All of It

by Kim Holden

  “Holy mother of—,” I shout. “You scared the hell out of me. I thought you left five minutes ago.” My heart’s attempting to pound itself free of my chest.

  He’s standing with his back to his locker three down from mine. His arms are crossed against his chest waiting patiently. He lets out a quiet laugh, making it clear he thinks it’s funny that he’s nearly given me a heart attack. “Easy there, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “It’s okay.” My heart is beginning to slow down and I can’t help but laugh. “Still weighing your options, huh?”

  “Well, as tempting as the cafeteria sounds I think I’ll pass. The thought of you left to mourn my death shrouded in all that guilt is far too much to bear.” He mockingly clutches his heart.

  “That would be tragic.” I deadpan.

  “Tragic,” he agrees and then he shrugs, “And I don’t have a car today, so it looks like I’m out of options. I think I’ll just grab a soda and a bag of chips from the vending machine.” The laughter’s died away, but it lingers playfully in his voice.

  “I’m just going outside to eat in the courtyard. You can come … with me … if you want to.” My voice is noticeably quieter as the last few words escape. Did I actually just invite him to join me for lunch?

  No need to ask twice apparently. “I’ll meet you out there,” he blurts and turns to jog down the hall toward the vending machines.

  I head out and sit on the bench next to the flower garden. I usually sit under the maple tree, but I can’t resist the sunshine today. The flowers smell amazing and won’t be around much longer before they die off to cold temperatures. The courtyard is empty, as always. It’s so peaceful and quiet here. I open my lunch sack and remember I made myself a tuna salad sandwich. It’s one of my favorite sandwiches, though I don’t usually have the time to make it. I was up extra early this morning though. I unwrap it and open my mouth to take a bite as he walks up.

  “Is this seat taken?” He asks politely, though I get the feeling that he would sit down regardless of the answer.

  “Wide open. You can sit with me if you don’t mind answering a few questions.” I’m beginning to feel much more comfortable with him than I ever imagined I would. If you’d have asked me at 7:30, or even 10:30 this morning, I would’ve bet money that he would’ve ditched his guide by now and probably wouldn’t even acknowledge me if he passed me in the hall. And yet, here we are eating lunch together in the courtyard, seemingly enjoying ourselves.

  “Me first: what are you eating?” His nose wrinkles up and his face wears an expression of disgust. “Because if that has mayonnaise in it I’m going to have to excuse myself to the other side of the courtyard. I have a nose like a bloodhound and an unparalleled gag reflex.”

  “That’s an unfortunate couple.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “It’s tuna salad. Do you want half?” I offer, unable to tell if he’s serious or not.

  The near dry heave serves as confirmation. He scoots to the end of the bench. At what appears to be a safe distance he rejoins the conversation, “I’ll pass. I never could figure out how you, I mean people, eat that stuff. It’s disgusting.” The words are harsh, but his tone isn’t.

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” I throw back at him, in the same mocking tone.

  “Afraid I do. There was a time, and I shudder at the thought of it, that I used to eat,” he swallows hard, “and enjoy mayonnaise. But after a fantastic and colorful episode of food poisoning a long time ago, I can’t even stomach the thought of it.”

  I can see by the look on his face that he truly recalls something unpleasant. “I had no idea a simple, yet tasty, condiment could be so repelling. I’ll eat quickly.” The taunting subsides and my voice softens and becomes serious, apologetic, “And while I have your attention I want to apologize for my behavior this morning. I’m usually not so moody … or bossy … or whatever.” I exhale, searching for the words, “What I mean is, though I can be an ass sometimes, I really am a pretty nice person. I’m sorry for the way I acted.” Apologies are usually much more difficult for me. I don’t like admitting when I’m wrong. I’m stubborn like my dad that way. Still, it’s easy to talk to Dimitri now.

  He nods and flashes a beautiful smile. “Apology accepted. Now what are your questions?”

  “This has been bugging me all morning. When we were in the art building, why did you ask me if I’d just come from French or English class?” I’m brave at first but feel silly by the time I get around to the actual question.

