Some Boys are Monsters

Prolouge; Part One

Craig's song of the day: Death Cab for Cutie - Transatlanticism

I think everyone has it in their heads that I'm not too good at keeping secrets. They act like if I keep things hidden or bottled up it'll eat me up inside until I finally burst under the pressure. That's what it all comes down to: my issue with pressure. I can't really handle delicate situations very well, and to me really any situation classifies as delicate. Maybe that's why I tend to get left out when it comes to my little group of close-knit friends and all the things they hide from everyone else but share with each other.

I'm sure that's why.

Sometimes I can hear them mumbling among themselves, just quiet enough that I won't be able to hear. It goes on between Clyde and Token pretty often, but every now and then Craig will lean his ear into Clyde's cupped hand to receive a message. This sort of secret sharing is something I've always been excluded from. It used to bother me so bad that I would have mini panic attacks every time I heard them whispering. I mean, for all I knew they were talking about me, or something really serious was going on that they wouldn't include me in. Over the course of time, however, I've just learned to tune them out and avoid asking what's going on. I figure that they wouldn't tell me even if I did.

My most personal friends hide those kind of hush-hush things from me because they think that I don't have what it takes to keep a secret. They think I'll bend and fold under any sort of pressure, so I can't be trusted with such things. They're wrong.

I have a secret of my own, and I've been keeping it for a very long time.

My secret is six foot ten with a pierced lip and a split tongue. His hair is an inky black, and his eyes are a color blue that I've only ever seen in the sky. I'm talking about my best friend, and my secret isn't him so much as the tight knot in my chest when he's around.

I have feelings for Craig Tucker.

He's the guy who just happens to be sitting in the desk next to mine. We're in Government class and every second I spend staring at the side of his face the more my chest wants to implode. Craig's bottom half is pushed back in his seat, his top half is leaning over his desk, and his face looks just as relaxed as it always does. However, he looks intensely focused rather than wearing his usual blank face. He's tapping at his desk with the calloused tips of his fingers because his nails are too short to clink against the wood. That's something he does on purpose so teachers won't hear it and make him stop. They're following some sort of rhythm as he slowly bobs his head and moves his lips soundlessly. He's been doing that all class period, and it took me until just now to realize he's been picking up his pen and jotting down things in his note pad.

He must be writing a song.

He's good at making music. So good, in fact, that Token, Clyde and I all have some of his songs recorded on our phones so we can listen to them again when he isn't there to play them.

I tend to put them on repeat.

He adjusts himself in his seat while squinting through the faint lighting to see his paper, then he finally gives up and heaves out a sigh. Our seventh slide of notes is glowing on a projector in the front of our dimmed classroom, but he hasn't written down a single highlighted bullet all period; not that I have any room to talk. He doesn't look too concerned about our notes, though. He just looks irritated because the absence of light is making it hard for him to see his lyrics. He tilts his head to glance over at me, like he's making sure I'm still there. He does that at lot. It's almost as if he thinks I'll run off and get lost if he doesn't keep an eye on me. That's when he notices I'm staring.