stands in the aisle, rubbing his jaw. Despite the fact that it’s going to bruise, he’s grinning. Gloating.
“Because Cunningham will cause you nothing but trouble,” the administrator continues. “And you can do better.”
The man walks away. Hastings follows suit. He’s afraid to be near you without backup. The two of you have some longstanding rivalry, like Batman and the Joker… or Breezeo and Knightmare.
Which one are you, though?
The hero?
The girl shakes her head, doodling on the front of her notebook. “That was awfully rude of him.”
“Yeah, well, it’s true,” you say.
“Is it?”
“I’ve already gotten you in trouble once,” you remind her. “I can pretty much guarantee it won’t be the last time it happens.”
“Huh, and what about the other part?” she asks. “Is that true, too?”
“Which part?”
“The part where you might be trying to get the new girl naked.”
You just look at her. She’s still doodling.
“Because if you are,” she says, “you’re doing a pretty crappy job of it. I mean, you haven’t even tried yet, so…”
She’s avoiding looking at you, her cheeks pink. Her doodling is more like absent-minded scribbling, anything to distract herself. She's biting her cheek.
Reaching over, you cover her hand with yours, stopping her before the pen tears a hole through the notebook. She anxiously cuts her eyes at you.
You say nothing right away, holding her gaze, before you lean over, closing the distance, and you kiss her. It’s soft, and sweet, and it’s right there, in front of the entire Drama Club, but you don’t care who watches.
“You want to hang out?” you ask, your voice quiet. “Spend some time together outside of this hellhole?”
She nods.
“How about this weekend?”
Tearing a piece of paper from the back of her notebook, she scribbles her phone number down for you to call her after school.
You don’t, though—not right away. Your life descends into chaos that afternoon. You don’t even have a chance. Your father confronts you about the incident at school, and when you finally get away from him, you have something important to do.
But later that night, long after the sun goes down, you send her a text, asking if there’s any way possible you can see her right now. You tell her it’s important. It’s so late there’s a chance she’s already in bed, but you get a message back a few minutes later with the location of a park near her house. I can meet in thirty minutes.
It takes you about that long to drive there. She’s sitting on top of a picnic table when you arrive, staring out at the water, the park edging the bank of the Hudson River. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen her out of her school uniform, so used to the knee-length skirts with the thick tights.
She’s wearing pajama pants tonight.
It’s dark where she’s sitting, the glow of the moonlight surrounding her. You approach, your hands hidden behind your back. “I have a surprise.”
“Is it the answers to Monday’s Math test? Because if so, you’re going to at least get to third base for that.”
You laugh, standing in front of her. “Which base is third base?”
“Pretty sure it’s dry humping.”
“Shame,” you say. “Could use a good dry hump, but no, that’s not it. Although, you could always copy my answers. Just mark a few wrong on purpose, since they might get suspicious if you get a perfect score.”
“Right, since you never miss any.” She playfully rolls her eyes. “So if it’s not the answers, what is it?”
You pull your hands out from behind your back. It’s a comic book, tucked in a plastic sleeve. Her expression changes as she takes it.
Breezeo: Ghosted
Issue #5 of 5
“Is this…? Oh my god, is this what it says it is?”
“The last issue of Breezeo.”
“But how?” Her eyes meet yours. “This isn’t even out yet!”