SHOOT| ✓

Brandon Hayes

BRANDON HAYES IS ALLERGIC TO HIS GIRLFRIEND.

That was the first thing I discovered about the 6′3 point guard of Easthill's basketball team. I'm the only person he's ever told his little secret to, which is odd because until I stumbled across him kissing Melissa Walsh in the locker room one afternoon, we never had a decent conversation.

He made me promise not to say a word, and I fulfilled that promise. It's disheartening to see him sometimes, how he has to pretend that his interest is in the captain of the cheerleading squad, whistle as his girlfriend walks by, and go on pointless dates with a person he doesn't care about.

He dated Megan Del Rosso for a year. I watched it play out from the sidelines. Funny because she had no idea her boyfriend was making out with his real girlfriend behind her back.

Although nobody knows, it's bound to be revealed. Either accidentally, or through the parasite we call social media. If it does happen, I can remain rest assured that I tried my hardest.

I'm still trying. I had been thinking it over last night. All the possible ways to save Brandon and Melissa.

I formulated a single solution. One simple answer to this exponentially difficult social dilemma.

Eliminate Brandon Hayes.

Right here, right now, throw his body in a dumpster and burn it. Quick and efficient.

But it just feels like Darcy is always one step ahead of me. She's pushing me to my fucking breaking point because I somehow forget to take account of her in my calculations.

Darcy Ivanov has managed to stop me three times, this making it the fourth, and all my frustrations are slowly racking up.

I'm inclined to think she's been sent by God to stop me from completely losing myself. He has a habit of trying to save the unsavable. That's His thing. He can bring the last sliver of goodness in the most demented of people to light. I ponder upon it sometimes, maybe there is something left in me.

Maybe there isn't.

I'm not particularly looking to be saved. If I wanted to be I would go to church with my parents every Sunday.

I bet Darcy goes. I bet she believes in all that Armageddon crap.

"You've been staring at Brandon for the past fifteen minutes. Is something wrong?"

I can't find it in me to look her in the face. I might lose control and tear her apart right in front of the entire basketball team.

"About learning Russian." I sense her gaze steady on me and my jaw clenches. "If you want to give it a try, we can go to my house after school."

I watch her through my peripheral line of vision and tuck my hands safely into the pockets of my hoodie, searching for the cold metal of my pocketknife. Panic settles in me when I don't feel it.

"Or we could do it on our date," Darcy suggests, "your choice."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot about that."

I meant to say that to myself, not to her. She stares at me with eyes of distrust as she leans forward and places a hand over my palpating heart. The squeaking of sneakers against gym floors no longer reaches my ears, replaced by the rush of blood instead.

Just when I think she's going to say something that will foil everything I've worked for, she laughs vigorously and without shame, her curls rustled by this simple movement and her clear skin flushing pink.

"Oh Monty, if only there were more people like you on this earth. Life would be all the more interesting."

My fingers curl around her wrist and linger. I can feel her steady pulse. She's absolutely alive. I wonder if she can feel my heartbeat, if she can tell that the longer she touches me, the harder it pounds.