Blow A Kiss, Fire A Gun

Chapter 4

His window. Memories flood back into my head. Memories that were long forgotten. Nights when I'd tap on the glass, waiting to see his ivory black curtains draw backwards. Him standing on the other side peering down at me, smiling. Not hesitating to unlatch the locked window, sliding it upward, and letting me enter his safe little world. Climbing into his bed. My swamp green soffe shorts clashing with his navy blue boxers, him holding me close until we had nothing to talk about anymore. I shake the memory out of my head, glancing at my reflection in the securely locked pane of glass. Trying to think of any excuse to run away, to not face his engulfing presence. But staring back at myself was a girl determined. Maybe I can save my grades, and make things right between Charles and I. Slowly, my trembling hands reaches forward and before I could tap, the curtains get pulled backwards and he's standing there grinning. For an instant I thought it looked sadistic but then I realized, that it was genuine. He opened the window and gestures into his house. Climbing into his house was harder than I remember and after some struggling, I eventually made it into his room. My eyes wondered around at the same blue walls, the same band posters hanging crooked, and the exact same bedroom that hasn't changed one bit.

"Everything is the same." I laugh as I turn to face him.

"Is that bad?" He's closing the window, locking it.

"No, I just thought it would have changed." I shove my hands into the front pocket of my jeans.

"Has your room changed at all?" He asks. He closes the curtains and looks at me.

"I mean, I got new posters and a different bed comforter. So no not really."

"I like my room the way it is, so I kept it that way."

"Understandable." I look down at his desk. School papers cluttered the top, with neon colored post it notes. His lamp was the only thing illuminating the room, so it was warm and dark.

"So what subject are we going to start with first?" He made his way across the room to his backpack that rested quietly in the corner. He picked it up forgetting the top was unzipped, causing textbooks and folders to slip out. A beautiful brown leather book landed at my feet.

"This is a nice book." I reached down to pick it up.

"NO! Don't touch that!" He shouted.

I backed away from it with my hands raised at my chest.

"I'm sorry." I whisper. "I was just trying to help."

He looked angry, beyond mad. I've never seen his snow skin become some red. He wasn't looking at me, he was staring at the book. He scooped it off the ground and placed it back into bag. He took a deep breath and I watched as skin turned back to normal cream complexion. I've never known him to have anger problems or keep secrets, but a lot can happen in four years.

"I didn't mean to scare you or anything, I just don't like people touching my stuff."

"It's okay, I understand."

He picked up the rest of his books and papers, returning them to their assigned spots in his backpack.

"Lets start with math, since that's your first class."

"How do you know that?" I ask.

The air in the room hung thick, like smoke. He froze in place, not moving. I waited for what seemed like an eternity and I thought he was searching for an excuse.

"Who doesn't? You have a freaking death parade every morning to your class." He pulled out his burnt orange math textbook and a teal notebook from his backpack.