remember me. (crenny)

one

I remember the first time I saw Craig.

He was a short, fair-faced kid slumped against the side wall of the South Park Elementary School southern wall, face parallel to the ground with a fistfull of snow in a palm that was bright red.

"Did you know that if you hold a snowball for long enough, you can't even feel the cold anymore?"

I blinked at him. I don't remember if I walked over there or if I'd already been on that side of the recess court. "No."

I grabbed my own snowball. I packed it tightly and squeezed my palms around it. They began to hurt pretty quickly. I dropped the ball.

Craig was still holding his snowball with both palms.

I walked away.

***

I remember the first time I noticed Craig.

He'd been with this kid for a few months at this point, some other blondie named Tweek Tweak. At the time, being twelve, I thought he was kind of dumb for dating a kid with the same first name as his last name, but I figured if they ever married they'd both just take the Tucker surname so it didn't really matter what it was now.

I remember his hair hanging in front of his face. It was black, or maybe just a super dark brown and when he looked up it would brush the tops of his shoulders and fall right in front of his eyes. What color were his eyes? I didn't know. He didn't move his fucking hair.

He had a giant black and blue hoodie engulfing his entire torso in a sea of fleece, the shape of his body completely undetectable beneath the unnecessary fabric. It was September. It wasn't cold outside, maybe 60 degrees. Regardless, he was swimming in it.

I remember thinking he looked interesting. I don't remember what happened after that.

***

I remember our first real conversation.

In the bathroom between second and third period during freshman year. He came out of a stall behind me while I was washing my hands, a cloud of smoke trailing behind him.

"You didn't see shit," he stated matter-of-factly. It wasn't a threat, or even a request. It was completely flat.

"I guess I didn't," I said back just as monotonously. He washed his hands in the sink next to me. I was staring at him through the mirror. "Who do you have next?"

He looked back up through the mirror, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Why?"

I shrugged, a wave of self-consciousness suddenly washing over me. "I dunno. I have Bracket. Algebra one."

He blinked at me before turning his eyes back down to his hands. "Anderson." Culinary.

"You like cooking?"

Craig pulled his hands out of the sink and walked over to the paper towel dispenser. "Yeah, I mean, I guess. It's not that bad‒why are you talking to me?"

He seemed desperate to get out of this bathroom the moment I thought to start asking questions. "I'unno! I've known you since we were still shitting our pants, forgive me for wanting to talk to you at all. Jesus Christ, dude."

I pulled my hands out of the sink to shake the water off, pushed the bathroom door open with my back, and left.

I remember Craig was an asshole. I don't remember if I went to Algebra after that.

***

I remember Craig made me nervous.

He didn't make me feel shy or scared or threatened or give me butterflies or make me want to throw my hands to the side of his face and kiss him. Craig made me nervous.

I'd continued to speak to him occasionally despite our less-than-pleasant encounter in the bathrooms at the ripe age of fourteen, but whenever I did I was nervous.

It wasn't my typical type of nerves, either. It wasn't the nerves I got when I came home stoned at four in the afternoon after walking through the woods with Stan after school and wasn't sure if I was being too obvious. It wasn't the type of nerves I got when I was called to the front office, or the teacher was passing back tests. It was a deep-rooted anxiety that sat in the pit of my stomach like a giant, soppy spitball, shifting uncomfortably every time I so much as noticed he was in the area.

I wasn't sure what the effect he had on me was from. Maybe it was the way he spoke so defensively to everybody around him, shielding himself from outsider perception at any given moment. It could've been the way he always showed up at 7:45 instead of 7:30 every day. Or, alternatively, maybe it was because the dude was just a giant fucking stick in the mud; but who's to say, really?

Sophomore year came and went. He grew to a good 5'9. I grew to the same 5'9. Our interactions became less frequent. Sometimes I bumped into him at Token or Bebe's parties and we'd exchange equally intoxicated "hey"s and "what's going on"s before going our separate ways, but that was it.

I managed to go along with my life until senior year without thinking about Craig at all.

***

I remember thinking to myself "well here goes nothing."

"You're friends with Craig, right?"

Clyde looked up from his desk. It was about eleven at night, it was a snowy Saturday night at his house and he was hunched over in his ungodly expensive gaming chair rolling us a joint. I liked smoking with Clyde, he was a cool guy despite the tacky LED light strips on his walls.

"I mean, yeah, why?" He eyed me suspiciously. Why was he looking at me so suspiciously?

I shrugged. "I'unno. I've known him for what, twelve years? I don't know anything about him. I just wanna know what his deal is."

The words fell out of me uncomfortably in a way that didn't quite sit right in my chest or in my head. I felt the need to keep speaking until I'd rebuilt the sentence I'd been meaning to say, but I was also aware I had already said way more than I needed to.

Come to think of it, "what's he up to?" would've been a much more ideal response.

Clyde narrowed his eyes a little, eyebrows knit together in an expression I wasn't quite sure the cause of. I felt like someone had just shone a spotlight on me and was announcing my arrest.

"Dude, like, what's he up to? That's all I'm asking," I continued to push. For once I found myself praying he'd open that big ass mouth of his. I just wanted to know something about this kid. Something more than the shit I could pick up on from eight feet away in a classroom.

Clyde seemed to deflate a bit. I didn't think this type of conversation could strike any nerves, but here I was with the Donovan boy staring at me so hard it felt like he was trying to probe my brain. Once he seemed to realize I had no idea why the fuck he was giving me that fucked-up stare, he spun his chair back in the direction of the weed. "He's got a job at McDonald's that he hates. He says that once he quits he's never working in fast food again‒which is kind of hopeful, considering he's dropping out on Monday."

I opened my mouth to say something, but I wasn't sure if I'd be met with another death glare. I didn't know Craig was dropping out. I didn't even know he was doing bad in school. Last I'd been told he was on the honor roll, but that was several years before when I came to think of it. "Really?"

Clyde hummed in confirmation. "I told him not to, about how he's gotta finish school to go to more school and all that shit, but he doesn't listen to me. He doesn't listen to anyone anymore. It's kinda fucked."

"I've picked up on that a little, yeah," I admitted, recounting all of my one-sided interactions with him. Clyde sniffed and stood up from his chair before holding the worst-rolled joint out to me that I'd ever seen. "First hit or nah?"

"Yeah, definitely."

And the conversation ended.