On the Outside

seven

"YOU GUYS WON'T believe what Sister Avery said ab-" That Monday, I slip into the lunch benches with the girls after a heated discussion in English Lit. about the characterisation in George Orwell's '1984'. I pause, mid-sentence, when I realize my animation is not reciprocated. I sigh and drop my books on the table, "what have I done now?" Imogen, Pippa and Harriet exchange embittered glances whilst Sophie sports a defeated expression.

"Marianne and Julie saw you walking in town with Tristan Myers," Imogen says.

"Are you trying to lose friends or did Pippa's 3-year-long crush just happen to slip your mind?" Harriet chimes in. I rake my memory for the names Imogen just dropped. Who the fuck are Marianne and Julie and why were the following me?

"First of all, calm down," I direct this towards Pippa, before turning to the rest of the group, "We walked together, I didn't suck him off in the back of the bus." This earns a fair share of horrified gasps. "Second of all, we walked together, not because I'm trying to lose friends," I say pointedly towards Harriet, then turn to Pippa again, "but because I was arranging his date with you." Pippa's eyes spring wide open. Even Harriet clamps her big mouth shut. "So before you can accuse me of more things you know nothing about, I'm going to take my lunch somewhere where I am welcome." I push myself off the bench and walk across the courtyard. I hear Pippa call my name, but I ignore it. Regret always seems to come too late.

"Care for some company?" Whilst seated, with my back against the wall, on St. Mary's rooftop, a voice jumps up. Ellis stands in the doorway of the staircase, waiting for my answer. I push my lunch aside to make space beside me.

"Please," I say. Ellis smiles and approaches me. As he takes his seat, he sighs.

"Glad to know I'm not the only one who's looking for an escape."

That afternoon was the start of a comfortable routine. I no longer had to endure Harriet's unending narratives during lunch, because Ellis and I spent our lunches up on the rooftop. We hid in the library whenever it did rain. We'd share a cigarette outside, divulge the minor irritations we encountered throughout the morning, and throw pieces of paper down at the groups of freshman girls sitting in the courtyard. Then, we'd go to assemblies and attend the compulsory chapel services. As tedious as they may sound, I always tried to find a semblance of entertainment. At chapel, it was Tristan's playfulness in the form of goofy faces and silent staring competitions. Then after school, I'd walk home by myself.

One afternoon, came an addition to my established routine. Tristan had pestered me with another invitation to one of his gigs. I'd surrendered. So after closing up the cafe every Friday night, I'd begun to tag along with Tristan and his band. I'd watch them play, then Tristan would insist on buying me a drink, I'd decline and we'd just talk. For hours. One night, Mark, bartender at The Playhouse wipes down the counter one last time and declares closing time. Tristan glances at me.

"We could go to my place," he shrugs. I give him a pointed look. The connotations of his words are endless. Tristan notices my hesitancy. "I don't bite," he laughs. I sigh, and start to get up off the bar stool.

"I know a handful of girls who do." Even though I'd lowered my daily dosage of Harriet and her companions, that didn't terminate the glares I'd receive whenever I was fleetingly spotted exchanging small-talk with Tristan.

"They're not so bad," Tristan says.

"Not to you, no." I pause in my movements, and recall my good-samaritan act from a couple of weeks ago. "I completely forgot to ask," I turn to Tristan, "how was your date with Pippa?" Tristan heaves his shoulders as he pulls on his jacket.

"Pippa's sweet. A little rigid." I nod. That sounds familiar. Suddenly, a sly grin creeps onto Tristan's features. "But I do think that this means you owe me a favour," he says, referring to my unsuccessful match-making efforts.

"Does it?" I ask, feigning innocence. When I look at Tristan again, I become aware of the fact that he's referring to his earlier invitation. "Tristan."

"I'm not asking you to marry me," he laughs. There's a long pause, before I mutter my response.

"Okay."

"Is that a yes?" Tristan grins, studying the reluctancy on my features.

"Yes." I roll my eyes when Tristan briefly celebrates, before turning to say goodbye to his bandmates. I watch from a distance. I've realized that Tristan has an incredibly natural inclination for charisma. It's not a forced kind of wit. In the midst of ogling his interaction, Tristan turns around. He frowns when he notices my resting gaze, but in an amused fashion.

"What?" he asks when he returns to my side.

"Nothing."

We walk to his house. And in those ten minutes, Tristan explains to me the premise of having a 'movie to-do list'. He has a list of films, ranging from black-and-white classics to unreleased blockbusters, that he wants to see. I watch him explain the satisfaction of crossing a movie off his list, feeling a warmth in my stomach and an odd inclination to spend more and more time with him. At the same time, this feeling leaves me with a growing sense of unease. However, pedalling against the current of my gut feeling, our Friday nights become routinely entwined. After every one of Tristan's gigs, we head back to his place, he lets me choose a movie from his list, and we settle. Usually on the living room couch, sometimes in his bedroom. Sometimes, we take turns falling asleep.

There's a strange, unspoken level of comfort you establish when experiencing a film side-by-side. It's become one of the only unvarying factors in my life. "Want to move to my room?" Tristan shifts his head towards me, his gaze sheepish. I'd been stretched out across the couch, leaving Tristan in an uncomfortable pose on the floor. I snicker.

"Sure."

We were half-way through the 1967 film 'The Graduate' starring Dustin Hoffman, when Tristan carries his laptop to his room. I follow in suit. Tristan positions the laptop at the foot-end of the bed; I move towards the pillows on the other end. Whilst I sit, upright, against the wall, he stretches out with his back against the mattress. An almost-empty bowl of popcorn rests beside me. Tristan has lazily rested his left hand on my leg through most of the movie. I only noticed when he took it off. "Have you put any thought into my question?" Tristan props his chin up onto his palm. I exhale.

"Tristan, they would skin me alive." Tristan had asked Ellis and I to sit with him, in the courtyard, during lunch. Nothing is more public than St. Mary's courtyard.

"It's lunch, Dylan," Tristan sits up, "not a marriage proposal."

"In Pippa's eyes, those two factors are interchangeable." Tristan groans and buries his face in the pillows, out of frustration. Tristan and I's public interactions on school grounds have mostly been limited to small-talk in the corridor, or brief acknowledgements before class. Sitting together at lunch would seem like an abrupt escalation in our relationship. An idea that I don't want Pippa to get too attached too. Pippa and I's friendship status may be on the rocks, but I've never been vengeful.

"I just want to hang out with you without having to worry about Harriet Rutherford burning holes into the back of my head," Tristan mutters, his eyes trained on me.

"Me too," I say, and softly run my fingers through the curled ends of Tristan's hair.