Nicholas Vancamp is the typical high-school guy who all girls do the impossible to have a chance to touch his lips. Pretty, popular and very desired, Nicholas sees himself as a uncontrollable guy and owner of himself, without fear to face the conseq...
After the same day's swim, I run to my car, lock the door and turn on the hot air to warm myself up. I said a quick goodbye to the guys I always hang out with, thankful that they didn't ask me why I was in such a hurry. It was a pain in the ass to have to smile forcibly at the girls flirting with me down the corridor as I passed them, as if they'd never seen a shirtless seventeen-year-old before. Sure, being the centre of attention implied that this sort of thing would happen - and okay, most of the time being flirted with is very nice - but my rush to get home ended up increasing a considerable percentage of my impatience.
In other words, today is not being a good day for me.
I lower the roof mirror of my car and smooth my hair to one side with my fingers, replacing the comb I never had. I stand still, staring at the steering wheel, and make a slight effort to remember the beginning of my first conversation with Arthur. I can't judge whether it was better or worse than I expected, but amidst the doubt, something hammers in my mind: how come I didn't really notice him before in all that school time? And why, analytically speaking, am I thinking I should have done that sooner?
Speaking of Arthur, he walks out the door with two girls, chatting amiably with them so that his smile is evident and impossible to miss. He only heightens my introspection concerning himself, and it leaves me in a strange way - uncomfortable enough that I squirm lightly in my seat. The girls who are with him open their mouths in a frighten expression, while Arthur seems to turn red. A dimple appears on either side of his cheeks when he laughs and....
Why am I detailing it all? What the hell is that, Nicholas?!
I sigh, as if to push a negative thing out of my thoughts, and start the car, searching for an that could make me not think about him. Listening to the rubbing sound of my silver Volvo, I know that I am no longer stuck in high school and the people who now see me as an idiot.
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"And school?" my father asks at dinner.
It seems that he only wants to know about my studies when I do some shit and hide it, no matter how hard I try to act natural, pretending that nothing happened.
"It's going well." I pause momentarily. "Last year is always the most agitated one because of university. Everyone is euphoric because the year is coming to an end. You know how it is..."
I don't even know what I'm saying, but my dad smiles, satisfied.
A few white hairs are already part of his brown hair, I notice, although he has not yet reached forty. Even a few small wrinkles appear near his black eyes when a smile forms on his face.
As for my mom, Ana, the opposite is already the case: her coppery hair remains intact over time, a touch that matches perfectly with the blue colour of her eyes. In addition to her eyes, I pulled her size. She is tall - 1.74m - being only three centimetres shorter than me. I'm not saying that because she's my mother, but I think she's very beautiful, not to mention that she reacts better to old age than my dad.
