A Tenth of a Second

Chapter 2

It is currently 12:37 pm, September 6th, 2016.

I am choking on my sobs on the cold floor of the girl's bathroom.

I started going to this new school at 7:15 am, September 6th, 2016.

This has to be some kind of record.

● ● ●

5 hours before...

This place looks exactly as a private school would look. Lockers with absolutely no dents or graffiti, perfectly clean floors, bulletin boards lining the walls with encouragements for the rest of the year. And, most surprisingly, ceiling lights that all work.

As far as the promise I made to myself goes, I'm keeping up with it pretty well. No one has made any move to become my friend, which I am extremely thankful for, and I haven't tried to become anyone else's friend. 

Since I'm not starting in the middle of the year, I don't need to go to the principal's office first or anything. I got my schedule in the mail a few weeks ago, in the summer, and the room number order is pretty easily to figure out. 

I head to AP English, bored out of my mind. Class starts at 7:25, and since I have ten minutes, I'm exploring the school a little. The school looks too...clean. Perfect. Like, I find it really hard to believe that absolutely no one felt the need to spray paint at least one picture on a wall. The public school that I went to before had interesting graffiti all over the place. Maybe it's because there are cameras in the main halls, and too many students bustling around. 

I venture deeper, and then find the stairs to the basement. I try the handle. Locked. I don't have bobby pins in my hair, and even if I did, I don't really know how to open locks with pins anyway. But then I spot a janitor.

Moving along with the crowd so as to not attract attention, I grab the keys right off the janitor's belt. He didn't even feel it. Like stealing candy from a baby, I grin. I make my way back to the basement door, and try every key on the ring until I hear a familiar click. Glancing around, I make sure no one is looking my way, and quietly slip inside. 

I leave the door open a crack, and go down the stairs. My footsteps echo around the stairwell eerily, but with time, I might learn to welcome it. As expected, the resulting basement is exactly like any other school's basement: boxes, the occasional mop, graffiti...

I smile, satisfied that this school isn't a complete disappointment. I creep back up the stairs, into the hallway, and make my way to AP English.

One and a half hours later...

Class was boring, though I guess I got lucky. I'd rather have a boring class than an eventful one with a bunch of jerks as the students. 

I kept thinking about the graffiti. Street art used to be a big part of my life. My family always encouraged my painting, especially Leo—

No. I'm not going to think about him.

Painting was my outlet to express myself. I painted a mural in middle school for the entrance of the building. I don't think anyone ever foresaw that I would turn my talent into something beautiful and illegal.

I felt like I was about to explode with emotion when Leo was in the ER. Guilt and sadness and anger swirled around in my head, and a canvas was suddenly too small. I resorted to the walls of my room, and within a week, every square inch of every wall in my room was integrated into an intricate mural. 

I was in eighth grade.

Two days later, I found out Leo would be released in a few days. I was bursting with ecstasy.  When you're apart from your twin, it's like losing a part of yourself. 

This was when I painted the mural for my school. I had gotten permission, though; my paintings hadn't yet been illegal. 

Then, it happened. The moment that changed everything. No one saw it coming. One second, I was chatting happily with Leo, and the next, I was screaming. It all happened so quickly.

I turned to graffiti for solace. Street art is beautiful, daring. There's something inexplicably satisfying about turning a cold stone tunnel into a dome of art. You start painting, expecting to be swept off your feet with passion, and end up getting completely blown off the ground and caught in a storm.

And then you fall in love.

I kept painting: in alleys, tunnels, old fences. It was my only source of happiness, the only color, in a black-and-white omnipresent feeling of dread. My favorite painting of mine was made in a—

I shouldn't be thinking about this. The last thing I want is to have an anxiety attack in the middle of the hallway.

Now...

So much for that plan. I kept thinking about graffiti, regardless of my better judgement. Needless to say, I'm having an anxiety attack. 

But lunch ends soon. And I don't want any teachers to ask questions.

This is supposed to be a fresh start.

I wipe my tears, wash my face, stare at myself in the mirror. Five seconds. I'll give myself five seconds to regain my composure.

Five.

I miss Leo.

Four.

He's gone now.

Three.

There's nothing you can do.

Two.

But I could have done something.

One.

Just make it through the day. Break down when you get home.

I plaster a fake smile, pretend my head isn't throbbing with memories, and waltz out the bathroom door as if I had all the confidence in the world.

I know that there is absolutely no way that this could end well.

I was right.