“Elliott? Honey, are you okay?” My mom sang in her deep southern accent.

“Yes mama,” I muttered beneath the crook of the arm draped over my face.

“Can I come in baby?”

“Sure mom.”

I didn’t budge. She walked into the room and I could hear her little footsteps stride across the wood floor before she lay on the bed next to me. I peeked underneath my arm and smiled at her as she folded her hands across her stomach. No matter how angry I was at myself I could never take it out on the one person who knew me the best.

“Sweetheart. There’s something wrong.”

“No, mama. There isn’t.”

“I wasn’t askin’ Elliott. I was tellin’.”

I remained quiet.

“You’ve been mopin’ around here for the past few weeks darlin’ and I wanna’ know why. You’re really starting to worry me. So, spill. Is it school?”

“No, mama. It’s not school. It’s a student at school.”

“Hmm. I’m having trouble imagining my six foot four mammoth of a son would have a problem with anyone,” she laughed.

When I didn’t say anything, she kept on.

“Well does your mama need to call his mama?” She teased, poking me in the ribs.

We both laughed.

“No, that’s okay. Seriously. It’s okay. I’m gonna’ fix it. Come Monday, come hell or high water. I’m going to fix it.”

“Well good son.” She tapped me on the leg before lifting herself off the bed. “Come on, it’s time for dinner. Oh, and Elliott? Remember, you never throw the first punch boy. That’s the rule. Just a reminder.”

“It won’t come to that mom. Trust me.”

I was beginning to scare myself. It was time to do something about my obsession.

Chapter Two

With Everything I Have

These were the days that changed my heart.

I remember it all so vividly.

Elliott Gray was hovering above me. He’s speaking to me but I’m too mortified by the fact that I’ve run into my mom’s best friend and my math teacher, then slipped on the worksheets she was carrying, to listen.

Not to mention the fact that there is some freaky things happening between the two of us that I just can’t seem to put my finger on. He is affecting me and I never asked him to do this. I’m losing control. I never lose control.

“Huh?” I intelligently ask.

“I said, you should do shampoo commercials, Jules,” he teases, holding out his hand.

“Yeah. Right,” I say, refusing his hand. That was rude. Dang it, I hate being impolite. I’m better than that, even if it is Elliott Gray. “Thanks for the compliment, though.” There, remedied that little issue.

Suddenly, I remember that Mrs. Kitt was cleaning up a mess that I helped make, by herself.

“I’m so sorry Mrs. Kitt! I wasn’t paying attention and........”

I knelt down and began gathering the loose worksheets. Elliott Gray helps me but I don’t think he’s paying attention to his task because he’s just pooling them into a disheveled pile at his knees. I avoid eye contact, hoping not to catch his unbelievably blue eyes because I’ll betray myself if I do that. I just know I’d end up smiling like the dope I am if those eyes met mine.

You don’t like him Julia Jacobs. You haven’t suddenly developed a crush on your childhood friend. This is Elliott Gray. He used to shove tadpoles down your shirt when you were little. He denied your existence in junior high, breaking your heart. He’s well-liked and you’re, well, hated by almost everyone here. Ha!

I try not to remember how badly he broke my heart all those years ago. Later, stupidly much later, I realized that the blinding pain that resided in my chest at the time was caused by his absence. I even went so far as to ask mom to make a doctor’s appointment for me, that’s how painful it was. She didn't. I shudder to think. That would have been embarrassing. I never fully recovered by the way. It’s a pathetic thing to admit but I can’t lie to myself no matter how badly I want to.

I reach for a worksheet but Elliott’s hands sweep toward mine so quickly I don’t have time to pull away. When our fingers brush, a sparkling flash of warmth instantly relaxes me. My eyes begin to droop in sleep. The blazing electricity dances around our bodies and climbs the walls around us. I yank my hand from his and the anxiety I was feeling fills my chest again but with it brought a new sensation, fear.

We sit and stare at one another. Explain. Tell me it’s nothing, I silently plea. I begin to open my mouth to ask him what happened but instead Mrs. Kitt asks us to return to our seats. I peer over my shoulder and notice the entire class is trying to read our silent expressions. When we stand, the class shouts in laughs and taunts. I’m scared out of my mind. I know he’s going to want to talk to me after class but I cannot let this happen. I cannot let him near me.

When the bell rings, I gather my books and haul towards the door. He chases me.

“Jules!” He yells.

“My name isn’t Jules. It’s Julia,” I yell back.

“Julia, stop running will ya’?”

“Why?” I ask, curious to hear his response. Curiosity killed the cat Julia.

“Because it’s hard to run and talk?”

Not the answer I’m looking for. I want him to say something like, ‘because I’m scared and not sure what do to’ or ‘I need you to forgive me our past and move forward with me into what seems like an obvious future together’. What? Too much?

