The Opposed Alliance

~Four

Jaxson

        I near my temporary neighborhood and hum a melancholy tune against the frigid September wind when my ears tune in on a set of slow, careful yet bold footsteps behind me.

            I stop in my tracks and turn around swiftly, prepared to use my epic karate training against any possible predator coming my way.

            Squinting against the harsh blackness of the dark, I see the outline of a lanky, awkward figure jog towards me ever so slowly, clearly out of breath and in need of an inhaler. I take a few cautious steps forward, making sure I remain as silent as possible.

            As the shady figure draws closer, I begin to recognize the lanky outline as they guy that was talking to me at the club. Mike, I think his name was.

            Screw him. He probably just wants me to come back to the club and spend more of my money on drinks and all that crap. Good luck trying, Mike. I don't have any more money to spend.

            I turn around on my heels, hook my thumbs in the back pocket of my faded blue jeans, and continue on the path that leads me to the house.

            Mike's footsteps behind me grow louder in volume; he must be getting closer. They also become quicker and more rapid, the thump, thump of his worn out sneakers against the concrete sidewalk pounding against my skull like all the secrets I have stored up in my brain, itching to get out.

            I increase my walking speed, too, and break into a sort of jog-like motion.

            Before I realize that Mike even caught all the way up to me, I am startled when I feel a hand on my shoulder. It spins me around forcefully and I soon find myself facing a wheezing, coughing, hacking, heaving Mike.

            "Dude!" I scream at him. Even though I knew he was coming, I didn't think he was that close, and despite my virtual fearlessness, I was quite scared for a minute there. "Don't do that to anyone ever again! This is NOT how you get customers! People will think you are some kind of rapist or something!"

            Mike kind of chuckles through his respiratory issues. He rests his hands on his knees and bends down, trying to catch his breath. And failing quite miserably, might I add.

            "Just put out fliers or something dude, it's not that hard." I roll my eyes dramatically at Mike as he looks up, a half-smile plastered on his sweaty face. His glasses begin to slip off his nose, and he pushed them back up with his left index finger, setting his crouched stance off balance for a moment. He stands up straight and looks me in the eyes.

            "I never caught your name," Mike says.

            I take a step back and put my hands up in front of me. "The name's Jaxson. And, though I am truly flattered, I'm not into that stuff."

            Mike wipes the puddle of sweat off of his forehead, and runs his hands through is dark hair with a curt chuckle. "Cool, because neither am I."

            "Then why...?"

            "Jax – can I call you Jax? I'm gonna call you Jax. Jax, this is not about either of us."

            "It's not?" I ask. Where the heck is this going?

            "No. Well, maybe it's a little bit about you. And it MIGHT have to do a tiny bit about me, but generally, it's not about either of us," Mike rambles.

            "Okay," I say. "You are seriously confusing me. I'm not that bright, just get to the point. Tell me what this is really about." My foot begins to tap an unsteady rhythm on the sidewalk, just off the edge of a crack between squares, and my eyes seem to roll themselves this time, powered my supreme impatience with ramblers. Or maybe it's just with Mike.

            "The drummer."

            My heart stops. The crazy early-autumn wind whips around me with the force of a tornado, and I feel as if I am stuck in the eye. Or, more like I AM the eye. I knew there was something different about that girl. Something special, something unique. Something potentially dangerous. Now, because of Mike, I am one step closer to finding out exactly what is so different about her that caught my eye in the first place.

            "The drummer?" I ask, my numb tongue speaking for itself, out of my control.

            "See? I know you can see it just by the look in your eye right now!" Mike cheers, stepping towards me and pointing at my face in a rush of excitement.

            I blink as hard as I possibly can, trying my hardest to clear whatever look was in my eyes, out of them. "See what?"

            "The difference, of course!" Mike says, his fists clenching with excess excitement.

            Then I stutter, "I – I – have absolutely no ide – idea what the – heck you are – are even talking a – a – bout." Curse my nervous tics!

            "Oh," Mike says. He crosses his arms and sits back into his right hip, glaring at me with suspecting eyes. "You most certainly do."

            "I do not-"

            "Don't you dare tell me you have no idea what I am talking about, because I saw the way you looked at Celine when she played.  I had been watching you the entire time-"

            "Whoa, creepy much?" I interrupt. Is he sure he's not into me, because it kind of seems like he is.

            "Stop interrupting me, kid. I'm serious here. The only reason I was watching you was because you are just like her. You two are different in the same exact way."

            "The drummer?"

            "Yeah, Celine."

            "Celine," I whisper her name carefully, with the delicacy of someone cradling a priceless, ancient glass figurine. Her name feels foreign and beautiful as it rolls of my lips. "I'm just like her? How?"

            "I could see that you could tell she was different."

            "That much is true. There was definitely something about her..."

            "You could see it in her just as I could see it in you."

            Mike's answer both surprises me and rattles me to the core at the same time. What does he mean? We are "different in the same exact way"? What does that even mean?

            Now here I stand, on the sidewalk in the shady suburbia of Maine with a nerdy-looking club owner telling me that I have the same differences as the one girl that ever managed to catch my eye...

            Am I sure that Mike's not on drugs?

-Claire