I suppose I could have made a good living in government work. But that was only if they could match my current hourly rate.
My classes continued, slithering by in minutes that felt like weeks. As the lessons became tedious, disturbing reminders of the night before distracted me. Someone’s chair slid against the wall and the metallic cry brought me back to the screeching of my car against trees. The edge of someone’s shirt got caught on the metal end of the desk and ripped, a sound far too much like the tear of Mr. Sharpe’s jacket. It became a struggle just to keep the memories away.
I escaped into the cafeteria for lunch, simultaneously catching up on Ovid’s Metamorphoses and eating the abysmal food that only appeared worse under the fluorescent lights. In this babbling crowd of people, habit demanded I get my camera out and take pictures. High schools were wrought with drama and students’ faces were always showing emotions I loved to pick apart. But the principal and I had been through this before: no photos of students on school property. Being prohibited from my usual occupation left me in a restless state.
“Don’t dress in that bright color,” a familiar voice interrupted my thoughts. “Drunk people will think you’re a piñata and hit you with sticks.”
“Hello to you too, Spud,” I said without looking up.
“I mean it,” he insisted. “Big sticks and bats. It’s happened to me twice. They think ‘cause I’m fat I’m full of candy.”
“Or did they do it because you hacked their passwords?” I mused. He grunted—guiltily enough for me to know I was right—and heaved his backpack onto the table. Spud looked much like his vegetable namesake: not overly obese but with bits of pudge sticking out in his cheeks and in odd places up and down his short, lightly brown stature. His damp mess of curly spaghetti hair was as deep black as his Polo shirt, face already showing the beginnings of a moustache like a smudge of charcoal above his lip, even though he’d likely shaved that morning.
“So you crashed your car?” he said. He had his laptop open already, typing in a password as he unrolled the aluminum foil that held his lunch: cold scrambled eggs, three sausage patties, and a dried piece of toast.
“Word got around fast.” I grunted.
“People talk,” he said. “Actually—” he took a bite, “my aunt’s an officer, and—”
He didn’t even try finishing, his mouth so full his tongue couldn’t move up or down anymore. I hoped his aunt wasn’t the policewoman I’d forced to chase me down. That’d be awkward if we both showed up at Spud’s family Christmas party that year.
“I don’t understand how you can eat that,” I tried to change the subject.
“You want me to be a normal Mexican and eat a taco and some guacamole?” he accused, diving into an exaggerated Spanish accent. “Don’t try to get me off topic, man. I want to hear about your big fiery crash everyone’s talking about.”
“Are they really talking about it?” I asked, surprised. My eyes swept over the room, unexpectedly elated at the idea I’d turned into a topic of conversation. Spud shook his head.
“Actually, no,” he corrected. “Not even a car crash can make us popular, man. I mean for a little bit this morning it was buzzing around, but that was when the rumor went that you were dead.”
“I feel so loved,” I said, clearing my throat.
“I’d have called you if I thought it was bad,” he said. “But I figured it wasn’t. I saw you walking in earlier, so at worst your car was gone.”
“And a $2,500 camera,” I said with a sniff.
“Yeah, that,” he said, disinterested. “My aunt was pretty mad about it because she told my mom this morning when she found out you went to my school. Then she really popped when she found out I knew you. So here.”
He lifted a hand and lightly thwacked my cheek. “That’s from her. She said to do that if I saw you, for that murder story.”
I sighed. This was Arleta—if there was any confidentiality in my police report, it was long gone once the officers went home. One of the most popular pastimes in Arleta was gossiping. Spud took another bite.
“So did you make that up or did you hit your head or what?” Spud pressed. “You know, that part about the guy trying to kill you.”
“I actually don’t remember,” I said. He narrowed his eyes. You salty liar, they accused.
“Don’t start,” I told him. “I’m not even sure what happened anyway. Maybe I did just hit my head really hard.”
Part of me hoped it’d eventually become something Spud and I would laugh about. Now that it was midday and the cloak of night had disappeared, even considering what I had seen felt silly.
“Well, that’s nice,” Spud said with a shrug. “It’s good you’re in one piece, because I need your help with something, and that’d be really difficult if you were in a hospital bed.”
“I can’t help you crack any more codes or unsolvable puzzles,” I said. “You’ll have to hack it yourself.”
“What?” he stammered. “No, I figured that out. I need you to tell me if this girl likes me.”
“I said no unsolvable puzzles,” I reminded him.
“Listen,” he leaned closer. “I need this. I need to know. You’re the only person in the world who can help me. Literally, you are.”
He nodded his head to the side. “It’s Tiffany Dawson. She’s in a green shirt. It says ‘West Is Best.’ Beside the table. You see?”
“Yeah, I do,” I said with a halfhearted sigh. Tiffany was one of those girls who fell three rings outside of our socially mandated circle, with naturally blonde hair and glittery blue eyes. She also had an inclination toward any male whose arm muscle circumference neared the size of my head.
She picked up her tray and began to leave the cafeteria line, weaving in and out of the jostling students, hair brushing around her face like a magical gust of wind had entered the room to dance around her. Was her glow real or from her bleach-white teeth? She remained unaware of our reconnaissance: an easy thing to do when she was unaware of our existence entirely.
“Just curious about which alternate universe you met her in,” I said, tearing my gaze away sourly. “I’d like to visit it one day.”
“She totally looked at me in English earlier,” he protested. “And her eyes lingered. They lingered, Michael. Against mine.”
“In horror?” I said.
“In wild, uncontainable love,” he replied. “I’m gonna go up to her, and you watch her, alright?”
“Please,” I said, “stick to romancing computers. You won’t like this, I promise.”
“Michael,” he insisted.
“She’s far away.”
“Don’t give me that,” he said. “You’re the boy genius, Eye Guy.”
He was gone. I wasn’t in the mood for this but I tried to keep my gaze on her so I wouldn’t miss it. Staring at Tiffany Dawson…such a chore, Michael. I guess my job had some perks.
There were actually two ways that I could read someone’s emotions. Looking at a photograph was one, the other was a bit more complicated. In person, there was one specific moment I could read in someone’s eyes, a certain look of surprise when their guard was let down. It was hard to pin what it was exactly: it was usually that split second when someone made eye contact for the first time or when they were surprised abruptly. That was why I called it the Glimpse.
Spud was just a step away from her already but then clumsily tripped beside her and into a table, causing her to spin around at the sound. I winced as I saw his cheeks go red. Their eyes met for a fleeting moment, he spluttered out in apology, then he was gone again. He dove back into the chair across from me.