Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 581(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 387(@300wpm)
Was Tristan what Kyle had been waiting for? Was Tristan the answer to everything missing in his life?
Was he ready for it?
It was at lunch the next day, poking at a heap of mashed potatoes with his fork, that Tristan calmly asked, Don’t you ever get bored with food?
Kyle’s cheeks were stuffed. “Not when it’s hamburger day.”
Tristan smirked. You’re such a jock.
Kyle kept chewing mindlessly, then his eyes detached. “Do you believe in psychics?”
Tristan picked at the sleeves of his oversized red cardigan in thought. I believe in frauds, rent, and capitalism.
Kyle shook his head with a snort. “Never mind.”
It was an easy accommodation for Kyle to let Tristan join him, as he usually ate alone at the end of a table in the back of the cafeteria anyway. The football table was always too noisy and crowded, full of pesky cheerleaders who kept touching him or laughing too loudly.
As they ate together, it wasn’t lost on Kyle that people were looking, whispering, staring. No one understood them.
The beauty, Kyle soon realized, was that no one had to.
The next morning, Tristan met Kyle between classes at his locker. Do you think that teachers are the most disappointed people on Earth? Tristan pondered this aloud as Kyle fished around his locker for a notebook. To have a dream of contributing to the youth of today, only to be met by the actual youth of today …
“Sounds more like a nightmare,” muttered Kyle.
Nightmares are dreams, too.
Kyle was about to enter his next class when he spotted Mr. Reed across the hall entering his own. The teacher stopped just then, as if sensing Kyle, and gazed back. His eyes were nervous, like he had been caught, guilty somehow, just from that glance. The biology teacher offered a mild, tentative nod before quietly disappearing into his classroom.
Kyle noticed the teacher gripping his briefcase. Tightly.
“I never thought Mr. Reed would do anything like that,” said Kyle to Tristan as the two strolled to another class, “but then I saw him, and he had this jumpy look in his eyes …”
Eyes never lie.
“Are there really monsters like that hiding among us?”
I’ve seen a lot. Good and bad. I question what really constitutes a monster. Is lust such a bad thing? Murder, even? If you want to see a true monster, try snatching a lollipop out of a toddler’s hand.
“Are you saying what Mr. Reed does isn’t wrong?”
I’m saying in the greater scope of evil, none of us are fair agents in what is right or wrong.
“I don’t think it’s right. He knows better, he’s a teacher and he’s abusing his power.” Kyle grimaced. “Can’t stop wondering if he had my jock in that briefcase.”
Just listen to your Walkman, drown it all out, you will survive.
“It’s wrong, so wrong,” sighed Kyle.
That wasn’t the only secret Tristan unearthed. On another day, he said: Your coach flirts with what’s-her-name, the freshman cheerleader, the brunette with no boobs. She reciprocates, but I think it’s in fear, something about the way her heart skips.
Another day: Someone had sex in the janitor closet by the gym this morning. Heard their hearts racing from my calculus class down the hall, right in the middle of a pop quiz, too. Quite distracting.
And also: The devout Christian and class president Jessica is definitely pregnant. I think it’s a boy. Should we get her a gift?
It was always more than Kyle cared to know. Yet each time there was a new story to tell, and due to the seeming truth of what was said about Mr. Reed, Kyle found himself glued to Tristan’s every word, mesmerized, sickened, curious. Even if they seemed like fiction half the time. Could it be possible that Tristan really did have an otherworldly way of reading people, as if everyone was a walking book?
Could he read Kyle in the same way?
“Oh, it’s just another mix tape,” he answered Tristan one morning before the start of their day. They were in front of the school near the parking lot under the shade of the front awning. “Moody stuff, grunge, alternative.”
Can I listen?
Kyle blinked. He had never shared his music before. “I, uh, I guess you can, if you—”
Tristan took the headphones from around Kyle’s neck and put them over his own ears. Music played from the Walkman still sitting in Kyle’s hands. Tristan met Kyle’s eyes from under his floppy hat. The two stared at one another.
Kyle, the noise of other students in the parking lot fading.
Tristan, whatever music flowed into his ears, as his still-as-a-portrait face stared forward, misty blue eyes upon Kyle’s.
In this moment, it was as close as he had ever felt to anyone in the whole world. Sharing his music, which even Brock never gave a shit about growing up, which even Kaleb had no interest in hearing, no friends, no other teammates, nothing.