Against the Universe

04 • maddie

A/N: Tw for sexual harassment. nothing explicit but may be uncomfortable to read

Translations for French lines are in the comments. I know enough to get by in most situations, but i'm hardly fluent, so apologies if they aren't always perfect.

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At last, Friday comes around. As I'm waiting for our afternoon Sociology class to begin, I can't help but feel happy when Grover arrives.

A couple centimetres taller, I think to myself, and he'd have to bend down to enter through the door. He's that tall.

Grover Simmings is definitely a sight for sore eyes. His skin is a rich reddish-brown that reminds me of leaves in autumn, an ode to his half-Indian heritage, and his jet-black hair is styled in tightly coiled curls. As he comes in, I find myself admiring his toned physique, visible even beneath the grey hoodie he's wearing.

I'd expected him to sit next to me, but instead he takes a seat in the furthest corner of the room, as far away from me as possible.

Oh.

Did I do something wrong?

After he rescued me the other day, I thought maybe we were becoming friends. Clearly, I set myself up for disappointment.

As more people come in, I notice he doesn't say hello to anyone, ignoring the people sitting around him. His bushy eyebrows are drawn together, intensely focused, even though the lesson hasn't started yet.

A boy with wavy dark hair takes a seat next to me, and I turn to greet him. He eyes me suspiciously before saying hi back.

Mrs Gordon finally comes in and starts teaching. After fifteen minutes, my pen runs out, and I go to reach for my bag to get a new one.

And then I see it. A hand reached under my skirt, slyly resting on my thigh.

"What the hell are you doing?"

The lesson skids to a halt at my outburst, and the boy snatches his hand away. It's now so quiet, you could hear a pin drop.

Mrs Gordon looks at me, confused. "Something wrong over here?"

Oh God, I want to die, I want to die, I want to die. All eyes are on me, awaiting my explanation. "Um, his hand was on my thigh."

There are a few muffled gasps, and Mrs Gordon turns her attention to the accusee.

"It wasn't like that," he snaps. "I just wanted to check..."

"Wanted to check what, Oliver?" Mrs Gordon's tone is like steel.

"I wanted to see if she was faking it."

Another silence. Then this one girl — René, I think her name is — goes, "What the actual fuck is wrong with you?"

From there on, everything escalates very fast. Oliver and I get sent to the principal's office, where we each tell our side of the story. Of course, he denies anything happened. In spite of my raging embarrassment, I deliberately explain that he put his hand up my skirt and no, I didn't notice it at first or feel it because no, I wasn't faking my disability and no, I didn't know how long his hand had been there. 

As Principal Marie tells us what she plans to do about the 'incident', I start fidgeting with the ring on my left index finger. It's a simple silver band with purple beads on it, which Caitlynn had given to me specifically for that purpose. Fidgeting. A small, repetitive motion to channel my energy into so I don't spiral into another anxiety attack.

Suffice to say, I don't go back to Sociology. I'm not even sure if class is still going on or if it finished already. I don't bother checking the time on my phone. Instead, I head for the music room.

I take the bass guitar belonging to the music department begin tuning it. It's nowhere as beautiful as my sleek dark cherry one at home, and the sound isn't as good, but it'll do.

The ring does nothing to soothe my nerves. My skin is still prickling from everyone's watching eyes, poorly concealing their own judgements. Sympathetic. Pitying. Sceptical.

I think of the boy's hand on me, and how my body wasn't my own in that moment. He felt he had a right to touch me, to test me, to see if I was 'faking it'.

My chest constricts, and it's suddenly much harder to breathe.

I start strumming the funky bassline of Laisser tomber les filles. It's an old French rock song my mum used to sing as she danced around the kitchen, burning dinner. I fell in love with it the third time I was forced to listen to it. It's the reason I ended up learning guitar.

My voice trembles violently as I try to sing along.

Oui, j'ai pleuré mais ce jour-là

Non je ne pleurerai pas

Non je ne pleurerai pas

"Why does that sound so familiar?"

I stop playing as Tobias Fisher comes in. He pulls up a seat next to me, and his face mirrors my crestfallen expression.

He puts a finger under my chin and tilts my head up so I'm staring into his light blue eyes. His thumb gently grazes my cheek, wiping away a tear I didn't realise had escaped.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly.

I shake my head, coaxing his hand away from my face. I know he's liked me for a while. He hasn't said anything yet, but he wears his heart on his sleeve. I don't want him to get the wrong idea, but I also don't want to hurt him.

Having single straight male friends is a nightmare.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not right now."

He smiles, then self-consciously runs a hand through his blond locks. "That's okay. Want to help me with posters?" The word posters is ever so slightly lisped, and his cheeks turn a faint pink as he hears it. I've always told him his speech impediment is cute, if anything, but it irks him nonetheless.

"I'd like that."

Tobias sits a bit closer to me than he should while we work on posters for the winter concert, suffocating me with the scent of his sandalwood cologne. The concert is a while away, but the first song to be performed is the one we're composing ourselves for our project, so we need all the time to prepare we can get.

"That looks a lot better," he says, as I lean over to change the font for the billionth time. The flyer looks a lot classier now, which is exactly what we're going for. "You're so good at this stuff."

"I have a gift."

I make a few more edits, while Tobias' eyes burn into the side of my face. When I turn to him, our arms accidentally brush against each other's, and he mumbles a bashful apology.

But the touch doesn't have the same effect on me than it does him. I'm transported back to the classroom again, remembering the wandering hand of the boy beside me.

"I have to get going," Tobias removes his USB and starts gathering his stuff, "but I'll see you Monday?"

If I speak, I'll cry again, so I just give him a tight-lipped nod. He leaves.

Non, je ne pleurerai pas,

Non, je ne pleurerai pas.