Stitches

Fifteenth Stitch

fifteenth || Perci

The Start (part II)

What I remember from The Start is a blur, but there's one thing I will always be sure of:

Alex Durant was my friend, and Michael Fowler was a stranger. 

By friend I mean casual friend, as in the type of friend I hang out with often, but isn't really who I considered my "bestfriend," because Alex and I both have different groups of people we solidly hang out with.

By stranger I mean nobody, as in I have never been aware of Michael's existence before in my entire life, not until he and his family had moved to town, and especially not until he had started taking classes in Quentin High School. 

When you're the new kid in a school that loves social activities like Quentin, everyone would know who you are. They would know your face, and maybe even your name, and the fact that you're a newbie. But that's all they would know—everything else about you would be a mystery, unless you open up.

I would know, because I was once the newbie.

That's why the idea of a newbie has always seemed so intriguing to me. I have this deep understanding for them. 

Newbies have never spent half of their days within these school walls, like we have. A newbie is uncharted territory, and in a world that craves adventure, a newbie is priceless in Quentin.

Alex seemed to have the same idea.

I remember walking with her to lunch. She was telling me about the newbie, they had homeroom together. I remember her talking about his eyes.

"They were blue, Perci!" she had gushed. "Bright blue. Sky blue. They were gorgeous." It was normal for Alex to swoon over every guy she sees walking. Alex had a crush on practically every guy she meets. She acts as if each crush is The One, but in reality her crushes change as often as the seasons, so I didn't really take it to heart.

I really should've paid more attention.

I remember vaguely recalling Mrs. Garcia mentioning to me that the new kid took art, and that he would be in my class, so I told Alex that I'd check him out, and maybe even get his number for her. Alex squealed and hugged me, saying her thanks.

I really shouldn't have done that.

The day I met him, it was raining. As if the sky had known the tragedy that was about to unfold. As if it was trying to warn me.

I really should've listened.

I was in Mrs. Garcia's class, trying to dry out my jeans that were thoroughly soaked after I jumped through puddles with Ariadne and Angie for fun. He came walking through the door late, mumbling an apology on how he had trouble finding his way through the halls. Mrs. Garcia beamed at him, telling him that it was alright, as long as he was to show up on time from this day forward. 

I remember that she had asked him to introduce himself. I remember his hesitation. I remember everyone's eyes on him, including my own, all eagerly waiting for him to speak. I remember his voice, loud and clear with a subtle hint of nervousness. "My name is Michael Fowler," he had said. "It's nice to meet all of you." 

Even until now, I wonder if he had really meant that, if it was actually nice to meet us, because if that was me, I'd take that back. 

Mrs. Garcia nodded and welcomed him. She pointed to an empty seat next to me and asked him to sit.

He made his way, and for a moment, his gaze met mine.

I remember that day well, but more than anything, what I remember most is this:

His eyes were sad.

The thought had occurred to me with a surprising force, it was overwhelming. It was funny how this was the first thing I noticed, other than his eyes' color, which were a lovely shade of cerulean blue, as gorgeous as Alex had said. But there was sadness in them, and I did not know how I saw that, or what had sparked this observation—maybe it was the way he had carried himself, with slight nervousness in his actions, a bit of heaviness in his step, a hint of caution in his gaze. But in that moment though, I had seen it. 

I had recognized that look, it was a look I was too familiar with.

I see it every time I look in the mirror.

He was sad, alone in a strange place he knew absolutely nothing about, forced to tread through the halls and get by everyday. He was just like me, when we moved and I came to this school, when Grandma died and the world went to hell. 

I was suddenly overwhelmed with an odd sense of understanding with this stranger, the moment our eyes had met.

If I had known then that this nobody—this nobody with baggy jeans, a t-shirt one size too big for him and eyes that were the bluest of blue to ever freakin' blue—shall be the one to one day crush my heart into smithereens so badly that I couldn't function like a normal human being, then maybe I wouldn't have looked. Maybe I would've ignored him. Maybe I would've looked away, excused myself from class, turn the other the direction, and maybe I would've ran ten thousand miles away and never looked back.

Would've, could've. Should've.

But I didn't.

I hadn't known, so what happened was this: my days were spent trying to befriend this nobody. Not for Alex, just so I could get his number. I was doing it for him, because he reminded me of myself. Because I didn't want him to walk around these grounds alone, same way I did.

I started talking to him, asking him about his favorite things, figuring out why he had moved. He told me that he loved the rain, and that he played the violin. He told me that he liked to paint. I pointed out that that was obvious, since he chose art class, and he had laughed at that. He told me that he had moved because his uncle had told his father that this was a great place to live. Months after, I would learn that he was lying, that he moved because he had severe health problems and a pathetic excuse for a mother, but that's another story for another day.

I would talk to him as much as I could, thinking that if I made a home here, he can too. 

I had shown him my favorite places in Quentin High, and introduced him to new people. I told my plan to Ariadne and Angie, and they were all go for it. Ariadne invited him to play his violin for glee. Angie came and introduced her drama club friends to him—they invited him to watch rehearsals.

At first I thought I was only doing it for charity—a good deed, a small favor, an act of kindness for the awkward loner who had no friends. But sooner or later I began talking to Michael because I had wanted to. Because I liked it. Because he was funny, and he said good things, and he was nice company. I was beginning to warm up to him.

And yeah Michael, you may have forgotten this now, but I believe, that even just for a moment, you had warmed up to me too.

After a while, Michael wasn't the loner anymore. He made friends, hung out with a bunch of people, cracked the jokes he only used to tell me. He joined the orchestra and played his violin. We drifted apart then, because we had took different classes, and spent time with different people. We still considered each other friends though, we would greet each other when we pass through the halls, and he still sat next to me during Art. And we painted, lots and lots and lots of times, especially when Mrs. Garcia found out that we made a good team. We would paint, and we would talk about the most random things.

After a while, the sadness in his eyes was gone.

He made his home here. Every time I see him I would think, You did it, I knew you could, and I couldn't help but be proud of him.

Sooner or later, he met Alex.

* * *

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