“Whatever Elliott. Say whatever you want if it makes you feel better. Nothing you can say excuses the fact that she’s a freak. Just look at the way she dresses. She’s always wearing those torn up jeans and her fingernails are always dark as night. Everywhere she goes, you can hear her coming. She jingles. She’s just weird.”
When I didn’t give in to his peer pressure he threw up his hands.
“You’re insane!” He continued, “Go ahead and ogle the freak. I’m just sayin’ is all. Jeez! Elliott! You could have any girl here and that’s who you eye on the first day?” He snorted a laugh. “Julia Jacobs. Huh. Why don’t you wait and see who got hot over the summer? What about Taylor Williams?” He asked, perking up. “We both know she wants you.”
I was barely listening to him now. Every inch that Julia grew closer to me felt like being in the presence of Aphrodite herself. I didn’t even know if she was real or not. Jesse’s own recognition of her was my only proof. I hunched my torso in preparation for something. The something, I knew not, but prepare I did. She appeared ethereal yet overpowered me with a very non-fictional smack to the chest. The expectation weighed heavily on my shoulders.
The sensation of it brought back the memory of when I used to play with my dad’s old tape measure. I remember locking its little mechanism and stretching out the metal tape as far as it could go. I’d take a deep breath then press its release. Suddenly, the tape would fly furiously in my direction. It made me cringe as I half expected it to slice me but, instead, would wrap neatly into its little square encasement, a violent action with tidy results.
With Jesse tugging at my shirt trying to distract me, I stood as still as a statue while she gently brushed past me, her eyes wide and in sync with mine. And she was mesmerizing. I remember everything about that moment down to the length of the tears in her favorite pair of faded blue jeans. She had on black flip-flops and her toenails were painted the same dark cherry that was on her fingernails. She wore a white tank with something printed on the front, but all I could make out was the word ‘Future’ because her hair laid upon the rest. Her long hair was dark as night and the morning sun streaming through the doors veined shiny shades of white in its sheen.
Across her chest laid the weathered canvas strap of her army-green messenger book bag with the myriad of tiny metal buttons of obscure little bands’ names that Jesse had been talking about. Not that I would have told Jesse this, I was such a coward, but ironically I knew at least half the bands on her bag.
On her waist, she wore one of the many belly dancing belts she owned and the coins that fringed the layered garment danced against her legs. Around her neck, on a chain, was the first guitar pick she had ever learned to play on. It was green with flecks of gold and swayed to and fro with each one of her steps. Both of her arms were covered in assorted bracelets, at least ten on each arm and climbed the length of each. I wanted to touch the ones above her elbow just to feel the muscle pressed firmly against them.
I did not know this Julia Jacobs. She was a stranger to me. The old Jules I’d grown up with my whole life seemed the caterpillar before this butterfly.
Her eyes caught up with mine and if I hadn’t been paying attention I would have missed the slight hiccup in her steps, proving her reaction matched mine. She looked at me as if she had, too, never really seen me before and while her eyes burrowed through me, she ran straight into our geometry teacher, Mrs. Kitt, causing her to scatter the worksheets she had just printed onto the floor at her feet and breaking our trance for the moment.
Mrs. Kitt bent to pick up her papers. She was a short, round woman with short brown hair. Her wardrobe was at least thirty years old and you could hear her coming from a mile away by the swish, swish, swish of the friction between her panty-hosed legs. She was a suspicious woman but, by far, the nicest teacher in the entire school. She may not have trusted everyone but she always gave them the benefit of the doubt. Oh, and she was Jules’ mom’s best friend. Yikes.
I flinched when Jules went to help her but accidentally stepped on a sheet and went tumbling onto her back. Her hair tossed around her as she fell flat to the tile floor, perfectly framing her face. I bent over her. The Future Cast, I mouthed, reading her shirt, a sharp ping resonating in my chest. They were literally my favorite band.
“You should do shampoo commercials, Jules,” I teased, holding out my hand.
“Huh?” She asked, confused, but keeping her eyes with mine.
“I said, you should do shampoo commercials,” teasing her by pronouncing each word with perfect clarity.
“Yeah. Right.”
She refused my hand. Apparently, she didn’t need my help. When she stood, her honeysuckle-orange scent drenched my senses and I nearly fell over Mrs. Kitt.
“Thanks for the compliment, though,” she contritely conceded, knowing how impolite she had been and trying to remedy how obviously uncomfortable that had made her.
She bent to help Mrs. Kitt while I stood dumb and disabled by her unconscious yet incredible assault on my senses.
Scrambling, Jules apologized, “I’m so sorry Mrs. Kitt! I wasn’t paying attention and........”
“Oh darlin’, it’s no big deal,” Mrs. Kitt sang.
Jules’ voice woke me from my catatonic state. I threw myself down onto the floor next to both women and helped them with the spill, purposefully reaching for the same paper Jules was in order to graze her hand. Little did I know the literal and figurative cataclysmic results of such a touch.