Welcome To Little Stories!

She offers you a mint almost as soon as you’ve sat down. It’s the same every day. Never spearmint, which is a shame; you quite like the little blue speckles. You can’t think of any occasion when she hasn’t had at least one packet on her person, school rules be damned. You’re always transfixed by the way she rolls it around on her tongue, catches it between her teeth. She plays with it like a predator would its prey; you’re relieved at the small crunch in your ear when she finally decides to show it some mercy.

Swallowing loudly and taking in her expectant expression, you’re shocked when you hear “Yeah, please,” coming out of your own mouth. Even her eyebrows raise a couple of millimetres, noting this is the first time you’ve actually accepted the offer. The packet is tossed over, you remove one of the smooth, sugary treats. Is it even a treat? It mostly just sits in your mouth, provoking extra saliva production, until you can’t resist crushing it up with your molars. Then it’s gone and any kind of chilled beverage feels painfully cold. Suddenly you don’t want one any more.

She smiles as you place them back infront of her, on top of a textbook. It’s just a damn mint, you want to scream, but you know it’s more than that. You both know that. You’re not sure if you’ve crossed some sort of line, made a breakthrough; is this a good thing? Alex is as easy to read as the iTunes licence agreement. She enjoys mints, reading, has a slight obsession with Episodes and listens to Grace Jones. Well, at least, you think she does – you’re eighty percent sure you saw that on her iPod once. Such limited knowledge of the girl you’ve sat next to in class for almost six months. The girl whose gaze lingers, the girl who is as much as a mystery to you as the universe. The girl who always smells like peppermints.

With a sigh, you remove books, pens, notes, post-its, a ruler, tip-ex, a dictionary, a thesaurus, a bottle of water, two pencils and a rubber (it never hurts to be prepared) from your bag. She takes in all of this with interest and a small quirk of the lips. You’re about to question what is so amusing when an old-fashioned, sturdy, well-worn, wooden ruler comes crashing down onto your wrist from nowhere.

The glass face of your watch shatters into a million pieces and scatters all over the desk. Water goes everywhere. Mr Mosby apparently hasn’t noticed. “Haven’t you learned from the repeated nagging of your classmate? No eating within the classroom. Get rid of whatever that is in your mouth.” You nod, trying to ignore the small ooze of blood from the back of your hand. It stings like a bitch. Alex stares.

“May I be excused for a second, Sir? I’m a little wet.” He doesn’t respond, so you do your best to clear the desk of glass and stand up. Your favourite pen is now waterlogged and the post-it notes are useless. Shoving everything else back into your bag, you leave the classroom and head for the toilets. Your hand isn’t seriously injured – just a few cuts – and Alex was even more perplexing than usual. It’s a relief to leave the room, if anything.

It takes you approximately twenty seconds to realise she’s right behind you. You ignore her until you’re at a sink, rinsing away blood and checking for embedded pieces of glass. Your watch is ruined, first hand bent at an odd angle and twitching as it tries to continue its journey around the face. It was a nice watch, had served you well, a present from your cousin who moved away a couple of months ago. You were close to him, you miss him. He was a good friend, especially when Grandma died. You swallow down your disappointment. It’s just a watch. Only a watch, only an object. Objects can be replaced. Only a watch. Only a mint.

“You didn’t have to follow me, you know. I’m alright. You’ll probably get yelled at.”

“He broke your watch.”

“Yeah.”

For the first time, during the silence that such a clipped response can create, you consider how odd Alex actually is. Sure, she’s friendly, popular, even. She does well at school, especially in English and plays hockey for the school team. Despite constant reprimands for her mint habit, teachers seem to like her. You can see why. You’re enchanted by her and have been since the very first day of term, when she threw herself into the seat beside you and thrust a packet of Mentos in your face (not always Mentos. Sometimes Polos. Sometimes, Tic Tacs, but you get the faint impression those are a last resort when the shop is out of stock. She frowns at them and winces when she bites down on one).

Still, though – she never misses a thing, calmly observes your every move, smiles at the strangest of moments. She once offered you a mint because you cried in class. Another time she approached you at lunch and offered you one because you had tuna sandwiches. You declined and kept declining, until today – now you’re standing in a bathroom with a bleeding hand, a broken watch and the girl who always smells like peppermints.

“You can have my watch. It’s kind of my fault it got broken. I’m sorry.”

At this you feel like crying. You have no idea, not the faintest clue what makes this girl tick, but you’re inexplicably drawn to her. It’s gotten worse, so much worse and harder, harder to control – to avoid – as time has progressed. You found relief in her kind smile and innocent offering of confectionery when you were grieving for your Grandmother. Your intrigue intensified. Her gazes increased. Your head is a mess.

An object of sentimental value hangs limply from your grasp, irreparable and useless. She stands there, eyes on you, and you know she knows. You also know what she’s going to say next. You can feel the wave coming.

“It meant a lot to you, didn’t it?”

You break down in tears before she can even enunciate the last syllable (of course she speaks flawlessly clearly). You drop your watch, hating the clatter that echoes around the empty bathroom. Hands on the sink, head bowed, you screw your eyes shut and concentrate on not completely losing your shit infront of Alex. Your shoes have blood on them. Your shoulders have hands on them.

“Please don’t cry,” she whispers. “Come on, here.”

You allow yourself to be turned around. She looks crushed, but before you can contemplate this, she’s wrapped you up in an embrace, rubbing slow, comforting circles in between your shoulder blades. You notice your eyes have closed. You’re no longer openly sobbing. Alex is quiet, your arms around her waist. You sigh in relief. After a few seconds, your thoughts kick in again. You realise this is no ordinary hug. Both of you are in your own little bubble, shut off from the rest of the world.

She’s holding you.

When was the last time someone went out of their way to comfort you like this? Why is it you sink into her like you can’t get close enough, like you want to climb into her body and allow her to carry you around inside her chest? You feel safe. You adjust your head so it rests on her shoulder, nose lightly grazing her neck.

You don’t miss how her body tenses. You don’t miss the kiss she places on your forehead. You don’t miss how she hurriedly pulls away, when you responded by kissing her neck – why the fuck did you do that – shaking her head, her mouth spilling apologies and excuses. You don’t miss her steps, backwards, stumbling. You don’t miss the door slamming.

You do miss the smell of peppermints.