what we do best

part eight

The weather warms, and it got harder for me and Tristan to fake our seniority into the outdoor seating area. The library became our primary lunchtime meeting place. It was easy to hold his hand then, no one ever entered the school library if not under obligation.

Sometimes the librarian, Mrs. Wallace, would join us at the couches in the back. She would make light conversation over lunch, not minding that my head would occasionally rest in Tristan's lap. She would hand us poetry books, books of careful and beautiful wording that no one ever checked out.

Mrs. Wallace died about a week before Tristan's birthday. She was old, no doubt about that. But her eyes were youthful, and her smile reminded me that she once, too, was young and free. The last book she left us had yellowed pages and concise writing. Tristan asks if he can keep it.

Before school the next day, Tristan and I walk silently to the park with bagels and iced coffees. His hand clutches Mrs. Wallace's book I sit down on a bench and wait for him to join me.

He doesn't.

Tris sits on a swing, rocking himself back and forth.

"Tristan? Are you okay?" I kneel in front of him. He shakes his head, tears brimming at his eyes.

"I don't want to go to school today," Tris says to me like he's a little kid trying to convince his mom to let him stay home.

"Okay. We don't have to," I go to take the book out of Tristan's arms, and he lets me. He falls from the swing to kneel in the wood chips next to me.

"Can you read one? This one," Tristan opens to a poem he's dog-eared.

The poem is short and simple, but Tristan loves it. I let the words roll off my tongue so he can hear each and every one of them. I think I'm crying harder than he is by the time it's finished.

The silence gets too thick.

We eventually get up and start walking without saying anything.

"I didn't even know her, you know?" Tristan breaks the silence. "But a person is dead, Ollie."

"I know, Tristan."

"I don't get it," Tris whispers to himself as we approach his house. He goes to open the back door, but I stop him.

"Can we sit?" I point to the hammock that still sits empty. Tris nods, silent. The hammock swings under my weight but I tuck my legs into my chest and watch Tristan place himself gently next to me. His eyes are glazed over and his expression is dim.

"Tris?"

"Hm?"

"Do you want to be alone right now?"

Tristan lets me kiss him goodbye before falling back into the hammock. He watches me as I leave. He waves. He lets me take the book.

I don't have anywhere better to be than school. So, I go. I study the pink late pass as I make my way to second period. Everyone's eyes follow me to my seat. I tap my foot on the linoleum floors to pass the time. Time seems to slow down, just for me.

Eating lunch by myself today is an occasion that would rarely take place, but I push through. I make my way into the library where Mrs. Wallace's desk sits empty. I thumb through the pages of the poetry book when the library doors crash open.

A group of boys stalk over to me, led by Seth and David. Seth rips the book out of my hand and tosses it aside.

"Where's your boyfriend, huh? Leave you here all by yourself?" David spits at me.

"Fuck you," I can barely utter. They begin to circle around me.

"It's been a while since you've got your shit kicked in, right faggot?" Another boy snarls from behind.

"What's your fucking problem?" I shove my way past them, but someone grabs onto my sleeve. Someone else kicks me from behind and my knees fall to the carpeted floor. I manage to pull myself up and throw a punch or two. But I'm far too outnumbered. I'm kicked to the ground, but I let them. My eyes stay focused on Mrs. Wallace's book that was thrown across the room. If I make it out of here alive, I'm getting that book.