Thicker Than Paper

Breathing

Labored and heavy. Short and wheezy. Out and in. I let my fingertips skim the murky water, dropping the paper crane. It bobs, ducking under and over like it's testing the water. A leaf flutters next to it, and I give a big blow, sending both forward fast. I watch the white crane bob more fiercely, sneaking away before I get caught.

~~

I drum my fingers, slowly, then faster, then faster. Then slow again. Watching the cafeteria drama unfold. Watching the insecure girls barely touch their salads, watch the drug dealers and their druggies talk about the high they got last night of some random, illegal drug. Watch the drama nerds go over their lines, and the wanna-be hipsters force melancholy looks on their bored faces. Watch the boys at my table laugh and tease unfortunate victims. Listen to the endlessly bored conversation, whose subject will never be of importance to me.

But, unfortunately, I must force myself to listen, to keep myself sane from my never-ending thoughts. Some days, I wish I could listen to other conversation. Make my way table to table, hallway to hallway. Listen to the different lives people live. Instead of always sitting at the third table of the left side of the cafeteria, with the same eleven people and their ever-changing girlfriends.

Today's topic is-no surprise- the upcoming game. So far, the third game of the season, we're undefeated. Play's, and trash-talk about the other team seem to be the focus. As one of the best teams in the state, we are always expected to play our best. Pressures from the coaches, the teachers, teammates. But I think we all put the most pressure on ourselves. Pressure to play the best, to out-play everyone else. Pressure to get into a good college, pressure to be good enough to make it big one days. Though, I doubt no one will admit it. We're big boys, we aren't supposed to show emotion.

"That goddamn pitcher on the central team. He's like a fucking godsend to that terrible team. Right, Phoenix, but you can beat 'em." Charlie Barker cocks a cocky eyebrow at me. Everyone's cold eyes turn to me.

I let a short laugh, "Of course I can. Of course, we can." That raises cheers from the table, fist pounding on the table and high-fives. I produce a smile, to make the impression I'm just as 'stoked' as them all. Boys kiss their girlfriends, who act more as lost puppies and arm candy than anything. I knit my fingers together, my elbows on the table, and keep the smile on my face.Sometimes, I enjoy my team, I genuinely do. But most of the time, its just another part of the amaranthine act. 

Finally, my lost puppy shows up. She swings her hips, and licks her gloss covered lips, trying to get everyone's attention. Trying to get my attention. I let out a sigh, and force an even bigger smile on my face. She gives me a sweet, but egoistic smile as she slides in next to me.I kiss her plump lips, trying not to cringe at the sticky feeling of her cherry lip gloss. It's her favorite, she thinks its mine too. But honest to god, its one of the things I hate the most about her. And that's a hard list to be up high on. 

Andrea Cubin is one of the hottest girls in the school. But, mostly, the bitchiest. She has her minions like I have mine, but she molds hers changes hers so they are a less attractive, but an exact copy of her. I don't know where they are today, but I'm fucking thankful to not hear too more nasally voices. If anyone's as fake as me, its Andrea. She kisses me again, more forcefully then I would like. The table cheers, I realize the kiss is the act. I let her kiss me a little longer to seal the deal and pull away.

"Holy fuck, guys, get a room!" Ace Frenze cheers with his hands cupped around his mouth. I shoot him a cocky 'you fucking wish' smile. 

"Hey, babe." She purrs into my ear, leaning against me. I breathe in, I breathe out. Trying not to explode on this girl. It's not her fault everything she does annoys me to no limit. 

"Hey, where were you?" I ask, eyeing her. I think I have a clue, but she tries to shrug. 

"Mrs. Hershman asked me to stay after to go over a test." She takes a carrot off my plate and tries to take a small, but sexy bite. Everything she does has to be 'sexy'.

  "Oh, well, did you do good?" She lets out a high-pitched giggle and slaps my arm.

 "Of course, I did, babe! God, sometimes you can be just a hoot." I laugh at that, wishing it were true. She leans further into me, softly chomping on her carrot.The table moves on, going back to the game. I push myself to wrap my arm around Andrea, to enforce the couple feels.

 I know she's in this relationship for the same reasons as I; for the show. Andrea lives for the show, I guess I do too.She has only ever dated the most popular of all the boys in school since the sixth grade. A genuine smile on her face is a rare sight. Andrea and I are more common than I would like to admit. I like to think of her as a cold-hearted bitch, but then that would mean I am too. She wears her slutty clothes and makeup for her act. I wear a pitcher's uniform and a presumptuous teenage boy act.

 "So, what are we doing after the big win? Party at Wane's still happening tonight?" Ace asks, chewing rather loudly on his pizza. Wane shrugs which is a definite yes. My stomach drops. The whole table grins and celebrates louder than last time. So loud, the lunch monitors yell at them to shut up, which cracks a real grin from me. The boys grumble, but with smiles still on their faces. I rub the bridge of my nose, profusely dreading this whole party.

Parties in this town were never 'low-key'. No, even 'high-key' was a major understatement. Especially if there was a win of some sport mere hours earlier. These parties would be the end of me, I fucking swear. I try everything to get out of it, grandmas died, the dog's been run over, mom's sick, yadda-yadda. But, apparently, every excuse is an excuse to party. Dragging myself there is the hardest part, but when I get there, I welcome the distraction and alcohol. Oh, the alcohol, the only good thing about the shitty parties. It gives me one gift no other can, the ability to forget.