amoureux garçon

Chapter Six: Trying So Hard To Fit In

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Sometimes you look at your body and just like you've bought something, that now belongs to you and nobody else can touch it unless you say so and give your consent, you think: this is my body and I can break it whenever I want to. You can starve it until your body fights back, it starts consuming energy stores.

You can fall a thousand times and scrape off your knees and skin as many times as you can, as many times as you want, through many layers of whatever's underneath until you see the sanguinary pulsation of your muscles.

Would it be to late to turn back?

Yet you know that your body will always fight back, the layer of skin you've always called home and the organs you keep tucked underneath your skin, will eventually stop one day and stab you in the back.

You can't trust your body and neither anyone that owns one.

Kavinsky that day walked through the doors wearing her usual satin skirt—that time the difference was the fact that it was high waisted, tight on her waist—instead of wearing a corset she wore a crop top-like twisted neck tank top, that would beautifully define her eleven lined abs and black full sole satin ballet shoes.

"Where's Minerva?"

The volleyball court filled with silence and guilt. I knew I wasn't the only one who was feeling guilty, I couldn't have been the only one who still felt guilty the morning after yet I understood why some of us didn't seem bothered—we were all drowning in the moment and at the same time we were all in our own little world and problems.

Minerva was the one who drank below the legal age and called it a day, everyone knew the type of person she was: reckless, most of us were used to that and the ones that smoked in our team couldn't blame her since they did it too (illegal things) and most times they'd get the cigarettes straight from the shops and the sellers wouldn't even ask for their ID's. As long as nobody asked nobody would end up in trouble.

Esme cleared her voice. "Minerva?" Esme questioned, laying on the cold volleyball court's ground, her behind on the wooden orsynthetic surface, she dropped her phone in between her stretched legs and looked at Coach with a look I couldn't seem to read.

Coach stood there concerned for a moment, staring right into Esme's soul who seemed to be trying to formulate a plausible excuse; Coach's eyes then turned cold and with a serious look she asked once again: "Eliades, Minerva Eliades; where is she?"

Esme looked at her and as she was about to speak, Minerva walked through the double doors, wearing her usual clothes but that time she had a visor on, head-held-down, it was almost impossible to discern her visage. She walked towards Coach but stood a few steps away, trembling fingertips and she was gently hitting her foot against the ground at a steady pace and her constant contrasting leg muscles gave it away.

Coach cleared her throat and looked forward directly at the back of the court yard, giving Minerva the cold shoulder. "Why are you late?"

I looked at Coach then right back at Minerva, who had slightly titled her head upwards, her lips where pressed in a straight line and just like the day before the corners of her lips twitched upwards and with her hands she swiftly took of her black visor. Her long straight black hair was then curled almost as if she wanted to make it look like she just took time to get ready and came to training late as a result.