We Are Infinite

f i f t e e n

k a d e / f i f t e e n

School flies by in a blur, and I keep myself under the radar once again. Conversations with the people on my table remain shallow, but I don't say much, just observe. The guys act too cool and the girls pretend as if they couldn't care less about anything, but when you look closer, the way I do, you'll see the tiny details.

For example, Michael Keyes, one of the guys on the team, has been skipping school lately. The excuse was because he'd come down with something, but every morning his eyes are red, as if he's been crying. Or taking something. He's also been seen passing a small baggie of white powder to Alicia Ramen, who's eyes couldn't quite meet mine after the realization that I saw this.

Sydney Black is also another key example. She's been given a hall pass at any given time, as a result of being diagnosed with a different type of claustrophobia, one I'm not familiar with. However, if you're passing the girls bathroom at the right time, while everyone would be at class, you might hear Sydney throwing up in the toilets. I'd thought this was just a bug she'd caught, but after the first three times this occurred, I knew it was much more than that.

Life is hard, and Albert Einstein High sucks. We're all messed up, in ways even I can't fathom. We all judge each other, but fail to see how we're all just sinning differently. Just drinking different poisons to survive.

I'm on my way home after school when Miles calls. "You busy tonight?"

"Nah. Another fight?"

"Yeah. High Street at 9, that good?"

I grin, the fire in my veins beginning to ignite. "That's perfect. Who . . . ?"

"Oh don't worry 'bout a thing, Ryder. Just be here."

After ending the call, I'm in high spirits. It's crazy how fighting lifts my mood, and most people would think that sadistic, but it's not. It's not as if us street fighters go around punching little boys on their way home from school, or breaking someone's nose just for the sake of it. At least, I don't, and the guys I know don't.

We pick our fights, and we pick them well.

Street fighting teaches you a lot. That's one of the first things Miles had taught me, back when I was fourteen and new to this whole street fighting thing. It's a family, and an escape for those who don't have their own. There's about fifteen of us, and we know the ins and outs of each other so well, we could tell apart the sound of our footsteps.

All we don't know is, the reasons each of us are there. We don't talk about that. It's an unspoken rule, an unsaid agreement. And we're fine with that. At the end of it all, we all just need something to escape. Something to forget.

And fighting, it's easier than swigging back a bottle and drinking until your throat burns. It's easier than smoking a hundred cigarettes a day, watching the smoke curl up in front of you. It's easier than swallowing pills. Fighting is simple; black and white.

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