Left-Handed

More than anything, Finn reminded me of a pirate. He had a slash of white on the side of his head (due to a childhood illness), and the rest of his hair always looked like he’d slept on it funny, tousled in an odd sort of way. It was also silver, inherited from his father’s own early graying.

In addition, Finn had heterochromatic eyes, meaning that his irises were two opposing colors, one brown and the other blue. It was only as a bonus that his name stirred up images of the sea.
Finn wore glasses on Monday. “Thom,” he hissed, “twenty-seven?”

I peeked down at my physics Scantron test and pinned my eye on the requested number. “A,” I answered under my breath. He smiled gratefully and left the table to hand in his answer sheet. I scanned my own for any blanks and, satisfied, brought mine up to the classroom front too.
Five silent minutes later (excusing a few coughs), Mr. Sharon left his chair and gathered our attention with the skill of one who often cleans up spilled cards. “Later this week I’ll be assigning you your first project of the year. You will be allowed partners so you can pick and choose now, if you like, before the bell.”

Finn cleared his throat subtly. I took the hint. “Finn, you wanna be my partner?”
“Sure!” he said, beaming. The only problem with Finn was that he wouldn’t make a very good pirate.
The signal for the end of physics and the beginning of lunch sounded. I gathered up my back pack and headed for the cafeteria straight across the hall. Mr. Sharon’s room was the closest class to it, and subsequently I always arrived there first.

The line vacant, I grabbed a wrap and a water and shuffled towards the lunch lady standing at the payment counter. It was convenient, being the only one there; it permitted me to scrounge around in my pockets for the two dollars that would pay for my measly lunch without having to look worriedly behind me.

Instead of grabbing a table I walked outside with my tray to where my group of friends and I usually ate, a circle of stone benches placed nearby to an ancient looking oak tree. I chose the slab of rock most under the tree, thinking that in the odd chance a leaf fell on my head it would be amusing.
A minute later I heard voices and sure enough, Drew and Russ came around the bend, neither with any food that I could see. It was probably fortunate, for if they had chosen to eat there would have been much talking with mouths full; the old Final Fantasy VIII argument had sprung up again: who was better, Squall or Seifer?

Listening to them you would have gotten the impression that it was still 1998, when the game had first come out, and not October 18, 2007.
“At least Seifer’s got Fujin!” Russell argued pitifully. I knew that in this category, at least, he was beat.
“Hah!” Drew scoffed in return. “Fujin is absolutely nothing compared to Rinoa, and not only in relation to hotness.”

“Who’s hot?” a voice I knew to be Emma’s called before coming into view with Mel in tow.
Looking slightly annoyed at the interruption, Drew said “Video games.” by way of explanation and continued where he left off. “Anyway, Fujin has absolutely no backbone or will of her own. She’s always following Seifer around and giving one word answers like ‘RAGE!’ whereas Rinoa founded the resistance group to free Timber from Galbadia! Now if that doesn’t prove that Squall’s a better character for falling for Rinoa then I don’t know what does! Oh and one more thing,” he added, “Fujin’d more likely be with Raijin anyway, not Seifer; that’s just logic.”

He was now standing with one foot on the ground and the other leaning on the edge of a bench, the very picture of triumph, eyes blazing with it.

Drew’s hair was pretty much the opposite of Finn’s. It frequently looked stuck to his head rather than sticking out, and today it looked even slightly extra matted. Normally this wouldn’t sound too appealing but Drew had what I call a girl cut, in that it appeared fit for a woman with short hair just below the ears. (I was absolutely positive this wouldn’t work on anyone else.) Either way it somehow suited his features, which were sharp and angular, working with rather than against them.

He also had the darkest natural hair color I’d ever seen, next to Russ’s, who was African American. The first time I saw him I thought he’d dyed it black.

“Well that may be so, but,” Russ said, standing on a block and jumping to the next empty one, “Seifer is still more badass.” He hopped onto another on the left, narrowly missing Emma’s tray as he did so.
“Watch it, Russell,” she practically growled, pulling it closer to her side. Not one to take Emma very seriously he didn’t respond, although I had a strong suspicion he’d like to kick her.
I took a bite out of my chicken wrap, dragging the tomato out, which I threw to the squirrels for lunch.

***
By Thursday, I wanted to kick her too.
“I thought you’d at least have the decency to admit that this music is terrible, Thom. Why can’t you guys listen to AC/DC or something instead?” she asked indignantly.

“Now Emma, there are two main themes that I’ve been able to discern from The Fall of Troy’s lyrics: sex and murder.” As I said this, the line “Such a pretty face, such a shame that it’s not gonna smile today!” rang out into Drew’s room. “If that’s not psychotically delicious, then I don’t know what is,” I said, knowing I’d succeeded not only in making her angry but in making her lose her patience too.

“You know what? I think you’re both psychotic. Fucking psychotic.” She shook her head and folded her arms across her torso.

Drew swept down next to her on the bed and pressed his lips against hers, more for our sake than for hers. “Music is subjective, so I will continue to listen to my ‘terrible’ music, as will Thom. And you can tell us it’s bad all you want to, but it’s not going to change anything.” He kissed her again. “I have to piss, so I’ll be right back,” he announced, getting up from his seat and leaving the room.

As soon as I heard the door shut down the hall, I said, speaking in a low voice so as not to be heard through the wall, “So, uh, why are you going out with Drew, anyway?” I wasn’t exactly positive of my intentions for this information, but I felt like if I could figure out why they were together it would somehow do me good. Maybe I’d be able to come to terms with whatever it was I needed to come to terms with.

Emma seemed to be genuinely bewildered by my question though. A pause. “Well, I dunno, he’s a good kisser I guess.”

