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“Curtis. Curtis.” Curly Shepard keeps elbowing me in the side in our health class (mandatory where I go— room stinks like shit and no one cares about the class anyway), avoiding eye contact with me. Why? I don’t really know, to be honest. All I know is that I’m running on two hours of sleep and my left arm keeps jolting pain to my nerves near my wrists. Worst of all, it might be infected, which means hospital bills on top of having to admit what I’d done. Curly keeps elbowing. I ignore him. In the event you gave a shit, it was with rusty scissors. I would not encourage anyone to do the same. I mean it. For the love of whoever is up there— fucking don’t.
“Jesus Christ Curtis, you’re killin’ me over here.”
Curly’s digging his palms into his eye sockets as he groans about something school-related. The teacher drones on near the opposite side of class so I hand Curly my last weed and pray that’s why he was bothering me. I keep my long sleeve shirt fully on despite the heat. Not like I haven’t done that before—I get cold pretty easily. And besides, Curly doesn’t notice things like that. I’ll admit, sometimes I wish I had a more observant friend, but Two-Bit would snitch and Steve would both snitch and insult me for being a dumbass. He ain’t wrong and I can acknowledge that, but still.
Curly says something about a “dumbass broad” and snags my health textbook. Technically we shared it— he’d drawn phallic symbols all over it like the Roman teenagers did a thousand years ago, something about humans being the same— but class was still going and I don’t really want to get in trouble and stay here longer than I have to. I’m rotting in my own feelings and nothing feels better to rot in than some tree stump that’s my own. Or my bed. Or anywhere beyond here.
The bell rings and saves me from further embarrassment. Dr. Keaton (he insists that we call him doctor despite only having his masters’ degree in anatomy-- he needed his ego stroked by teenagers, I guess) and his leering eye creep me the hell out. “Doctor” is a little cross-eyed from the “years of studying” so he says, but the theory is that his wife smacked him so hard one eye came out of its socket and it didn’t quite go in right. No one really knows for sure. Hell, we don’t even know if he’s still married. There’s no way I’m staying here longer than I need to though, so I grab what’s left of my stuff.
Curly’s waiting for me by some broken water fountains near the gym, smoking the Kool I’d given him in class. (I don’t like Kools that much, but I was desperate and that’s all Steve had on him that he was willing to give me.) He’s eyeing Angela and Bryon who are mid-makeout session and hides a gag. Can’t blame him. Those two are vocal.
“Here’s your book back. Got this close t’ smacking Keaton myself,” he holds two fingers together without touching them. I mean, at least he has restraint now, in a way. Towards teachers at least. I’m in no position to complain.
“You okay man?”
I look at him. The hell was that question?
“Your arm. Some alley cat try to poison ya with rabies or some shit?”
“Oh.” You know you’re doing real fucking hot when your first spoken word of the day is ‘oh’. I spit out a “I’m fine” and pull down the sleeve. Must’ve ridden up while I was grabbing my stuff. I can feel my stomach churn in something adjacent to frustration. (Is it weird to feel emotions in specific areas? Maybe.)
Curly hands me the cigarette. “You don’t look fuckin’ okay. Take a drag.”
I take it from him. I hope he doesn’t press on anything. Actually, I kind of do— I want to spill my guts to someone, anyone, just someone who’ll listen and give a shit. I know it’s selfish, you don’t have to preach at me. I don’t really know what I want. All I know is that I can’t miss school and I want to die. A fun dichotomy.
“What’s your next class?”
“A-level calc.”
“Fuck that. You’re comin’ with me.” He shoves the textbook in my good arm and tilts his head towards the doors.
I half-jog to keep up with him. Fuck him for being taller than me. “Angel ain’t gonna be pissed that you’re leaving before her?”
He shrugs. “She can suck Douglas’ dick for all I care. Your ass is wound tight.”
“Can’t disagree,” I say while he opens the door. He mouths ‘move on lady’ so I smack him with the health book. Normal shit. Well, as normal as a day like this can be.
——
Out in the sun, I pull up my sleeves. Curly eyes the wounds then me. “You uh, you need t’ see a doc?”
“Nope, I’m fine.” Am I really? Hell if I really know. It smarts like hell and I can’t move my wrist super well, but I guess it worked for a time being. “Don’t have the money for stitches anyhow.”
“Aight then, but shit gets infected, I told ya so.” He shoves a hand in his pocket and elbows me in the good arm. It hurts less when it’s not infected with rusty scissor cuts.
“Since when did you turn into Steve?”
Curly throws his free hand up. “What, so I can’t care about you no more?”
“Didn’t mean it like that, jus’- nevermind.” He won’t let go of it, or he will— it’s really a toss up with him. Depends on his mood. The more frustrated he is, the more stubborn he gets.
He sighs, sounding almost defeated. Admittedly, I’m not used to this tone on him. “Y’wanna beer at my place?”
“Ain’t a drinker,” I shake my head. That’s a bit of a lie. I like wine on occasion, maybe I’ll have a spiked coffee, but beer is still disgusting and I have no plans on getting hammered with a self-induced-busted-up arm at my friend’s house. (Isn’t that how you’d want to spend your Wednesdays?) Besides, if I’m drinking, I’m doing it alone. Mostly because Darry would kill me if he knew.
I think for a second after he spits out an “that’s fine” and moves towards an unattended bike rack. I know beer helps him calm down, in his weird fucked up mind. Maybe that was his intent, but damn if I know. He’s not exactly a world-class comforter.
“Curtis!” He snaps me away from what minimal thought I have. “Get on a bike, dumbass!”
“Comin’, comin’, Jesus, don’t be so loud!”
“Ha! That’s the loudest you’ve been all day!”
“That a good thing?” I slide to a halt on the concrete by the rack. Curly’s finagled his way into breaking two of the locks. Not pretty bikes, but I’m not one to judge at the moment what beauty is.
Curly grins. “I think it’s a great thing.”
“Really?”
He doesn’t pay me a second glance once he’s on the bike— pedaling in the direction of his house, of course. I hop on a bike and trail behind.
Hopefully my arm doesn’t give me any trouble.