Jawbreaker

I remember the outline of her back.

Her skin was pale and milky; the dark birds that were inked onto her shoulder stood out against the contrast. Her frame was tiny, making her seem even more fragile than usual. She wore a knitted beret, covering the dark auburn hair, the color she had just dyed it.

The glowing orange light from the sunset created her silhouette, causing an eerie tone to the dream that I was dreaming. She stood there, on the steps of a porch, standing in front of the old house that stood by the lake.

I didn’t know where we were or who’s house we were at.

She never said anything to me. She just stood there, her back towards me, watching the sun go down dipping behind the end of the street that we stood in front of. I watched her, not saying anything, not even reaching out to her.

Because deep down, I knew that if I had reached for her, she wouldn’t really be there.

I watched as the tattoo of the birds on her shoulder began flapping their wings, flying right off her skin. They flew past me, batting the dust off their wings in my direction.

And when I blinked back the dust, she was gone.



Lunch was crowded as usual, people sitting at their own tables while chatting away with one another over their food.

I sat at my table, sitting next to my friend Turner as Bridget Connors went on about the winter formal. I tuned her out, picking at my salad. Turner did as well. Turner was always disinterested in social matters, anyways. He only wanted to be a part of this clique because of the status, the girls, and the connections.

Sometimes I wondered why I was even there.

I looked at Turner in a sideways glance, biting on a piece of lettuce from my fork. He sat there, reading a book for Lit, eating his sandwich.

I nudged him with the tip of my shoe. He looked my way.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey,” he returned.

“Did you go to the service?” I asked him, curious.

He took a sip of his coke. “Yeah. I got there late, though. Sat in the way back.”

I nodded, looking down at my salad.

Turner Baty knew my roots. He came from the same weird crowd I did back in the eighth grade. He knew the kids I had been friends with; they were his own friends. And when high school arrived, we both jumped the same wheel wagon. We went straight for the preppy snoots, wanting the popularity and the attention. In a way, we went for the same thing for different reasons, but we were stuck in the same situation.

He was the only real comfort I found in the clique.

And he had known Abby.

Bridget was too enthralled by the sound of her own voice to even notice our conversation. She went on about decorations, flyers, tickets, and all that jazz before she even noticed me silently picking at my green salad.

She looked at me for a moment, debating whether or not she should play the friend card before she turned over the dictator card, going on about the preparations and what needed to get done for the dance. I sighed heavily, opening up my notebook to begin my daily doodles, ignoring the entire outside world around me.

I quickly sketched out a picture of Bridget’s large ego on a tiny, cheerleader body. It suited her well.

I heard cheering and yelling sounding off at the table near us. I turned my head, seeing to what all the commotion was about.

Folds, the boy from before, was standing up at his table, holding out his arms and waving them out in victory.

“Yes!” he shouted to the rest of the cafeteria, whom were staying back at him.

He laughed, inclining his head back as he did. The other scruffy boys at his table all cheered him on, raising up and clapping their own hands. They hollered and hooted at him as he bowed, folding his arm behind his back and moving the other in front of him.

“What just happened?” I asked aloud.

Bridget only rolled her eyes, leaning in towards the table as she said, “Well, that wasn’t weird or anything.”

Natalia nodded, giving Folds and his boys dirty looks. She didn’t play well with others outside of the clique.

I only watched Folds as he rejoined his table, sliding smoothly into one of the blue plastic chairs, holding out his hands as each of the boys, one by one, handed him dollar bills.

Had he won a bet? It almost seemed like that.

I looked over at Turner, who was watching Folds and his boys as well. His features were calm, but I saw the slight scrunch of his brow. With just that one slight gesture, his entire calm appearance gave him a forlorn look. For a moment, I could almost read it in Turner’s eyes. They mirrored my own when I had watched Folds.

We both missed the days when we had been so careless.