Starry Eyed

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

My body felt like lead when my alarm finally started beeping at half past seven. I was like a tree trunk; I could not move, could not leave the bed it felt like I'd lived in all my life.

Surprisingly, James was already up. I had expected him to sleep in until he had only a few seconds to spare, but I was proven wrong. Of course, this was probably down to the fact he was supposed to be at Stricland-guy's classroom at eight. I doubt the Ken doll rolled out of bed every morning looking so fabulous.

He was angry at me, of course. The second I opened my eyes he was slicing.

"You let me take all the blame and make out like I'm the bad guy," the Ken doll snapped dramatically when he sensed movement in my bed. I slammed a hand down on the alarm clock and cleared my throat wearily.

In most arguments, I tend to fight instead of fly- when I can. But what was the point in fighting James? I can understand why he was upset. I admit it; it wasn't a very nice thing to do. But I believe he got exactly what he deserved.

"You admit it, too? Don't you?" James was bitter and sullen. Understandably. As he picked out a plaid shirt from his drawers, to hide his bare chest from my sorry eyes, I saw his glaring face reflected in the mirror. I almost felt guilty. Almost.

"You know you did something wrong," he continued persistently. "So you can come with me to Mr. King's office. He's expecting you in thirty."

The man I'd nicknamed Strictland's true identity had been unveiled. Now, I spoke. "He's not expecting me," I sighed. "He's expecting you. And I get that I shouldn't have let you take the fall alone, but I really only went out there because of you."

"I was freaked out!" Protested James, spinning around and scowling at me. His hair was yet to be combed, a new look on him. "I needed help. I would've helped you out if it had been you."

I couldn't help sniggering at that. Slowly, I sat up and got onto my feet. The carpet was warm between my toes. "You would not," I laughed. "You hate me."

"And now you can see why!" He yelled.

I should have felt heart-stoppingly guilty, but I didn't. Angry James was almost amusing. I walked up to the division line to take a stand of defence against him, avoiding the mirror so I didn't have to see my bed hair. It kind of ruined the whole effect.

"Look, I'm sorry, but until we can get along better, I'm not gonna take all the falls for you. That's what friends do. We're not friends."

He breathed heavily, rasping in a husky voice. I imagined his heart thudding furiously, his lungs gasping and choking, his head spinning and filling up with water. James' atmosphere was enormous and explosive, a toxic gas to the warmth of the room. I was not immune to him. I still felt the fierce buzz as it bent the airwaves around us.

"That sounds gay. You're a loser, and you're a nerd. You think just because you're so great at writing, you're hot shit? Well, if you were so popular at your old school, you aren't gonna be here. Everybody here has some sort of freakish talent, and some wannabe emo kid isn't going to impress them."

I

Predictable. That's what James was. Another painstakingly, heartbreakingly predictable human being, just like me. Just like everyone. We are all so horrifically predictable that it transforms us into clones. I wish it was different; that it was crazier and brighter and neon, not so dull and tedious. People are like really bad books sometimes. The plot is supposed to twist and turn, but you expect and prepare yourself for each coil.

I saw his fists clench and his body crouch into a position that suggested to me he was a little madder than I thought. His toes curled across the imaginary division line, and that was when I saw what was going to happen. The first blow he delivered was aimed to strike me in the gut, but he was predictable. I dodged the shot like a pro.

I am not a boxer or a fighter. I am a weedy writer from Hammond. But here's something about writers; they observe. And my observations about human beings, more specifically the Ken doll, in that moment, saved my guts- pun intended.

His fist struck the innocent air with force. It would have hurt; he was a jock, and would have definitely 'packed a punch'. I tried to hide my self-righteous smirk for the sake of being polite, but just as I am not a boxer, I am not an actor.

"You asshole," he snapped. His sinister tounge flicked like a snake at me, sending spit flying through the air. "Since when were you a goddamn boxer?"

"I'm not," I retorted. Not the best quip, but it succeeded on its mission to aggravate James more.

"You're a liar, and a cheat," he growled.

"I'm none of those things. I just dodged your punch!"

"Could you not do that then? Because the whole point of me punching you was to slam your guts out."

"No thanks," I shrugged, trying to stay cool even though I was a little spooked. I may be able to predict people when I'm awake, but when my eyes are shut, I'm not so great. Sharing a room with this Ken doll was getting more dangerous by the minute.

Neon signs flashed in James' eyes. I took it as my queue to leave, but class didn't start for another hour, so instead I walked towards the bathroom. It was fortunate that the door was on my side of the bedroom, because otherwise I'd have been pumelled just heading over to pee.

As I went to close the door on a fuming James, I peeked around the corner and took a glance at my alarm clock. "Hey, Ken? Don't forget you've got a meeting in, oh, twenty-seven minutes. I think Mr. King would appreciate your punctuality."

I slammed the bathroom door and stared into the mirror at the sharp-eyed, wild boy in front of me. He did a crazy happy dance, leaping around like a spastic rabbit, silently mouthing the words to some pop song. He didn't seem to care about the fact he smelled so sweaty, or sounded so croaky, or looked like he'd been sleeping in a hedge. Perhaps it was because he was so happy that it was the first good comeback he'd had in a lifetime.

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