Cracks in Anchors

Nine out of ten times my life sucked major dick. Like, Thor dick, that’s how bad it sucked. Even if the hour before it seemed like, yeah okay, my life is pretty sweet, the next it would flip and turn and mold into yeah no, my life sucks. Because now, as I push past an empty hallway and grab at falling loose-leaf, I realize I’m five minutes late to French class and can already feel the glares and judgment eating me away. Of course I heard the rumors; I was a high schooler after all and god knows rumors got passed around like the latest STD. It was all a load of stinking shit, obviously, but everyone liked to live in a world with big, juicy drama, so nobody thought it was wrong.

Sliding into my metal chair I noticed Mr. Styles, like he usually seemed to be, was late and his drawers were pulled open, papers peeking out from the metal fronts. I also took note of all the snickers that passed between chapped lips, eyes that wandered from me to the empty teachers desk, mouths forming lies and ears ready to hear them. But before it could get any worse the devil himself walked through the door, hair droopy and eyes vacant, like he hadn’t got any sleep the previous night. By his appearance; disheveled blue button up, loose pink tie barely hanging on his neck, black slacks crumpled at the knees and exposing his white socks, black Nikes which I’m sure wasn’t the teacher dress code, he looked more and more like a boy than a man. He was creating an image in my mind of Harry, not Mr. Styles, more of a boy than a working man. And, truth be told, boy-Harry was growing on me, attaching himself to my skin and furrowing into my bones.

Then I heard it, the not-so-subtle whisper directed at me.

“Looks like Mr. Styles got held up by someone - I wonder who.”

I guess Mr. Styles heard it too, as he spun his head around from a binder on his desk and glared at the accuser.

“If you wanna say shit like that, say it in French at least.”

And then that was it - the room went silent and the boy stared at his nails the rest of the class and I couldn’t help but smile at Mr. Style’s back. He told everyone in his thick accent to open the textbook to page 125, turned to observe the sea of high-school ignorants, then sent me a fateful wink.

And, oh god, I could feel the blush heating up my cheeks.



I hadn’t smoked in forever, or what felt like forever anyway, so I felt entitled to one quickie between eight and ninth period, the two most un-important classes in the history of education: gym and art. Sure, I could appreciate art and I bet it was fucking exciting for some, but I couldn’t even draw a straight line without fucking it up at some point. So to say I was inartistic was an understatement, I was probably the worst Picasso in my generation. But that was okay, I didn’t bank on being an artist anyway, so instead I skipped out and sat against the side of the building, smoke between my lips and eyes wandering. I could feel the smoke slip through my teeth and watched as it floated into the hazy air, and at that moment I wished I was smoke. I wished I could be twirled into the open sky so easily, that by the breath of a stupid teenager who was falling too fast for something too wrong I could be forgotten. I could be swept away in the breeze and maybe if I was lucky would get to commingle with the clouds, making friends with the atmosphere.

But then I realized I was being stupid, I was just a stupid teenager and nothing could change that. No wishing or begging or selling my soul could make me into something I wished I was; something that was so simple and abstract and lived without that weight on their shoulders. But that was humans, and I couldn’t de-humanize anytime soon, so I just took another drag and leaned my head against the hard bricks.

“You aren’t good at art, either, I assume?”

I opened my heavy eyes and saw Harry, his tie now completely missing, watching from the corner. He had one ankle crossed over the other, his curls falling into his eyes and shoulders lax as one pressed itself against the bricks.

“Horrible at art. What about you?”

He let out a chuckle, pushed himself from the wall and came over to sit beside me, his legs stretching out before him. He pressed the creases from his slacks and I thought it was funny; that a boy like Harry would care about the wrinkles in his slacks. A boy, because that’s all he really was. He wasn’t a 9 to 5 man, a coffee stained shirt crumpled under black slacks, a tidy and organized adult, a male who knew where he was going and how he wanted his life to be. And I couldn’t believe I had just come to this eye-opening resolution, after the countless times that I had thought the same thing, the same realities slapping me in the face.

“Right shitty. I don’t blame you for skipping, I remember I used to feel ashamed when everyone else seemed to be better than I was.”

It felt odd knowing Harry felt the same emotions I did; the same thoughts crossed his mind and the same worry crushed his chest when he slept at night too.

“But I had a best friend - Louis - to be by my side. Whenever some of the artsy twats would snicker at my Louis was always there to cheer me up and send death glares their way when I wasn’t watching. Anyway, you probably don’t care,” He laughed at himself and toyed with the top button of his shirt, “but what I’m trying to say is that I’m glad you have a friend like Helene, she seemed quite nice. You only get a friend like that once or twice.”

He stared out into the full parking lot, his eyes darting between wheels and hands falling into place on his thighs. And he seemed so lost in thought, so indecisive and loving and youthful, that I couldn’t help but see him as a friend in my eyes, another student who skipped classes with me just for fun and had the Milky Way in his eyes. So I guess what I did next was bound to happen; I guess I was always hopelessly attracted to the wrong and confusing and wandering.

I cupped his milky cheeks with my soft hands and pressed our lips together.

And I think we both tried to ignore the zeal that ran up our spines and tingled the edges of our ears.