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Brayden

There's this quote, on one of those cards that they sell at Barnes and Noble (the ones with the artsy pseudo-cute picture of a little kid making a strange face that's supposed to trigger some evolutionary response in women and make them think "Aaawwww that's so perfect" and then buy it) that goes something like this: "How can anything good come of a day that begins with waking up?"

That kinda sums up my life. It was so perfect that I lifted it from the store right then, and I don't usually make a habit of stealing things as embarrassing as greeting cards. (And before you start, please, a card is not worth $3.99, especially if I'm not even going to send it to anyone - and it's sorta my own little stand against capitalism never to pay more than something's worth. That and I'm completely broke.)

Therefore, even though my bus is going to be at the corner in about fifteen minutes, I have currently pushed my snooze button three times. I'm not actually asleep anymore, but I just know that the air in my bedroom is about thirty degrees colder than the space under my comforter, and that the day is going to be full of stress that I could totally avoid if I went back to sleep, and that it only takes two minutes to change my pants and grab my books anyway, so I still have plenty of time. It's so much more pleasant to just lie here, and be warm; I would never go to school at all if I hadn't already gone through the experience of having them call my mother at work and inform her that I hadn't been to class in a week, and was I still alive? And trust me, that wasn't pretty. Not that the fact that she grounded me even mattered, cause I never go anywhere anyway, but she yelled at me for almost two hours about responsibility and honesty, and it's really not worth going through that again. Plus, I really would like to graduate high school. I'm not so hot on the whole "repeat a year" thing. So I really will be getting up in a minute. I promise. It's just that those arms around me are so comfortable, and it's already three o'clock in the afternoon anyway…

I sit up immediately, panicking that I drifted off too long and I've missed the bus. I haven't, of course; it's only been a minute since I last checked the time. I relax a little, but I feel even crappier now. The after affects of my panic leave me feeling tense and faintly anxious, and annoyed at the design of the universe that I ever have to get up at all. I wrench my legs out from under the covers and pull on the first jeans I can grab quickly against the cold. I think I wore them yesterday, and probably the day before too, but who the hell cares. I reach over and shut off my alarm for good so it wont go off after I'm gone and scream all day, and then I stumble upstairs. (My room is in the basement; my brother, Brian's is in the attic. Guess we both tried to get as far away from this house as we could without actually leaving it. And yes, I know, twins named Brian and Brayden. Our parents are really original.) He's up already, sitting at the counter with his books spread everywhere, but no surprise there; I bet he's been up since five-thirty, making flash cards and mumbling vocabulary words. His convinced that he's going to fail French, and he's compensating by over-studying. Me, I never study. I either remember everything just fine, which is most of the time, or I stress over the fact that I don't remember and deal with it by avoiding the whole subject. Constructive, I know.

I grimace as I enter the glaring whiteness that is our kitchen. Why does he have to turn on every light? Just wastes energy, and it's too early for light of any kind. He looks up and sees me, and momentarily his worried frown smoothes out into a sort of grin.

"Hey! Look at you, up more than thirty seconds before the bus comes."

I glare at him. Too early for sarcasm, too. He's not fazed though. He's immune to my morning rudeness, just like a proper twin should be.

"Oh, stop it. Your coffee's over there."

I pick up my travel mug of beautiful, wonderful, hot coffee (milk, no sugar. Ever.) and gulp some of it down as a move to pick up my book bag. I'm not chemically addicted to coffee - I wont get a headache or anything - but I'm very psychologically addicted to it: I'll never come out of my funk before four in the afternoon (if you're so lucky) if I don't get some good coffee and time to drink it.

I glance at the clock. One minute till we officially don't get to school. Guess that means we should get going. Brian is evidently thinking the same thing, since he packs up everything except the flash cards and excepts his coat when I hand it to him. I shrug mine on and snuggle back into my hood before I put my earbuds in and I zip it up with the wire inside. Anyone who thinks braving the cold is macho can go screw themselves; I'm staying warm.

Ever notice how February takes about three years to go by, even though it's the shortest month? It has currently been the middle of February for about five weeks now, and I am so done with the icy cold wind that I could throw up. The effing bus better get here pronto. Thankfully, we join the other four kids from our neighborhood just as the West Valley High School bus comes creaking around the bend, and I hurry back to the second to last seat on the left, right under the heat vent. Brian sits further up, still flipping through his flash cards. I put my feet up on the seat, turn up my music and close my eyes. I'm not spending twenty minutes sitting next to some sophomore I don't know if I can help it.

When we reach school, Brian waves vaguely to me as he turns in the opposite direction. I won't see him for the rest of the day. His locker is in the music corridor, and mine is down on the C-wing; and I have zero classes with him this year, since I took Creative Writing and he took Chamber Band, which puts us in different sections of everything including lunch, even though the entire rest of my schedule is the same as his. I open my locker (23-37-19 - and my gym locker is 27-33-9. Pretty cool, huh?) and stash my empty mug and most of my books. I'm feeling sufficiently awake now, so I make it through econ and AP chem and AP lit just fine. Math, not so much though. I did fine in trig last year, and I really liked algebra, but this calculus shit is kicking my ass. As I start to check my homework from the answer key projected on the SMART Board, I realize that I've gotten more than half of them wrong. Oh, screw this. I don't even try to figure out what I messed up. Instead, I doodle a little cartoon version of myself, cross-eyed and buck-toothed, with a speech bubble that's saying "Duuuurrrr!"

I'm just adding a few pointing, laughing classmates when Mr. Flannagan calls the class to attention. That's when I notice there's a new guy standing next to him. I don't know if he's from our school or not, cause I wouldn't recognize about three-fourths of my class alone, but that really doesn't matter cause he's here, standing next to the teacher like he's about to be introduced, and he's freaking gorgeous.

He's got light brown hair that's short on the sides but long in front, and falling in his eyes, which are brown also; he's tall, and a little built, but in a thin, wiry way. He looks totally nervous, though; he's hugging his knew calculus text book to his chest, both arms wrapped around it, like it's going to protect him or something.

Mr. Flannagan clears his throat and straitens his lumpy sweater-vest importantly. "Ok, guys, this is Jake Wright. He just moved here from … where was it?"

"Uh…uh, Pennsylvania," Jake stutters.

"Pennsylvania. So, be nice, yeah?" He looks teasingly at us. A few people giggle. "Ok, good. Why don't you sit right there in the middle, next to Brayden."

Wait, what? My eyes snap up, and immediately connect with his. He's looking right at me. I'm sure I'm the one who looks terrified now, though I hope it's not too apparent. I look quickly back down at my notebook, and then seeing all the cross-outs and scribbles, hurriedly turn to a new page. The guy drops his bag on the other side of the double desk and sits down. I don't look at him. I don't say anything.

As Mr. Flannagan starts his discussion of the homework, I create another intricate, completely absorbing doodle of swirls in the margin of my new page. I'm sure I would have kept it up through the whole class, but when Mr. Flannagan moves on to today's new material and starts writing notes on the board, voice to my left makes me look up.

"Uh, do you have a piece of paper I could borrow?"

My brain freezes for a second, and my stomach flops over. He's too good-looking. Shit. I'm supposed to respond, right?

"Um, yeah. Sure." I tear two pages from my notebook and hand them to him.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

And that's it. Those are my wonderful conversation skills. I actually take notes, though I really don't understand this new formula, and as soon as the bell rings I'm out of there.

I don't say good bye. I don't even glance back at him. I know, I'm an ass. So sue me.