Behind Blue Eyes

Of Dogs and Hooligans and Motorcycles

They say to never start your story talking about the weather. It's one of the Big Rules of Writing. I'm pretty sure that's bullshit, though, because I'm pretty sure Mary Shelley Frankenstein started out with: "It was a dark and stormy night...". Or something.

But I digress.

It wasn't dark or stormy in Philadelphia. As a matter of fact, it was rather sunny. It's always sunny in Philadelphia, you know.

It was one of those days where the sun was bright and glaring but not hot. The kind of day that can give you a wicked sunburn without you even noticing.

"Did you know that camels have three eyelids?"

Emily doesn't even look up. I don't really expect her to. "Yeah, actually." She says, smiling a little bit. I can't tell if it's because she thinks I'm being charming or because of something she read from the open book in her lap. She pushes her glasses up a bit higher on the bridges her nose, letting a strand of dark hair fall gently in front of her face. She does that a lot, I notice. Even when she's wearing contacts (rarely), she does this little thing with her pointer finger, like she's trying to push her glasses up. I can't tell if it's a nervous habit or a subconscious urge. Maybe both.

I sigh, flopping beck onto the grass. I don't even like grass. It's itchy and usually dirty and especially dry this time of year. The clouds are nice though, so it's kind of worth it. "Do you ever look up at the clouds and think: "wow, those are almost like shapes and people and animals and they look so soft and I want to touch them" even though you know that they're really just big clumps of water vapor six thousand meters in the sky?"

"Addie."

"Sorry."

Emily gets a bit irritated when I talk too much. It's not my fault, though. I've just got a lot of thoughts, so sometimes it's hard to keep them all inside. She especially doesn't like it when I interrupt her reading.

I get up. "I have to go to work now anyway. Bye, Em."

"Bye, Addie."

She doesn't look up, so I don't look back as I walk down the hill. They don't allow bikes in the park, for some reason, so I had to keep my Suzuki outside by the fence. It's a nice bike, I guess. My mom thinks it's too loud.

Emily lives in the nice, gated-community-part-of-town. I don't. I usually come to her house or to the park because her parents don't like me and they think i'll abduct her or something if she comes to my house. They think I'm a bad influence because I'm poor and I bought my bike for less than a hundred dollars from my brother's pot dealer.

I don't look like a vagabond or a hooligan or whatever it is her mother seems to think I am. I mean, I ride a bike, but that's about it. I've got tattoos, sure, but she's never seen them- they're on my back, under my shirt. The only one that even shows is a little stick figure guy riding a skateboard on the inside of my wrist, but it looks like a pen doodle and I wear bracelets to cover it up whenever she's around, so she's never even seen it. Regardless, I hardly see how any of that is offensive enough to have reported me to the police for breaking and entering last time I showed up for a sleepover.

The woman has issues.

I'm turning a corner when someone's dog jumps out of nowhere in front of my bike. I turn and skid to a stop, almost tipping over, barely getting my foot to the ground in time.

"Christ," I say, putting my kickstand down and getting out of the seat. "I almost killed you, buddy." I take my helmet off before I approach him (Her? Do animals even care to adhere to gendered pronouns? Liam would start lecturing me on assuming genders and stuff if he were here, but it's not like the dog can tell me and I'm hardly going to take a peek to find out for myself, so) because I saw on Animal Planet once that dogs get scared when they can't see your face. The Dog Whisperer is never wrong, therefore the helmet must go.

"What's your name, buddy?"

"Achilles," Says a voice from behind me, making me jump.

"Jesus shit, that's, like, two near-miss heart-attacks in the last ten minutes."

"Sorry." It's a guy. Broad shoulders, nice chest, chiseled face and his arms. He's smiling, though, despite the fact that I almost just killed his dog, so maybe all is not lost.

"Yeah," I sigh, "Maybe don't let your animals into the street where unsuspecting motorcycle operators might accidentally hit them and consequently be scarred for life."

He chuckles, "You're funny, kid."

"Kid? I'm seventeen, firecracker. Can't be much younger than you."

"Firecracker," He muses, "That's a new one."

"Yeah, well there's more where that came from." I step back, letting him repossess Achilles' leash, sliding my helmet back on as I remount my bike.

"Before you go," He says, "Can I get a name? A number? I have to repay you, obviously, for not killing my dog. Motorcycles are dangerous, I hear."

"Addison," I say, "You're weird."

"Nah," He says, "I'm Alex. Alex Santiago."

I nod, flicking my face mask down and revving my bike back to life as he retreats to the sidewalk. "Maybe I'll see you around, then, Santiago."

He grins, white teeth flashing against olive skin. "Maybe you will."