Chasing After Infinity (3 page)

“Don’t!” I manage to say, squealing.
“Stop!”

“If you say so,” he says, further tickling me, sending me arching off the counter.
But then I can’t help it any longer and I start to laugh so
hard that I can’t get enough air in and I’m hacking and giggling manically.

Over his shoulder, I see a group of girls head toward our direction. I identify the leader, my former friend. Anna Jacques. She’s wearing a little tube top and her perfectly kohl-lined gray eyes almost look contemptuous as she sees us, her pert surgery-fixed nose wrinkled. I tense and Hayden turns slightly, finally stopping.

“Get a room, you guys,” she says as she passes, her eyes sliding over me.

Once upon a time,
me
and Anna used to be good friends. She was the one who coached me about boys and makeup, taught me about the asymmetry of love in high school, and acted as my personal body guard.
Before my life fractured.

The reason for our drifting apart was simple. She belonged in my past life. When I was still worrying about boys and all I ever experienced was regular teen angst. When I cried over a broken arm and couldn’t get out of bed in the morning simply because of the test that I haven’t studied for. When my heart was still pumping and even in the times when I thought that it was going to be permanently broken, nothing could compare to this empty feeling in my chest.

And as I look across the kitchen to the adjoined living room where Adrian is laughing and
clinking
glasses with several girls around him, a surge of bitter annoyance runs through me. By his relaxed stance, I can tell that he has the effortless way out. He wouldn’t know what a broken heart is, let alone know what it feels like. He’s living the good life and he’s taking it all for granted.

A strange thought comes to me. I’m going to break him.
Just because I want to.
Just because someone else gets to share some of my struggle.

“Sheesh.
Am I going to repeat this over and over again?”

Hayden’s voice breaks all my harsh thoughts and I remember that he’s still standing beside me. I pretend to not hear him just for the hell of repetition, trying not to smile.

But he sighs, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, I’m taking off.”

“You can’t. You officially became the designated ride when you signed the BFF contract.”

“Nah.
Even the greatest best friend in the world needs a break,” he says, stretching his arms over his head. “Been saving your ass since the day you first became a hazard magnet.”

I blow air out of my cheeks, narrowing my eyes. “And how many rides have I given you? And allowed you to have some of my chocolate cupcakes back in grade eight for food and nutrition class? Huh, I demand to know that.”

“Okay, fine.” He shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Point taken.
By the way, do you still have some of the leftover brownies from last week? I heard being a good cook really attracts chicks.”

I shove his shoulder, pushing him into the front foyer. “Oh, just concentrate on the ones you’re already hooking up with.”

I wrap my
moto
cross jacket tighter around me as we step outside, leaving behind the loud shrieks, and rattling bass in the house. This September is unusually cold, my breath immediately forming fog in the chilly air. I look up, basking in the glow of the moonlight. The pale moon looks like it was chalked onto the sky.

I climb into the passenger seat of Hayden’s circa ’97 Volkswagen which he takes great pride in. Before climbing in, he pats the hood adoringly. The inside of the car is hot and damp, a huge temperature
change from the outside. The seats feel fresh and soft under me and smells faintly like his cologne, a light scent of rich spice and citrus.

Rain pelts against the car windows, blurring the wet road ahead of us. I fiddle with the car radio buttons, changing from pop music to blues and back again. I close my eyes as a slow melody comes on, slower in the beginning but rough and fast in the opening lines of the chorus. True to heart ballads are my favourite songs. Slow, fast and angry, rhythmic, whatever that sounded real to the soul entices me. I want to know the story behind the singer’s softly sung words or screamed out sharply lyrics. My mom was into that type of music as well, she grew up listening to the hard ballad rock. She has always told me that a true ballad spoke the mind of the artist; you just needed to dig into its deeper meaning like a puzzle. In the early days, we’d dance and sing in off-key voices to the radio, me squealing as she swung me around the living room. Memories like those hurt the most. Because they only made the heart yearn even more.

Then my thoughts are cut off by a pinch on my arm. I recoil, scowling at Hayden who just smirks, still steering the car with one hand on the wheel.

“What was that for?” I demand.

“You looked brain dead for a moment there. If anything at all, you should thank me for erasing that incapacitated expression on your face.” He shrugs, smiling and I glower at him until he quits his act. “Okay, so what’s with the deep thinking?”

“Nah, just contemplating some things.”
I shrug.

He hesitates. “Well, want to talk about it?”

“No.”

In the sideways mirror, his eyes meet mine. He opens his mouth to say something but decides against it and the rest of the ride is silent. We
pull up to my house, an ivy-covered Victorian with ages-old blue shutters and chipping wooden stairs. The gravel crunches under the tires as he speeds into the driveway. Hayden shifts gears and jerks the car into a stop. The sputtering of the engine fills up the silence. His hand brushes mine and his eyes show that he understands. Well, a part of it, anyway.

Our hands interweave, resting on the armrest between us. For a moment, I let the warmth spread through me, thawing my ice cold heart.

Then he sees the black writing on my palm.
“Surly
McCynic
?”

“That
asshat
Huntington wrote it,” I reply, rolling my eyes. “Now I feel branded like a cow or something.”

