The walk home is quiet, unremarkable, just like every previous afternoon. The sun is high and blindingly bright, making me squint and keep my face lowered towards the concrete. The heat of the newly budding summer is almost enough to make me hurry back home. Almost.
I can feel my skin warm to an uncomfortable degree, and sweat begins to moisten my arms. But something sluggish, unfeeling and cold keeps my footsteps slow and dragging, keeps me indifferent to the heat.
I at least make quick work of tying my mint-colored jacket around my waist, uncovering a white tank top and dark shorts, which at least allow my limbs to breathe in this heat. Choosing the outfit of the day isn't exactly the most important part of my morning; the clothes were lying miscellaneously on the ground, having slipped from their hangers (unsurprisingly, considering the amount of care I put into putting things away). But nevertheless, I find myself grateful for the non-decision I made this morning in regards to the "outfit", which is more than appropriate for this stifling afternoon heat. As I fan myself lazily and fruitlessly with a hand, a moving truck passes by me and drives ahead, providing me with a short breeze. The reprieve from the heat makes me sigh, shutting me eyes for a quick second—
"Kingsley?"
A voice that triggers a small amount of recognition chimes to my left. I slowly turn towards where it came from.
There, in a bright pink bikini, Emma Simmons stares at me.
My blood goes at bit cold at the look she's giving me, from up her stone stairs, standing on it like a pedestal. Her long, tan legs are peppered with droplets, and her blonde, thin curls are dripping with water that smells of chlorine, which falls onto her protruding collarbones. Her full, coral-tinted lips cradle the suggestion of a frown as she looks me up and down. I'm suddenly very aware of the slouch in my back, of the unstylish nature of my five-year-old sneakers and of the hoodie I'm now using as a belt. And though I know that is the type of thing Emma Simmons would worry about...
Too tired, a voice from deep within me says, too tired.
I imagine it finally occurs to her that she won't be getting any response from me, at the same time that it occurs to me that I can hear loud, bumping club-music, blasting in noisy booms and beeps from behind her house. Also emanating from the pool in her backyard are the sound of laughter, shouts, and high-pitched shrieks, promptly followed by thunderous splashes.
Emma Simmons casually pushes her hair over her shoulder, sending a short rain of chlorine droplets onto the grey slabs at her feet.
"End of the year pool party," she says, shifting her weight onto her left leg, crossing her arms over her ample chest. "You weren't invited."
It realize that she's blocking the door to her house. Guarding it.
"I wasn't—"
"Sure you weren't."
And maybe it's the fact that the heat is getting on my nerves. Maybe it's the exhaustion of the entire day, riding me up until this moment. But I consider, just to see the look on her face, just for a moment...
Too tired.
My dull headache pulsates as I tilt my head, nodding in a smile-less goodbye. As I lift my chin, our silence pierces through even the music from the party she's defending from me. And I flick my eyes down from her semi-bothered, semi-satisfied expression, to her strangely crooked breast.
"You might want to secure those with tape; socks can be so slippery underwater."
And with that, I turn on my heals, the exhaustion of conversation having weighed on me long enough. As I resume my trek, the only reaction I glean from her is the loud slamming of a door.
I groan, pressing my index into my temple at the responding throb my head gives. I'm due for some ibuprofen, maybe a few hours of sleep before supper.
Soon enough after the unexpected -but nonetheless mediocre- encounter, I spot the head of my house over those of the neighbors'. How could I not, when the weather-worn tiles are painted in a faded mint? Never has any house been so unpleasantly noticeable, a pastel construction in the midst of rows and rows of grey and brick. It pulls a sigh for my lungs, and I slow my pace even more.
But today, even as I squint through the steady discomfort in my head, even in my constant tiredness, something else catches my eye.
YOU ARE READING
Asunder
Teen Fiction"Promise me. Promise me you'll never beg someone to stay when they're already gone." Tangled up a million knots, Kingsley has lost faith in happiness. Her heavy heart struggles to continue to beat, and she is slowing down. It seems to her that the w...