  Matter-of-factly, he answers, “Because you looked so happy.” He has the same look on his face now that he had earlier when he’d asked the question. Like it’s some inside joke, though I have no idea what he’s talking about. He can see his answer has thoroughly confused me.

  “I’m not following you, so enlighten me oh-wise-one. How did you even know I took French?”

  “I saw your book this morning in the office when you were putting it in your bag. I’m not psychic, Veronica.” He rolls his eyes. “And everyone is required to take English.” He’s already anticipated my next question. He says it as though it’s so obvious anyone could’ve figured it out.

  “Okay, I forgot about that. I’m actually surprised you even remember what books I had.” He’s consistently, continually, perplexingly, always one step ahead of me.

  “I have a very good memory,” he interrupts, tapping his temple with his finger again.

  “Yeah, I guess so. It’s Olympian. You’ve proven that today. But, that still doesn’t answer my question,” I persist. “How did you know, based on my mood, that I’d just come from French or English?”

  “They’re your favorite subjects, aren’t they?” He has this strange way of making questions sound more like statements.

  And suddenly I don’t want to answer. Where is this going? But I succumb to curiosity—which killed the cat, and will quite possibly kill Veronica as well—and I proceed, “Yeah, so …” I sound like a defeated child who isn’t getting her way.

  He sits back against the bench, takes a long drink and begins looking around the courtyard, subtly, yet unquestionably, indicating the conversation is over.

  Not so fast I think. Each word comes out softly, slowly, deliberately and hopefully persuasively, “How did you know?” I’m pleading now. “Please tell me.”

  He looks at me and for the first time I notice his unusual eyes. I can’t decide at first what color they are. They looked blue at first glance, but with the sun bouncing off them I realize they’re gray. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone with gray eyes before, at least not like this. They’re dark and stormy, beautiful. Mesmerizing.

  His smile and voice are gentle now. “That is my secret … for now.”

  I wait a moment to absorb, or try to absorb, what he’s just said. I look away from him at the art building in the distance. I can’t decide whether I am posing the question to him or myself and it comes out sounding that way too, barely a whisper, “You really aren’t going to tell me, are you?” The defeat is evident in my voice.

  “No. You’ll figure it out … someday. I hope.” The gentle smile remains. Maybe I’m imagining it, but it’s as if he isn’t talking to me, but trying to convince himself.

  I give up and finish my sandwich slowly. We sit in what should be uncomfortable silence for a few minutes. It isn’t uncomfortable though. Just the opposite—it’s strangely comfortable sitting next this mysterious stranger who knows too much about me.

  Dimitri finally breaks the silence after he’s finished his chips, “So, what was your other question?” He looks over at me only after he completes the question, tilting his head, genuine curiosity in his expression.

  It takes me a few seconds to remember that I even had another question. “Mmm … oh yeah, who was that you were talking to after P.E.?”

  “Muscly bugger, blond flowing locks, nice dresser … ?” The taunting is thick; he’s obviously stringing me along. The smile on his face giv
es him away.

  “You know who I’m talking about.” He’s trying to embarrass me and to some degree it’s working.

  “He’s a great guy, Veronica, but I really don’t think he’s your type. He’s probably a little young for you, too.” His tone is playful.

  I smack his shoulder with my hand lightly. “No, that’s not what I meant.” I feel my cheeks blushing. “He looks so familiar, but I can’t place him. I would swear I’ve seen him before somewhere.”

  He lets out a mock sigh of relief. “Oh, well in that case he’s my brother, Sebastian.”

  This little fact does surprise me. “Your brother, really? You two don’t even look alike.”

  “That’s because he’s adopted.” His voice is earnest.

  “Oh, that explains it.” I’m suddenly embarrassed again.

  “No, I’m just kidding. He got the looks and I got the brains.” He’s getting too good at messing with me. I’m not usually so gullible.

  “I don’t know if I’d say that.” I flash my best flirting smile.

