Atlas Hands

"Hi."
"Hey."
"My name's Casey."
"I'm Micah."
"Isn't that a boys name?"
"Isn't Casey a girls name?"
"Touché. Your sandcastle sucks, by the way."

The name didn't mean anything to me at the time. Casey Daniels was, in that moment, a seven year old boy who communicated with girls by insulting them and pointing out their boyish qualities. I don't remember any more of the conversation we had during our first encounter, but I remember I absolutely hated him. Not because he insulted my sandcastle (which, in fact, did look like shit. It was rushed, I never had that much patience), but because I didn't like people in general. I may have been a little shy at the juvenile age of seven, but I was also particularly feisty, and I vaguely remember glaring at him before kicking my sandcastle in his face and watching him run off to his mom to tattle on me. That day, I didn't care about making him cry. I didn't care about the longing look he gave me from afar that I had failed to notice. I didn't expect to ever see Casey Daniels again, but life hadn't yet taught me to expect the unexpected.



It was seven years later when I saw Casey Daniels again. I was a freshman in high school and it was during second period algebra. The only thing I was thinking of while half listening to Mr. Vincent's lecture about how to use certain algorithms properly was how I would rather be dead than sit through another algebra class. I hated math. I didn't understand it, and math certainly didn't understand me. Not only did I hate math, but I hated Mr. Vincent. Peter Vincent was a man in his mid thirties with a full mustache and beard and a large birthmark shaped like South Carolina on top of his bald head. He wasn't married, lived alone with his dog Buster, and generally smelled like an odd mix of house paint and gasoline. Sometimes I'd catch myself feeling sorry for the guy, but then he would call on me to answer a question I clearly didn't know answer to and all that hatred would settle back into my system.

A tap on the shoulder snapped me out of my tired, inattentive state. Realizing that I wasn't in trouble with Mr. "I-Hate-My-Life-So-I'm-Going-To-Make-You-Hate-Yours," I turned my upper body around in my seat, only to come face to face with a boy who had chestnut brown hair and these dark green eyes. I didn't recognize him right away - who would? Seven years does a lot to a person both appearance and personality wise. It wasn't until he started talking to me that bells went off in my head.

"Hey."

I didn't answer and turned back around so I was once again facing the chalkboard covered in letters and numbers I didn't understand. I didn't want to draw any attention to myself. If Mr. Vincent called on me one more time today, I would probably jump out of the window and, considering the classroom is located on the second story of the school building, never return. The boy, however, continued to say hey until he earned a response from me. "Hi."

"I'm Casey."
"I'm Micah."
"Isn't that a boys name?"

I choked on my own spit, which earned me a nasty look from Sarah Holloway who sat two desks to the left of me. I returned the look with a cocked eyebrow. Sarah Holloway was a stuck up bitch of a freshman who thought she was popular just because her older sister, senior Jane Holloway, was head of the yearbook committee and a member of the cheerleading squad. Sarah didn't know squat about cheerleading, nor did she have a creative bone in her body, but I wasn't going to be the one to start an argument with her today. Instead, I turned my body back around to meet the gaze of Casey Daniels. Judging by the stupid smirk on his face, I was under the impression that he remembered me.

"How did that sand taste, anyway?"

I expected him to glare at me; to furrow his eyebrows and never speak to me again. Casey, however, just laughed, which surprised me, to be honest. I kept the same stony look on my face, trying to ignore how melodic his laugh sounded in my ears. "The same way your sandcastle looked, Micah. Like shit."

Smartass. With an overdramatic eye roll, I faced the front of the class once again. I hated Casey Daniels when I first met him seven years ago, and seeing how nothing has seemed to change, I would probably still hate him. There was no denying, however, that he was rather good looking. He was olive skinned and his brown hair fell messily on his forehead in the form of waves or slight curls. His eyes were so green that I stared at them for a few moments longer than I probably should have. He was tall and sort of muscular, sort of lanky - though we were only freshman, so I couldn't really say anything about his build quite yet.

"What are you doing later?"

No response.

"Micah?"

I didn't think he had been talking to me. "Uh, nothing," I said hesitantly. Casey was still as outgoing and blunt as ever, and clearly, I was still lacking in the good social skills department. I don't think Casey cared, though. Either that or he was much too stupid to pick up on it, which I admit, the thought had crossed my mind once or twice in the past five minutes.

"Wanna go out?"

"I don't even know you."

"You know my name."

"That doesn't mean I know you," I muttered, emphasis on the last word. My voice was more timid than usual, but Casey's wasn't. Casey's voice was filled with confidence and it was both refreshing and annoying at the same time. Why did he want to go out with me, anyway? I wasn't interested. There were other girls around him who seemed very interested (i.e. Sarah Holloway).

"Get to know me," He half spoke, half chuckled. The way he said certain things made me feel like an idiot, as if what he was saying was the most simple solution in the world. And though it probably was, it wasn't the only solution in the world. While I wanted to decline what sounded like a demand, I felt the urge to say otherwise.

"Okay." He smiled when I paused, which made me continue. "BUT, it's not a date. We're not going out. We're just, uh, hanging out."

An expression of victory was plastered upon his face, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to roll my eyes or punch him. In the end, I didn't do anything except write my phone number on the underside of his forearm and turn away silently to pack my bag as the bell rang for third period.

"What do you have next?" Casey asked, peering over my shoulder. It was the second week of school, and since the high school was much bigger in comparison to the middle school, I carried my schedule around with me at all times or there was a eight-hundred seventy-two percent chance I would get lost and I have to go to the guidance office or ask another student to direct me to the room. Which would be embarrassing.

"Lit and Comp."

"Oh, I have lunch."

"Neat." I internally facepalmed. Sometimes I wish I had better social skills. My parents always tried to get me to join clubs and events to improve them, but I always retaliated and resisted.

"So I shouldn't pick you up at eight?"

"No, but you should text me directions to your house because 1. It's not a date and 2. I'm coming over after school because I have nothing better to do than to hang out with Casey Daniels."

Casey laughed again before simply nodding and disappearing out the door and around the corner. I didn't know whether to dread or look forward to hanging out with him later on, seeing as I had no idea what he was like nowadays. I just remembered him from our first encounter, but I would later learn to think of him as something other than the stupid seven year old boy who I made cry at the beach seven years ago because he insulted my shitty looking sandcastle.