The Sea of Tranquility(30)
Author: Katja Millay

I can’t pretend I’m not noticing her now. I watch to see what she’s going to do. She’s looking around again, like she did the night she showed up all sweaty and lost and amazing. She’s not looking at me at the moment; she’s much more interested in the surroundings. It’s just a garage with a lot of wood and tools. I don’t know what’s so mesmerizing about it but I’m not arguing, because while she’s preoccupied with studying the room, I can study her. The make-up is gone again tonight and her hair is up so I can see her face. Even when she went to dinner at Drew’s house, she still had all of the make-up on: black eyeliner, dark red lips, the works. It’s horrible and it makes no sense when you see what’s underneath it.

She’s not as drenched or out of breath as before but she still must have been running. I wonder if she runs every night. Her legs are all muscle, just like her arms. It still doesn’t look right with her face. Her face reminds me of the porcelain dolls that are still lining the shelves in my sister’s room. Childlike. Smooth and hard and flawless and fragile.

She walks around, running her hands along the counters, stopping at the vise attached to the end of one of the workbenches. She turns it a few times, watching it close, before sliding her hand in between the plates and continuing tighten it. I can’t even move because I’m wondering what’s going on, but the more it turns, the tighter the hold gets on her hand and I don’t know how much longer I can ignore it before I have to jump up and ask her if she’s batshit crazy. I get the feeling I’m actually standing in my garage, watching this girl decide whether or not to crush her hand. She stops just shy of that point and loosens the vise just enough to where it releases her hand and then she continues her surveying of the room.

My eyes shift away before she sees me looking and I start rifling through the same drawers I’ve already searched twice tonight before I start working my way around the counters. The workbench my father and I built together years ago lines the perimeter of the garage. According to Mark Bennett, you could never have enough work surfaces. The more the better. So we built in as much as the garage could handle. I think maybe it was just something to do.

I hear her move while my back is to her, and when I turn around, she’s sitting on the workbench on the other side of the garage. She’s just planted herself there and made herself comfortable. Okay. It’s kind of freaking me out to have her sitting in my garage, watching me. Because that’s what she’s doing now. She’s watching me and she’s not even bothering to try and conceal the fact that she’s doing it. I kind of want to scream at her to get the hell out, but I also kind of want her to stay. Which makes me the dumbass I am.

I eventually sit down and work on checking cut lines on some beams I need for a job I have and then planing them. It’s quiet work so I can do it at night, plus I have to stay busy or I’m going to end up in a staring contest with this girl in a lame attempt to read her mind or something. At midnight she jumps off of the counter and heads back down the driveway without a word or any sort of acknowledgement, just the way she came.

***

I don’t pay much attention in my first three classes and no one notices. At lunch I watch for her, wondering if she’ll look at me. I never do see her cross the courtyard, but when I get up to head in to the shop wing just before the bell, she’s leaning against the wall with Clay Whitaker. I walk in the other direction.

I pick up the material box from Monday’s class, bring it to my table and pull out my plans. She walks in and heads to the back counter behind my table to retrieve the box she’s working out of with Kevin and Chris, neither of whom has shown up yet.

“Good morning, Sunshine.” I don’t even bother to think before the words leave my mouth, but at least I don’t say it loud enough for anyone but her to hear. I probably shouldn’t have done it, shouldn’t have reacted to last night at all, but I couldn’t help it. I feel like she was messing with me last night and I want to mess with her back. I don’t like her thinking she can just show up at my house to play a game of mystery mindfuck whenever she pleases.

She’s behind me but I can almost feel her stiffen at the words. Good. Maybe if she doesn’t want to be reminded of the night she coughed up her intestines in my bathroom, she’ll think twice about coming back to my house again like she belongs there. I wonder what it will take for her to pick up on the fact that she lives in the same world as everybody else, and in that world, people leave me the f**k alone.

She recovers quickly enough and goes back to her table without looking back at me. Kevin and Chris show up a minute later and the bell rings. Mr. Turner sets us all to work and the room gets loud almost immediately. It’s amazing the amount of noise fourteen students can produce when coupled with the sound of sawing and hammering.

Halfway through the class, Nastya hasn’t moved from her seat, but she can’t feign disinterest. She’s been watching everything Chris and Kevin are doing. At one point, she reaches out and slides the scale drawing Chris had done over in front of her, studying it for a few minutes before pushing it back towards them. They don’t say anything to her, but I do notice Kevin look down her shirt when she leans over and I want to punch him in the face.

Kevin gets out of his seat a few minutes later and goes over to Mr. Turner’s desk. Mr. Turner scribbles something on a pass and hands it to him and Kevin walks out of the room, leaving Chris with Nastya. It’s obvious Chris needs another set of hands, and he keeps glancing up at her as if he’s not sure he can ask her to help. Finally, frustration gets the better of him and I hear him ask her to hold the pieces he’s working on in place so he can nail them together. He shows her where to put her hands and she nods, placing them on either side, the way he demonstrates to her. Once he gets them in position, they move on to the next set. It looks like he has four identical pieces he’s putting together the same way. I scan over what they’ve done so far. I can’t see what’s on the drawing and I’m trying to figure out what they’re making. It looks cool.

At that moment, Kevin walks back in, crumpling up the hall pass and tossing it into the trash can in the corner.

“Better not have been slacking while I was gone,” he says, not even bothering to look at Chris before he slaps him on the back. I wish I could say that what happens next takes place in slow motion, like when something catastrophic happens in a movie, where it all slows down so you can see exactly what happened and how. Nothing slows down, but I see it anyway. Kevin’s hand hits Chris’ back; Chris was already mid-movement with the hammer and the momentum he’s already got going, coupled with the slap on his back, sends the hammer down even harder, just not where it’s supposed to go. The hammer hits the ring finger on Nastya’s left hand which had been splayed flat against the table with her thumb bracketing the wood in place.