  I’m rewarded; he looks shocked. “Thanks.” He takes what he assumes to be a compliment graciously.

  Too graciously, it turns out. Now it’s my turn to dish it back. “He looked pretty smart, too.” I wink and smile wickedly.

  “Wow, you really know how to wound a guy’s ego. Here I thought we were getting along so well.”

  “Seriously … you don’t give yourself enough credit.” Did I just say that out loud? My face is instantly hot again. I quickly look away.

  He’s staring at me, like the Cheshire cat, a huge, satisfied grin on his face. “Shall we go? The bell’s about to ring.” He’s definitely smug as we walk back to our lockers.

  As we open our lockers he calls down to me, “So, where’s study hall? If you tell me I’m sure I can find it on my own. I don’t want to make you late again.” Though this could be interpreted as a way to escape me, his voice is filled with concern instead.

  “No, I’ll walk with you. I don’t mind.” I sound a little too eager, and he likes it. “I have study hall this period, too.”

  Study hall is held in the cafeteria, as real estate seems to be in short supply. There aren’t any extra classrooms this semester. It seems staffing is also in short supply. Mrs. Campbell, the office assistant, comes in to take roll when we arrive and peeks in the door once or twice during the hour, I guess to make sure we’re all still here. Dimitri and I have the table to ourselves. We sit quietly across from each other. I’m reviewing the notes I took earlier in Psych and English. I don’t remember even writing half of it down, let alone hearing it. Wow, was I distracted or what? The frustrations of the morning are a distant memory now and seem so silly.

  Of course, my close proximity to Dimitri means I’m still distracted and I’m not retaining anything that I’m reading … again. It didn’t mean anything when I wrote it down this morning and it still doesn’t mean anything now. He’s proving detrimental to my education. I catch myself peeking up and stealing glances across the table, hoping he won’t catch me. Though I never make eye contact I notice a smile emerge on his face each time and I look back down at my book. I guess I’m not as sneaky as I think I am. He spends the entire hour reading a car magazine. Though it’s incredibly hard to resist being bossy and telling him he should be studying, I do. I’m very pleased with myself when the bell rings.

  “What’s your last class, ma’am?” he sounds very official.

  “Weightlifting.”

  “No, seriously. What’s your next class?”

  His disbelief should be insulting, but I laugh it off. “Weightlifting. In a month or two I’ll have to start charging you admission to the gun show.”

  That brings on a snort of laughter. “I’d like to see that. Then again, I have no doubt you are tougher than half the guys in there.” He’s shaking his head.

  “I had to be tough growing up. My best friends were all guys and they took no mercy on me.”

  He opens the door for me and we walk back out into the courtyard.

  “Thank you. You know … you’re kind of a gentleman.” I compliment.

  “I’m old-school.” He winks and smiles warmly. He points toward the gym. “Now, off to weightlifting, Hercules.”

  “Ha. Ha,” I deadpan. “I need to get you to class first … I’m obligated. What’s your last class?” I’ve finally learned it’s better to just ask Mr. Super Memory than go digging through my bag for his schedule.

  “English, but I can find it.” He tries out his best Veronica voice impersonation, “English wing is right next to the science wing.” It’s surprisingly not bad. “You provided a very informative and memorable tour this morning,” a touch of sarcasm there at the end.

  “That was very Veronica, I’m impressed. Do I really have that strange accent thing going on?”

  He doesn’t hesitate, “Yes.”

  And he’s right. I don’t know where it came from. It’s almost as if I spent some of my childhood in England, which of course I didn’t, and the residual accent peeks through every now and then with only certain words. Other people have pointed it out throughout my life, but it’s usually when they’ve spent years around me. It’s subtle. How’d he pick it up so quickly?

  “And it’s adorable,” he says boyishly smiling at me.

  I blush. “Okay, well I guess I’ll leave you to it then. I’m going home straight after P.E. unless you need anything else before I go. Do you have a ride home?” I’m surprised how disappointed I feel at the thought of leaving him here.

