feather

seventeen: so I can have slow reflexes

"Matthew?" Delia walked up, smiling widely at him. "What are you-" She froze, seeing the exposed cuts on Matthew's wrist. I hastily pulled the sleeve down, but it was too late. Darn my slow reflexes.

Once Matthew kicked a ball into my face, and I didn't even register what happened until a few minutes later; that's when I decided to fall over for no apparent reason clutching the side of my head screaming "FUCK!"

She took a look at Matthew, and then his wrist again. "Matthew," she repeated, and then her face scrunched up. "You cut?" She said it loudly, so everybody eating around the back table turned around to look at us. Luckily, most of them were the school-centric teens who didn't care too much about gossip.

Good on you, nerds. The world is a better place when you don't gossip.

"Jeez, scream it to the world," I said, pulling her to sit so she wouldn't attract so much attention. "False alarm guys, he just had ketchup on his wrist!" I shouted, and then flipped off the nerds who kept on staring so that they turned away.

Matthew just buried his hands into his pockets and looked at his unappealing mashed potatoes with possible parasites and the sad excuse of plastic meat and play-dough the school district called "a burger".

"Okay, I can't deal," she sighed, running her hands through her silky black hair. "First, it turns out Jamie is suicidal, and now, my boyfriend, who I met through my suicidal friend, is also suicidal. Is waiter boy suicidal too?"

"Hey," Matthew defended, "Don't bring Jamie into this; she isn't-"

"No offense, Delia," I said, crossing my arms and narwhal-pajama legs, "but you're making a mountain out of an anthill. Is that the expression? Or was it a molehill?" I asked, confused.

"It's molehill," Delia informed me, rolling her eyes. "I'm sorry Matthew," she said, looking at him wth a mixture of pity and disgust. "I just don't think this is going to work out."

Matthew shrugged and then watched Delia gracefully speedwalk away, back to the table with the football players; she immediately pointed to Matthew and then started talking animatedly. He shrugged again and poked the mashed potatoes with a plastic spork before breaking the spork in half out of frustration.

"I'm sorry, Matthew, I just-" I started to say, but he cut me off.

What he said next made me feel the worst I'd ever felt in my life: "Forget it. Go run to Taylor and make kissy faces at him. I'll be fine. I don't need you."

I felt my heart drop to my knees for the second time that day. I didn't have to stand around and suger the verbal abuse Matthew was giving me, so I said, "Fine." And I left.

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