Black and White Blues

She was there the next day, too. When I walked in, I noticed her sitting at the same seat, watching another music video with boredom on her lips, but fire burning in her crystalline eyes. I wanted to sit on the other side of the room, but I knew Mr. Yasuki, the tiny hawk-eyed computer tech teacher, would be checking in on us, and he’d want us sitting close for easy surveillance. I set my messenger bag next to the chair two computers down from hers and collapsed into the seat, making a point to avoid looking at her. I was scared of those eyes of hers, and I knew that if we made eye contact only once, I would end up like I had the day before – crying, lonely, and hysterical.

With an air of business, I unclipped my bag, retrieved my purple spiral notebook, and flipped it open to the page where I’d copied down the makeup assignment. Today’s was simple. I was to create a basic web page using a few simple lines of code. I realized I’d watched my older brother Riley do things with code before, and it had never seemed difficult. It wasn’t until I actually read the instructions that the usual confusion and hopelessness flooded back in.

Helpless, I risked a sideways glance at my taciturn lab partner. She was still gazing at the little people dancing around on her monitor, a streaked sheet of hair hiding all from me but the final curves of her jaw line. I wondered why she was always in here doing “makeup work.” All she ever did was hunch forward and watch music videos; I’d never seen her do any actual work at all. If she was one of those slacker kids who never did anything productive, why did she even bother showing up? Didn’t most of those kids cut more classes than they actually went to? Why would she be compelled to show up?

I stopped myself. I was judging her. That was wrong. There were probably a million difficult things going on in her life that I wasn’t aware of. The instructions written in my notebook were still a foreign language to me, however, and I knew that if I wanted a passing grade for Mr. Yasuki’s class, I’d need to get some help. With a sigh, I stood and walked over to the girl.

“Um,” I began timidly, “do you know what this means?”

She looked at me. Automatically, I glanced away. It was rude, but I didn’t want to end up an emotional wreck again. She took the notebook and turned it around so she could read my wide, loopy handwriting. “Yeah. It’s HTML.”

HTML? Her answer only left me feeling more lost, and I told her so.

“It’s code to make web pages,” she sung patiently. I felt her eyes on me, but I decided to stare at my notebook instead. She continued, “Open Notebook and copy this down, save it as an HTML file, and you can open it in Firefox.”

She’d lost me somewhere in the first three words, but I was impressed with her knowledge/ Now I was at an even bigger loss as to why she was trapped in this technological prison with me every day. She talked smart like a geek, but looked more like a punk rocker. I realized I was judging her again, and stopped. I still didn’t know how to do my assignment, but I thanked her anyway, and reached for my notebook.

As she passed it to me, I forgot to anchor my eyes to the page, and they strayed into her stare. Again I felt captive and frozen, and now, afraid. Bright blue and sharp like icicles, her eyes read into me, and I knew she learned what had happened the day before, after she left. I didn’t want her to know, but it was hopeless – her gaze was infinitely more powerful than my resistance, and my chest began to tighten.

My notebook fluttered to the floor when I failed to take it. The sound broke the hypnotic trance between us, and we both looked down at the flayed spiral notebook. Ashamed panic shot through me. “Sorry,” I muttered as I bent down to pick it up. As I did, my heart jumped. The book had landed open on the wrong page. And inky drawing lay open to the world – a couple engaged in a passionate kiss. But the frightening, or perhaps fascinating, aspect of it was not the subject, but the way it had turned out. Instead of soft lines and light, warm curves, every stroke was black, sharp, and razor-edged, where I’d gone over it again and again until the ink bled through. It looked violent and hostile, like the lovers were trying to eat each other instead of make love.

I snatched up the book and struggled with its flapping flurry to find the cover and seal it. One page caught the tip of my finger and the slice it made instantly stung and bled. I finally conquered the spiral notebook, and I stuck my finger in my mouth to stop the blood. It tasted like metal. The girl was still staring at me, but I could look away now, as I felt blood and color rush to my face. I swore, bunched my things up in my free arm, and shuffled from the room, feeling the tears build hot and heavy once again between my eyes.

There had been something different in her look at that last moment. It should have been amusement. It should have been mockery. The more I thought on it as I half-ran to the nearest bathroom through the deserted hallways and fought back emotion, the more it had looked that way, but there was a distinctly opposite feeling, like she’s felt pity for me and my ridiculous drawing. That new gaze scared me even more than the first.

I crashed through the swinging doorway and let my things tumble next to a sink. The sound echoed shortly about the tiled walls and floor. With increasingly blurry vision, I spun both knobs and thrust my hands under the torrent. A second later, I turned both down, and the water reduced to a steady stream. The soap dispenser was empty, but I scrubbed my hands vigorously, without fully realizing what I was doing. Thoughts ran through my head at breakneck velocity, and my chest ached.

She’d seen the drawing. No, more importantly, I’d seen the drawing. I should have ripped it out a long time ago and burned it or shredded it. I hated myself for not doing it sooner. With a flurry of anger, I reached for the notebook with dripping, trembling hands and pulled at it. I wanted to rip it in half and in half again, until it was small enough to put into the sink or a toilet and flush it away for good. It would be a fitting symbolic gesture of throwing away the past and starting fresh. But the book wouldn’t rip. I pulled as hard as I could, my fists twisted with terrible rage, but even the adrenalin rush couldn’t strengthen me enough. The anger faded, and despair took its place. How would I ever get better if I wasn’t even strong enough to throw away the reminders of my past? Tears flowing freely now, I fell to my knees. As I did, my head glanced off the corner of the porcelain sink, and dull pain rang through my skull. It was stupid and embarrassing that I couldn’t even be distraught without something going wrong, but there was no more anger left in me. I sunk to the slimy tiles, my bag crushed uncomfortably beneath my rib cage. My head throbbed. I cried, I bled, and, eventually, I slept.