Oibara

Christina Doesn't Duck

He is my psycho. It's all... so horrifying, but it makes sense.

Because love should be scary.

Love means you'll throw yourself in front of a bullet for someone. Love means a willingness to die.

People like to whitewash the sentiment, but really, love's a pretty morbid thing.

I should start the story further back, to when we first started picking on Luke at school. To when we made him cry. From what Luke tells me, my friends had tortured him since first grade. He says Lewis even killed his pet frog after he brought it in for Show and Tell. Threw it against the outside wall of the gym and laughed as Luke screeched in shock.

But the thing is, I don't remember any of that. Luke had been suffering for years because of my friends, and it wasn't notable enough for me to remember.

For me, it started on Dress Down Day.

I went to a very nice Catholic school. On Dress Down Day, the students each paid a dollar that goes to some charity- some deaf, dumb, and blind institute on the other side of town, and we got to wear our street clothes instead of the cruddy school uniform we were usually forced to wear.

That day I was wearing my yellow dress. The color yellow washed me out horribly, making me look slightly jaundiced. But I loved the color. Maybe it's because when I was little, I drew yellow flames a whole lot. The drawings featured houses on fire, trees on fire; little flames dancing above stick people's head, like apostles receiving the fire of Holy Spirit. In Quilayute, water was ubiquitous. I loved fire, because it could dry this soaking mess of a town out.

We all -Emily, Victoria, Lewis, David and myself- cut fourth period and went to the Quilayute Diner. For several minutes, we loitered in the parking lot in front, wondering if we should risk going inside where people might recognize us for the truants we were.

"We're dressed in our normal clothes," David said. "So they won't know we're cutting school."

Victoria scowled. "As if. Our school is, like, the only entertainment this town has. I bet every establishment has a calendar of the school's events posted in their office. They probably all called each other this morning, saying, “Man, the Catholic school girls aren't wearing their skirts today!'"

"Quit being a jerk." David pinched her waist.

"I can't be caught skipping school again," Lewis said. "They'll suspend me, and I'll lose my scholarship."

"Broke fool," David sneered.

Emily slapped David's shoulder. I was silent.

You see, St. Mark's Prep School was voted top parochial high school in the Northwest. It was also the largest supplier of jobs to Quilayute community, employing more people than even the hospital. Kids from all over the country were sent and boarded at the institution.

Except for David and I. We were 'townies' who happened to get admitted. It helped our popularity; we had houses at which friends could spend the weekend, getting away from their dorms.

The school set you for college. Cambridge, Harvard, Yale, you name it. It was a golden star on your application. It's only blemish was that it was ninety-nine percent white. They started giving scholarships to minority kids. Emily was Asian... we don't know exactly what her lineage is, specifically, because she changes the answer from Chinese to Thai to Vietnamese, based on her mood.

Lewis swore she was Japanese. "It's obvious. Look at her eyes. You all can't tell the difference between a Japanese person and a Vietnamese person? It's like night and day!" He had once said, all incredulous. But Lewis's mom is from Senegal. So maybe he knows more about minorities.