I didn’t think that was quite the answer I’d been looking for at all. However, I supposed it was suitable enough; at least it showed me that she wasn’t very serious about their relationship. Which was...a good thing? Unless she’d completely fooled me with unseen sarcasm or some other disguise.

Drew traipsed back in, his hands in his pockets. “Does anyone want a cup of tea? I hear the teapot whistling downstairs and I refuse to drink it all myself.”

Emma stood up abruptly and refused. “Actually Drew, I have to get going. My dad’s coming home tonight for a while and I should be there to help with supper or something.”

“Okay then, see ya.” Drew never accompanied anybody to the door, they just kind of left. His hands were still in his pockets when she walked out.

“Well then,” he said, looking around. “Do you want any tea?”

I accepted his invitation and we went downstairs and into his kitchen where the kettle had yet to cease screeching.

He spun the stovetop dial to OFF and picked up the pot. Owning immense knowledge of the whereabouts of things in his kitchen, I already had two mugs ready for filling. Clearly impressed, Drew lifted his eyebrows and nodded appreciatively.

“You’re good,” he stated and went to grab the milk while I spilled in more sugar than we should use but less than we truly wanted. Still, I figured we should pretend to be healthy if nothing else.

Taking shallow steps and traveling with the utmost care we made it out of the kitchen and started back up the stairs. Between blowing on his steaming tea and braving the next step, Drew managed to squeeze out, “Probably a good thing Emma’s not trying,” blow, step, “to do this.” Blow. “Right klutz she is. On second thought,” step and grunt, “more like careless.”

At last we gained the top with no casualties, meaning no drips down the cups’ sides or outright overflows. We shared equal expressions of joyfulness and took a moment to catch our breaths and give thanks to the higher powers for such good fortune.

Once inside the room we cautiously lowered ourselves to sitting positions with our backs against his dresser. We sat there quietly, continuing to blast the heat into submission using our lungs. (The music: “You make me feel like I can fly, keep me up all damn night.”)

I braved a sip, but one from my spoon so that it would be cooler and have less of a chance of scalding my throat. Sweet and satisfying. Drew followed my example and had similar success. A few later and we’d both moved on to drinking directly from the mugs themselves. With around half of my tea left I set it on the rug beside my right hand, keen on saving a bit for when it cooled down some more.

I turned back to Drew and he caught me both by the mouth and by surprise. Sober—if still sloppy—kisses had never felt so good. Nor tasted better, our two mouths reminiscent of the sweet, sugary tea that had occupied them thirty seconds before.

I wasn’t even sure his mouth was on mine half the time he was going so fast. I barely had time to slip in one of my own between his.

He placed his hands on the side of my head and I was left wondering what to do with my left hand, my right supporting me from its place on the floor. I decided to shift the latter to make myself slightly more comfortable.

I hadn’t taken into account that this would result in the spillage of my still very hot tea. Before I could even so much as think about moving my hand out of the way I could just about feel the skin blistering.

“Ow. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.” I leapt up partly from agony and partly to get as far away from the liquid as possible.

Drew stared up at me and then got up too. “Did you burn it?”

“Yeah. Do you have any of that sunburn stuff?” I asked, hoping that that would help take away the stinging at least.

“Aloe vera? Yeah, come on, it’s in the bathroom.” I followed him to get it from the cabinet and saw him wince as he examined my hand for the best place to apply it. He squeezed some out and tried his best to rub it on gently. Once it was generously spread I dared a look. Part of the back of my hand and two fingers looked like raw shellfish with clear slime all over.

“That looks...pleasant,” I said, almost unable to tear my eyes away.
“Yeah,” Drew agreed.
“I think...I’d better get home and wrap this or something. Thanks for the tea.”
“Yeah.”

Later at home, this time via my car, I called out in the hopes that somebody would respond. “Mom?” I hollered into the semi-darkness.

“She’s out shopping,” came my dad’s voice from what sounded like the kitchen. Seeing that there was in fact a light on I traveled towards it.

“Uh, Dad?” He looked up from unloading the dishwasher, indicating that his ears were open and listening. “Can you wrap my hand or something? I burned it by accident,” I said sparingly. He didn’t need to know the exact details.

In the bathroom I sat on the toilet seat and he knelt on the floor with the bandages. “You know, if we were smart it would probably be better to take you to a doctor. These look second degree, I think. Your end fingers almost look like shrimp.”

“I was thinking that earlier,” I said, smiling and watching him fumble with his own fingers. Realizing that my dad was basically the only person I could ask for counsel in this matter, I decided to try him when my thoughts repeatedly flickered back to Drew.

“Hey, Dad?”
“Hmm?”
“Have you ever been in a relationship that wasn’t exactly a relationship? I mean, neither of you have ever said anything about it, but sometimes things just...happen?”

“Well, no,” he sighed. “But I think I can give you some practical advice, since I think that’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it?” I nodded. “If this other person makes you happy, talk to them about it. It’s no use being a sitting duck if you can fly. And if this other person makes you feel uncomfortable when things are ‘sometimes happening’, stop and get out of it. Just refuse.”

He bit down on his lip thoughtfully and stuck the cloth strips together with a safety pin. He turned my hand over, making sure that the whole thing wouldn’t come undone if I moved. Getting up and straightening his glasses, he turned around before going through the door.

“This isn’t the kind of relationship that might be getting anybody pregnant, is it?” he asked with a stern face.

My jaw dropped open in plain surprise and horror. “No! No!” I said quickly, waving my arms in front of my face, I was sure looking like somebody trying to flag down a plane.

My dad unleashed a big, booming laugh. “Oh my God, your face! So priceless!” He was still laughing after he’d walked away, leaving me totally bewildered and awed by his deadpan ability. Since when had he been able to do that so well?