Spaz © 2009 Ling Guirnela

With my face half-hidden behind a tattered copy of Chuck Palahniuk's Choke, I eye him fervently, studying every angle in his face, how wrinkles & imperfections seemed nonexistent. I wait patiently for his friend to amuse him so I can catch a glimpse of his dimples when he smiles, or laughs. Although that may be a bad idea. Everytime his eyes crinkles, & those dents of beauty appear on either side of his cheeks -- butterflies, crickets, spiders, every kind of bug attack my stomach. They flutter, they jump, they scuttle all around my abdomen in excitement for they reflect the very emotion I feel.
A friend of his comes to join their already crowded lab table. He becomes concealed, drowns in his testosterone-filled circle.
I put down my book. The paperback cover slightly rips, but I care not. It was a shitty patch-up job anyway. The tape I used are nothing but yellow remnants hanging on for dear life on the outer crack of the book.
There's no use for it anymore.
I pout because I can't see him. I sigh in relief because no one pays attention to me in my lab table. I triumph because no one knows my afflictions. I pout again because he's there but he's unattainable.
I feel a hand on the crook of my elbow. My reflexes almost cause me to strike him/her across the face hard, but I stop myself just in time. I forget things, so I forgot her. She's new. She's my seatmate.
"Yeah?" I say.
"I can never tell what you're thinking."
"I'm a difficult person." I look away from her insightful stare. The things I'll do to have a seat away from her. I'm afraid of her, to be honest. I feel she's too perceptive for her own good. I'm secretive, dubious, constantly incognito & I can't trust people for shit. She's the last one person I want as a seatmate.
"Tell me, then." I hear her say.
I turn to face her, fast, hard, disbelieving. She flinched. I feel my face soften. I sigh.
"I don't tell anyone anything. I don't have friends. I don't want friends." I state.
The boy that sits across me turns back from the movie that is playing on the TV. His gossip-detecting ears prickling.
He eyes me in blunt disgust then diverts his attention to my new seatmate, "I can be your friend."
"Oh, no. You don't want him as a friend." I glare at Flamboyance across me. In truth, I love gay people. But he's the spawn of Satan. A conniving, rumor-spreading, egotistical piece of shit.
"You are so fucking prejudiced. It's because I'm gay, she doesn't like me."
My anger tips over.
For some fucked up reason, I am blinded by fury. Everything takes its toll. Those authors that write about anger issues, they're right. A person can only take so much shit. The tendency to let pains & ails build is a bad idea. A really bad idea...
I reach across the table for his collar and drag him over to my side. Everything bangs, all I hear is clamoring. I can't see anything but my enemy. I can't hear anything but my enemy's battle cries. He tries to fight me off, but my grip on his collar is fool-proof. He's on the floor, my hand on his chest, other hand bashing his skull, smashing his face, my nails stabbing him.
Everyone, in shock, stands. No one helps him. Not one soul stops me.
My conscience tells me, get off, you'll kill him. You will, watch. You'll kill him. Trust me.
But I don't get off.
My new seatmate wails helplessly. She touches me then jumps back in fear.
I am filled with fiery, red-hot enraged, wrathful adrenaline.
I hear a cry of surprise from behind me followed by a few expletives. Not a second passes, I feel two hands grab my shoulders. He grabs ahold of my legs, & throws me across his shoulders.
I realize my fists were bloody. I catch sight of Flamboyance. He is sprawled on the floor, & the word Pulp crosses my mind.
I attempt to hit whoever towed me away. Who the fuck does he think he is? I hit his back with my fists, & I soil his white shirt with blood. It's cotton.
I try again, to get out of his arms. My movements were awkward. My legs are in a trance. He grows tired of my futile attempts.
"Okay, you little spaz." He places me on the floor with care.
With care. True story.
I look up to see my perpetrator. At that point, my face is covered in blood. I tend to get my hair out of my face in a frenzy when I am pissed off.
I become the spaz he deemed me to be.
"What are you doing? Why did you do that?" I sputter. I am now stupid. I don't know what to say. There he stands, smiling in amusement with his dimples & his crinkled eyes. I look like a murderer with Flamboyance's blood in my face.
"You were about to kill him."
"I wasn't!" I have no idea why I screamed so defensively. I usually don't care, & that's the scary part of my temper.
He just smiles. He looks back and grabs the back of his shirt. It's bloodied on my behalf.
I don't know what to do. Nor what to say.
So we stand there, as he attempts to clean it off with spit, & I want to tell him that I like him.
Even with dry brownish blood covering my face.
The song Green Light by John Legend is replaying in my head.
I'm ready to go right now.
I think of another song, Are You That Somebody by Aaliyah. I sing it to myself, as it goes from verse to chorus. I build the audacity using Aaliyah's lyrics as motivation.
I forget about Flamboyance. I don't even think about school suspension & expulsion.
I sing the song,
& he's cleaning his shirt.
He looks up.
"The blood in your face is endearing."
My heart does a back-flip.
He smiles.
Crinkled eyes.
Dimpled cheeks.
"You like me, don't you?" He says smiling, cleaning his shirt with his saliva, but eyes on my face. "Choke is a very good book. Fight Club is my favorite book & movie."
& I swear my ability to breathe dissipates.