Deal With It By: Audrey B. Holley

Chapter 11

I bore a stare into the back of Benjies neck, hoping to melt him with my eyes and make him fidget. When he turns around in his seat in order to look at me, I glance away moodily. I image his apologetic face, and almost give in, but the pain of unturned love bops my brain into a bitter attitude again. 

The bell sounds for us to be dismissed, and just as I stand, and collect my materials, Benjie clutches my elbow.

"Keelie, can we-"

"Don't talk to me," I say, and haul my arm to my chest. But the heart that beats against the walls inside screams for him to say my name another time.

* * * * *

Jimmy seems to be lost in thought as he stares down at a paper, a pencil in his right hand. His crew has seemed to of left him alone for today, for they are all scattered at numerous tables. The heels of his palms are to his temples, and I perceive his shaky right knee that bounces under the table.

As I make my way to the cafeteria table, I glimpse Benjie sitting at the usual spot, bopping his head to harmonies that only he hears with his closed eyes.

Scooting out a chair, I ask, "This seat taken?"

Jimmy doesn't say anything, but rubs his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand.

"Whatcha writing?" I ask, glancing to the paper of inept handwriting.

"I'm going to do it. I'm going to tell her, well not verbally, but I'm going to-" He pauses a moment as if distracted by the chatters of people. I snap my fingers to gain his focus. "I'm going to give her this note." He concludes.

"Good for you." I say along with a half smile to encourage him that he's doing the right thing. "Can I read it?"

"No." He scowls. "This is personal stuff. Took me 'lot of work making this poem."

I can't help myself from saying, "Awww, that's so cute Jimmy." His left cheek dimples when he shows a timorous grin, and peers at me through dark lashes.

He looks elsewhere, and then to me. I follow his gaze, peeking over my shoulder to the one man who takes my breath away. 

"What's going on with you and Harison over there? Still fighting your feelings?" He raises his brows, and smirks.

"Thought you were drunk that night I told you, thought you wouldn't recall a thing?"

"I honestly only remember bits 'n pieces of our discussion at Maria's party, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that you dig him, and that something has gone wrong." He tips back in his chair, and then stops leaning in order to sit properly. "I'm the man of body language, I practically invented it."

"No you didin't. You're a freaking weirdo," I say, and then bite at my nails.

"If I'm a freaking weirdo, then why do you talk to me?"

I slip my fingers through my hair, and say, "Because you get me. You understand what I'm going through. We both want something we can't have."

* * * * *

I am scatterbrained today because I couldn't bear in mind that it is Tuesday, another one of my appointments with Mrs. Rubert. But it all comes crashing into memory when my mother stomps up the stairs, and flings my bedroom  door open.

"I just got a call," she says sternly, cordless phone in hand.

"Oh?" I question, pretending as if I'm naive.

"That was Mrs. Rubert," she declares, and at the tone easing into her voice, I sense the irk in her attitude.

"Why haven't you gone?" Her hands are at her hips, and her regularly luminous beauty has been trampled with bad-tempered wrinkles that reveal her developing age. My mother has always looked horrid when she's infuriated, but then again it seems everyone is unattractive when they are livid.

I don't comment on her slight weight gain when she stands with her belly pooched out, apparently believing she seems intimidating.

"I don't want to go anymore mom." In order to disregard her expression and her odd stance, I turn from her, and occupy myself by scooping up my dirty laundry.

"This is supposed to help you. What you went through was tough. I'm calling her back to keep the meetings going. Do you understand?" 

I can just imagine the look on her face right now: frowned features of piercing blue eyes.

I groan, and then say, "Yes."

When she closes the door behind her, I sigh and toss the wad of clothes to the ground, and then flop onto my bed.

Then there it is again, a memory launches fresh into my thoughts. 

It is fifth grade during lunch time...

"Keelie! Over here!" 

I whirl around, tray of food in hands, and see Henry waving me over to the table. His vibrant smile is worn upon his lips in a timid way.

"Oh man, did you see Shelly today? She's got this beauty that mesmerizes me." He sighs dreamily, and cups his chin in his palm all the while batting his lashes as if he's in love.

At the mention of her name, I think of fourth grade when she rejected his offer of dating, but I don't bring it up. Instead, I say, "If you say so," and bite into my chicken sandwich.

"You mean you don't see it? The superb features that form her delicate face..."

I giggle, and say, "I swear Henry, someday you're going to be making millions when you write your poetry for the whole world to read."

"You think so?" He then dips a fry into his ketchup.

"Are you seriously asking me that? Of course, I know so. You're like..." I ponder an adjective used to describe him in a vividly incredible way, but can't think of one, so I conclude my sentence with, "...the best writer I know."

"Thanks. You've touched my heart once again." He presses a hand over his chest and acts as if he might cry tears of joy.

"I can see you now, in your twenties giving a speech about your very first novel of poetry."

As I lay on my bed, I think and here I am without you... yesterday would of been your seventeenth birthday.