Exorcising Aaron Nguyen

Brother What-a-Waste

Low key, I believe in love at first sight, because that's what happened when I saw Hiroki. He'd stood in front of our sixth grade class, answering questions in mostly-correct English with a cockiness that made up for his poor pronunciation. I'd stared at that puckish smirk, the slim neck disappearing into our school's green polo, and decided to hurl myself in front of an SUV at the next parent-visitation day if he didn't like me. Okay, not really, but I totally doodled hearts all over my Social Studies homework.

By high school, Hiroki had decimated enough grade curves to make a few enemies but wasn't exactly unpopular. He was confident, and the Spectral Sight-though creepy as fuck-did give him a measure of notoriety, because as far as we knew, there was only one other person in the state with his talent, and she was an officer somewhere in Durham.

He was popular in that way rebels are: lots of people liked him, but no one was his friend. No one but me because, despite my desperate adolescent hope, I had been friend-zoned from the get-go. At first I thought it was my size-I was more sensitive about it back then-but I eventually realized that Hiroki just didn't seem to be interested in romance at all. He'd never dated anyone, or even shown interest. At least he hadn't blocked me out entirely, like he did everyone else. Unfortunately, because of that, my heart had a hard time giving up the notion of liking him even when it made me do idiotic things like investigate murders.

This certainly wasn't the first time I'd cut class for Hiroki Satou.

I stood in the girls' bathroom in the empty science hall, ignoring the wooden stand of pamphlets. It's not that I think there's anything wrong with having creationism and abstinence-until-marriage pamphlets at a Catholic school-I mean, duh, right? It's more that I hate pamphlets. Seeing them reminds me either of my weekly visits to my old school's guidance counselor pre-incident, or my semi-monthly meetings with my therapist post-incident, and as soon as I remember either of those places, I remember the smell of them. Heavy, close, and a little musty with sweat and negative human chemicals. The second I remember the smell, I remember how I felt back then, and then it's a question of whether I can distract myself fast enough to avoid the nose-dive.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself that those were pre-Hiroki days. I had friends now-at least one good one-and we were about to do something awesome.

My deep breath turned into a yawn, and I stifled a groan, leaning into the chill tile wall. By the time I'd changed into a fresh uniform, it had been too late to get a replacement latte from Higher Grounds, our student-run coffee shop-aptly named because, I swear, nothing makes me believe in the existence of God like the smell of freshly ground coffee.

I'm no pep squad member, but if there's one way my school is superior to others in the south, it's that we are probably the only secondary school with its own coffee shop. (The fact that "the South" didn't include Florida was one of those cultural details Hiroki held as evidence that American education was inferior to Japanese, along with the fact that, at 11, we hadn't started algebra and no one knew what the fuck a lesser panda was.)

A text message buzzed into my phone. //All clear.//

With a sigh of relief, I peered into the hallway and saw only Hiroki standing at the opposite end of the hall. He gave a short wave, and I typed a quick text.

//See Aaron?//

//He's behind you.//

I flipped him the bird from the end of the hallway, and he held up a hand in a "stop" motion. That wasn't the reaction I'd been going for. I was about to shoot him another text when the "stop" motion became rapid "go go go go" motions, as if he could Force-push me back into the girls' bathroom. Then I heard it-footsteps on the stairs leading up to the science hall.