“Well, you see, I don’t want to talk,” I say, “I guess that means I can run all I want.” I know this is rude, but I push down the guilt. I’m denying my instincts with everything I have because if I didn’t, I’d have grabbed Elliott’s hands the second I saw him standing with Jesse Thomas and wrapped my own inside them, refusing to let go ever, and that to me, is a dangerous, dangerous idea.

“Wait a minute!” He says.

He pulls my body short by grabbing my arm. The lightning from earlier is definitely not a coincidence. He yanks back his hand and I flee for the lunchroom. I hope and pray that he will not approach me while at lunch. I need some time to decide what to do, to decipher what our heated physical reaction is. I go to the table in the corner that I camped out alone at all of the year prior, sit down and use my feet to pull a nearby chair closer to my body before reclining them on top of the seat. I whip out my old friend George Orwell and desperately try to escape into Big Brother’s world.

From the corner of my eye, I see Elliott enter the cafeteria. I hold my breath in anticipation, my body wound tight, every muscle contracted. He sits with the rest of the football crowd that shares a table with the asinine cheerleaders.

I release my breath but my heart continues to pound. I peek at their table and Taylor Williams, head cheerleader, a.k.a. the ringleader of the dumb squad, glares me down. She’s heard about my little encounter with Elliott no doubt and now I’ve begun the year doubly hated by her, I’m sure. When we were younger, I was actually friends with many of the cheerleaders including Taylor but then I got ‘weird’, quote-unquote, according to them and they were no longer interested in tainting their reputation with association. They’re all a really classy bunch, let me tell ya’.

I feel eyes on the back of my head and turn towards Elliott’s table. He’s staring. He smiles crookedly, an undeniably adorable thing and waves. No doubt Taylor will make me pay for that later, I think. I want to jump up and lead Elliott away from the cafeteria but ignore this impulsive need and instead roll my eyes at him. There’s a double advantage to my reaction, like, maybe Taylor won’t take Elliott’s behavior out on me kind of advantage. I shift so the back of my chair faces him to send a clear message and sink my nose further into my book, a serious attempt to hide my genuine facial expressions. I cannot let him see how badly I want him to talk to me. It would only lead to heartache. I’m not strong enough to survive another heartbreak.

I lay my elbow on the table and absently loop a strand of hair through my fingers. I feel a sudden suspicious heat creep from the middle of my chest and out towards my arms, through my stomach and then my legs. He’s mad at me, I think. I don’t know how I know this but I can say with absolute certainty that I’ve offended him. I sit up straight at the comprehension of it and sigh in disappointment; disappointment, strangely, in myself for letting him down. I’m scared of these automatic responses toward him.

Acid bubbles in my stomach. I feel an overwhelming compulsion to flee. I must get away from him. I have to stop these involuntary answers or I’m certain I will lose my heart. My heart is the one thing I am determined to safeguard. To protect it means I will never hurt again. Ever.

I stand and gather my belongings. I glance his direction and notice that he’s distracted by Jesse Thomas. Perfect, I think. I run. I run and run and burst through the double doors. I find a tile pillar and take refuge behind it, panting from the exertion. I hear him toss open the double doors and still, holding a breath in my already burning lungs. I can almost feel the disappointment roll off his shoulders before he retreats back to the cafeteria. I peer down at the floor and see his pain roll past me, ethereal jumbles of invisible smoke that toss and tumble against the linoleum. I breathe one in. Elliott’s disappointment smells and tastes alkaline, like putting my tongue to the end of a battery. It makes me exceedingly uncomfortable.

That night, I sit at my dining room table with my parents for dinner. The crushing formality of the entire process is exhausting. It’s my mother’s doing. She’s a lovely woman but incredibly particular when it comes to traditions and daughterly expectations. I love her but she is stifling. My father, on the other hand, makes life more than tolerable. He is sweet and loving and oh so very funny.

“How was your day today darling?” My mother asks, before quietly correcting my behavior, “Elbows.”

I remove my elbows from the table.

“Sorry. It was fine mom, uneventful.”

“You’re lying,” my dad cleverly catches on. No one knows me like my pop.

I smile.

“Okay, so something did happen today. I mean, besides the obvious taunting and teasing and hair pulling,” I tease.

“Of course, of course,” my dad chuckles. “Alright kid. Spill,” he says, leaning into the back of his chair.

I hesitate, “I’m too frightened to speak of it honestly.”

His eyes brighten and he sits back up, alert.

“Did something happen? Did someone hurt you?” He insists.

“No,” I laugh, “nothing like that. Sorry, that was a bit dramatic. What I meant, is that I’m not exactly sure what happened today.”

My dad settles down and my mom lets out the breath she was holding. Overprotective? Yes. I can't complain though. They love me.

“Okay,” my mom says, “just try the best you can to explain my love.”

I breathe deeply. I can't decide if revealing the whole shebang is exactly within the parameters of what they would consider sane, so I tone down everything that actually happened.