  He laughs under his breath. “Sebastian drove today, and I’ll ride home with him. Thanks for asking though, and thank you for everything today. You don’t know how long I’ve looked forward to this day … you did not disappoint, Veronica.” He smiles, winks, nods goodbye and turns toward the main building.

  “See you tomorrow, Dimitri,” I call after him. My knees grow weak as I watch him walk away. How has he reduced me to mush in the span of a half-day?

  “You can count on it,” he yells back without turning around.

  Life is sometimes … memorable.

  Chapter 2

  Long ago yesterday

  Revisited

  The clock on my nightstand reads 4:08am. Excellent, I know what time it is. But the real questions remain: Where am I? Am I awake or dreaming?

  I blink a few times and my sleep-blurred eyes fumble their way around my room. I’m awake, I decide. I sit up and attempt to rub the haze from my eyes. My dream had been so vivid, so real. I can remember every detail: see it, hear it, smell it … feel it.

  I saw myself as a young child. I couldn’t have been more than eight or nine years old. I was walking down a dirt road alone. My chestnut brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail with a white ribbon. I wore a plain, pale yellow dress. It was clean, but definitely worn. My brown leather shoes had holes in them. The fields on either side of the road were a brilliant green. The sky was pale blue and the air felt thick and sticky on my skin. I could hear children laughing and playing in the distance. My heart felt content, yet anxious with excitement. I rounded a bend in the road and saw a small one-room schoolhouse in the near distance. There were six or seven children chasing each other under a huge oak tree. I started to run. I could feel the air rush in and out of my lungs. I slowed to a jog as I approached the friendly-looking woman standing at the edge of the road. She wore a simple, long, cotton dress that brushed the tops of her black laced-up boots. Her hair was pulled back in a bun beneath her white bonnet.

  “Good morning, Veronica. It’s good to see you,” she said with a welcoming smile. She hugged me tightly.

  “Good morning, Miss Little,” I said shyly.

  The boys and girls were still chasing each other under the oak. She turned toward them and yelled cheerfully, “Children, it’s time to go inside.”

  All of the children immediately stopped and ran inside the tiny schoolhouse, all except one. He turned and started running toward us instead. A strange f
eeling of anticipation came over me. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. He stopped just in front of me, but didn’t say anything. He looked up tentatively at the woman, who smiled warmly at him.

  “We have a new student joining us this year,” she said in a kind, motherly voice to the young boy.

  As if given permission, he looked at me. He was slightly taller than me and was dressed in dark pants and a shirt that had probably been white once, but was now light gray. His clothes were too big for him and even more worn than mine. He wore no shoes. His dark brown hair was combed neatly and his cheeks were rosy from playing, they matched the color of his lips. And he had the most beautiful gray eyes.

  “Hi, my name’s Veronica.”

  “Hi, I’m Dimitri.” His voice was quiet, but confident.

  And then I awoke …

  I try to coax myself back to sleep, but the dream runs over and over in my mind on a maniacal, sleep-depriving loop. I look at the clock again. 5:12am. The effort is officially futile. I can’t lie here any longer. It’s become abundantly clear I’m not going to get any more rest.

  I shower and return to my room to pick out something to wear. This isn’t an easy decision considering the many choices I have. My mom’s always claimed to hate shopping, but she’s clearly in denial. She doesn’t like it. She loves it. She gets very few chances to really apply herself to her craft, but school shopping is where she really shines. She has good taste though, and since I, myself, despise the sport at which my mother excels, I can’t complain.

  My family’s not rich by any means, but the fact that I have enough outfits that I can go a week straight without doing laundry or wearing the same outfit twice lumps me in with a very small percentage of my classmates. The fact that I have a car, especially a decent car, lumps me in with even fewer. I would consider my family middle class; our neighborhood is what sociologists or politicians might refer to as “disadvantaged,” but more accurately it’s poor. It’s not that I, or any of my friends, put much emphasis on what we do or don’t have, but I do feel guilty sometimes about some of the non-necessities, and frankly some of the necessities, my parents can afford that my friends’ parents can’t.