space • girlxgirl

Chapter 1

"She's so fucking... eloquent." I shut my locker door, anything but gracefully, and turn to look at Lilly.
She brushes her hair out of her eyes and snatches the note from my hand. "Seriously, like, who uses the word 'discontent' in average conversation? Who the hell is this girl?" I stare down at her as she taps her foot and stares intently at the note. She's extremely short, and tries to make up for it by dressing like she could take someone twice her size in a fight.
I'm in no position to judge, though; I'm guilty of the occasional black jeans and angsty combat boots look. Also guilty of the angsty personality that comes with it.
Lilly exasperatedly drops her arm and groans. "Have you ever even heard of a Quinn in this school?" she whines, and I chuckle.
"It's a big school, I couldn't even name half the people in our class if I wanted to." I begin to walk toward the front doors and she follows. "She's probably in either really smart people classes or really dumb people classes." I take the note from Lilly, refold it, and shove it in my pocket.
She's silent for a few seconds, probably thinking. "All we know about her is that she takes philosophy, she doesn't take it last block, and she definitely has a stick up her butt." I swat her for the last comment and she snorts out a laugh in response as we step outside.
"Why are you so obsessed with this?" I ask, shoving my hands in the pockets of my sweatshirt. It's November, super fucking chilly.
"Because you've been swapping notes with this girl for like two weeks now and I have no idea who she is, thats why!"
I roll my eyes and stifle a small chuckle. We keel walking. I haven't even gotten a chance to fully read the last note I picked up, I was so preoccupied with actually trying to get shit done in that class for once that I forgot it. And stupid me didn't even allow enough time to scribble a reply before Conch ushered us all out of his room.
-
The next day I stagger into Conch's room unwillingly, drained from the rest of the classes of the day. I plop myself down in my seat and could nearly take a nap when I remember Quinn. I felt bad all night for not writing a reply, so better late than never I guess. As I lean down to take my binder from my bag, I notice a piece of paper wedged into the desk, folded so perfectly only one person could have left it. In the midst of the commotion in the room, I pull the note from the desk and unfold it slowly, revealing her neat, loopy font.

Dear Katherine,
I can't help but notice that you took the note and didn't leave a reply. That's perfectly fine, but I just wonder why. Did I frighten you away with my horrible art? If so, I'm sorry. I just wanted to leave you drawings because I love the ones that you leave me so much.
Unless, you didn't take it at all. Has someone stolen my note? Or maybe someone stolen your reply? Either way, that's very rude and makes this note unnecessary and makes this situation unnecessarily complicated.
Sorry for trailing off, please reply.
Your friend,
Quinn

I stifle a chuckle at the flustered nature of the note. Damn, she seems upset that I didn't respond. Better late than never, then.
-
I wedge the note under the desk and notice there is only 4 minutes left in class. Conch isn't even speaking at this point, and I slowly begin to pack my things. As I do I scrutinize him. He has a very sour expression all the time, a "resting bitch face," if you may, and beady eyes that rarely blink. He's beginning to form a bald spot, and the hairs in his mustache are grey and wiry. I wonder if he notices me staring. Actually, I don't think he notices anything. He is still, with his hands folded, elbows propped up on the desk, staring. He stays like this even as the bell rings. Maybe even after I leave he'll just sit and stare, sit and stare, sit snd stare, until the next day.
I won't know, though, because I left the class and walked right out the front doors.
-
Finally Friday. By last block, I'm beat down, drained, and just about ready to go home and take a long nap in a blanket burrito. I slump in my seat and check for a note. Sure enough, one of the precise little squares sits there, yearning to be read.
I unfold the note and gawk at the length. Her tiny script fills nearly the entire page.

Dear Katherine
Oh gosh, you scared me half to death. I thought I'd said something that scared you off. But thankfully, you're still here, still drawing impressive little doodles I see. That makes me wonder how much of this class you actually pay attention to...
On the topic of this class: I'd like to address what you complained about in the first note you sent me. The theory that space between two things never ends, because you can keep dividing that space by two infinitely until you get a very minuscule decimal but still never zero? I'd like to present a counterargument.
It's true, if you're dividing by two, or three, or four, or any number that isn't zero, you will never reach zero. It's like those annoying little graphs that never reach the asymptote. Well, what if we never reach our asymptote? When you look at a graph like that, it looks like the line has crossed the asymptote. But it really hasn't its just a trick of the eye. An allusion. What if that's what contact is?
Place your hand on this note. Palm to paper? It's touching, right? But what if that's your mind tricking you, like how it tricks your vision into not seeing your nose or to flip upside down if you're hanging upside down for too long. What if it wants you to feel what it sees? What if your brain assesses the texture of an object, or person, or anything else and makes you feel what it wants you to feel?
Just a thought.
Quinn
...