He snorts.
“The douchebag?”

“Wait, you or him?”

“Oh, cute.”

“Are you going to recite the list of all the girls who he’s slept with to me?”

“I’m not saying—all I’m going to tell you is to just stay clear of him.” He shrugs. “There’s something about that guy that I don’t like.”

“Jealous?” I tease.

But he doesn’t seem to find it funny and I reach over to kiss his cheek. “You’re the only Neanderthal I can stand right now,” I murmur.

“Screw you,” he replies.

I get out of the car and turn to wave. “Catch you at lunch tomorrow. You better save me a seat.”

He sighs, giving in. “Don’t promise anything.” Then an impious smile breaks his face then he pushes me out of the car. “Now go.” He
rolls up the window and I watch him drive away. Until all there’s left is a speck of blue in the distance, I walk to the front porch and rummage under the flower pot where the key is hidden. Then I find it and push open the door, slipping off my shoes. The house is
pitch
black.

 
“Dad?”
I call out, trying to feel the light switch. I turn it on and the living room is suddenly blindingly bright. My dad gurgles on the rumpled couch, asleep with a newspaper over his face. Dirty laundry, scattered books, and papers are all over the parquet floor, the TV is still on, there’s the musty smell of beer and littered chip crumbs on the rug.

I pull the newspaper off his face and tuck him into a ratty blanket. I notice something cradled in his hands and I gently pull it out from under him. It’s a framed picture of Mom smiling, her hair shining under the mellow afternoon sun. My throat feels tight as I rest it beside him.

Then I go upstairs quietly, drowning in feelings locked tightly in me.

chapter
two

AVENA

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
My eyes fly open when the American
Rejects’s
“Dirty Little Secret” blares on my alarm clock and I curse when I look at the glowing red numbers, realizing that I’ve overslept by an hour.
My thoughts clear when cold understanding comes over me that today’s
also the first day of my senior year. I grimace, rolling myself over so that I fall out of my bed. I scramble up and reach for the nearest shirt I can find and quickly pull on jeans. I’m screwed. I feel slightly drugged, like my head is whirling crazily around me.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Dad is nowhere to be seen when I head downstairs. I quickly make myself a makeshift sandwich and shove all my books into my backpack.
All this just because I forgot to change my usual alarm time to 8 o’clock yesterday.
I shove a piece of buttered toast in my mouth, scuttling out the door.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
I jump into the car, revving the engine.
Already a horrible start to the semester.
I already have a bad feeling that this year is going downhill fast.

I arrive to school quickly. One hand with the schedule and the other with my toast, I race through the empty hallways, trying to find room 207. Finally, I see the gold plaque with the room number and I shove the door open.

Mrs.
Henridge
is in mid-sentence of a lecture when I walk into trigonometry class. The class stares back at me, obviously trying not to laugh at my dishevelled look. “Sorry, I forgot to set my timer right,” I say sheepishly to the teacher.

“There is no excuse for being late. Take your seat in the back of the room right-hand side, I’ll deal with you after school,” she replies with a sharp look. First hour and the teacher already hates me.

Spectacular work.
Then my eyes wander to the area where she forced me to sit. The “detention spot” as everyone calls it. And look who’s already sitting there. Adrian.
Of course.
With my fate, I’m not even surprised.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
With a long sigh, I drag myself to the back of the class where the desks are all unoccupied. I make sure to sit five seats away from Adrian who’s now looking unbearably smug. My hand itches to wipe that look off his face but I’m not bent on getting another detention.

“If it isn’t Surly
McCynic
.”
He’s moved closer now even though I’ve deliberately taken a seat far from his and I can hear the smile in his voice.

I concentrate on what Mrs.
Henridge
is saying even though I’m too far back to hear her drone clearly. “You’re a troublemaker too?” His lazy voice is near. Too near.

Pretending he’s not there is almost too easy. I fiddle with the pencil in my hand, flipping it in my fingers so that it perfectly arcs into the air, twirls, and then heads for my desk. The pencil lands in someone else’s hand.

I lift my head. Adrian smiles languidly as he flicks the pencil into the air again. “You know, whoever says you’re appealing is outright lying,” I whisper irately.

“So you’re calling four-fifths of the school population liars?” He says loudly, just enough for the class to overhear. Some turn to give me dirty looks.

I pull him by the collar of his jacket, trying to throttle him. “Do you ever shut up?”

Mrs.
Henridge
clears her throat. “Miss. Rivers, Mr. Huntington, do you wish to leave this room to argue about your private matters?” Her glare is almost laser-like.

“In fact, I think so,” Adrian smoothly says.

“What? No—” I try but she shushes me with a cough.

“We don’t need you two interrupting our class session,” she answers primly, waving us out the door. I’m just seething inside as I reluctantly stand up to go.

Once we’re outside in the hall and the door is slammed on us, I start yelling. “I can’t believe you got me kicked out of class! And this is the credit I need in order to graduate!” I grate out, barely able to contain myself.

“Well, it was mainly you who did the talking.” He shrugs.

“You probably intentionally did this just to faze me,” I say. “And here you are, having the nerve--”