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“You lie.” He laughs, and it’s a deep sound for his young age. Damien laughs with his whole body. Even about the smallest things. I feel the vibrations coming from him from across the room.
He’s not wrong. He’s not the absolute worst. I could be dealing with Tyler right now. I shudder at the thought of being stuck studying for hours with my big brother. He’s so serious about literally everything. Tyler is the complete opposite of his best friend. Well, other than the whole being good at hockey part. I guess it’s true what they say about opposites attracting.
A book slams closed behind me, and I sit straight up with the abrupt noise. Blood rushes to my face, and I know for a fact before I even turn around to face him, I have grout lines on my forehead. It’s whatever, Damien doesn’t care what I look like.
“Why did you volunteer to tutor me anyway?” I spin around on my barstool and eye him curiously as he slides a textbook into his backpack. I guess he’s done, score one for Team Gia.
“Huh?” He finishes zipping his bag and stops to look at me. His lips tip up into a grin that makes me feel warm and cozy inside. He silently studies the ridiculous lines on my face without daring to say a word about them.
His shaggy, long hair is tied into a ponytail at the base of his neck. It’s a dirty blonde color; strands of yellow and blonde mixed with light brown. The colors remind me of an unplowed field of wheat just before the sun sets. The texture is different from mine. His are soft, loose curls whereas mine are a thick, coarse mess. That’s why I keep my hair braided most of the time. It’s less of a hassle to deal with.
“Why did you volunteer to tutor me?” I repeat the question. I track his green eyes with my curiously narrowed brown ones.
“Your mama asked me to?” His words hang on a question. He shrugs, and his eyes dart to the hallway, where I know no one stands because we’re the only one’s home. Tyler is getting in extra hours at the rink and Mama is working late. It’s something else. But what?
“Try again.” I roll my shoulders and twist my neck to the side trying and failing to make my joints crack and release a little bit of the tension I feel in my shoulders.
The only place I truly can relax is behind my camera. The rest of the time I walk on eggshells trying not to make trouble. There’s enough stress around here as it is. I don’t want to add to it. Add that to the list of reasons I can’t stand Mrs. Hightower. She made trouble for me the moment she picked up that telephone.
“You and I both know why I’m here. Your brother will make both of our lives hell if you fail this class, and then I will never hear the end of it.” Damien lifts his backpack onto his shoulder, bumping up against the back of the wooden oak chair he sits in. The straps dangle beside him, they’re worn and frayed along the seams.
Damien doesn’t live far from here. His house is just down the street, actually. Our neighborhood is nice, but we’re not the rich kids. The streetlights don’t work half the time, and we have carports instead of fancy garages, but the boys play street hockey in the summer in the cul-de-sac without fear. And we live close enough to school that I can walk instead of riding the bus. It’s safe, and it feels like home. That’s all that matters.
“Closer.” I edge, pushing him to tell me the truth when I know he’s holding something back.
He stands from the table, but I stay where I am. The toes of my sneakers brush the linoleum flooring beneath my feet.
Damien takes a step toward the back door before looking over his shoulder at me. There’s a seriousness in the golden flecks of his eyes that I want to study. My fingers itch to capture his features in time so that I can dissect them later.
It’s how I learn. I study the world through moments trapped in time. It’s amazing what you can learn in those brief seconds when our minds react instead of responding.
“I don’t know. I see the potential you have inside of you, and I don’t want to sit back and watch you waste it. You need to graduate, Gia. Your education is important. Nobody can take that away from you. I guess I care about your future.” He looks from me to the floor at his feet and then back to the door.
The boys go directly to hockey practice after school. Damien came straight here from the rink. He wears a pair of faded blue jeans and a grey hooded sweatshirt with our high school mascot on the front.
“You care?” I ask surprised by his answer.
I know Tyler cares. Dare I say, he cares too much. He never misses an opportunity to remind me that my education is the only thing I have in life that will allow me to secure a future outside of these walls. The way Damien says it though, it feels different. Less like some box that needs to be checked off of a to-do list, and more like hope and confidence in me. Just me. Not some idealized version of who I’m supposed to be when I grow up.
“Yeah, we’re family. You’re my best friend’s little sister. Of course, I care.” He clears his throat, and I try not to laugh at his sudden awkwardness. The air shifts, the seriousness between us dissipating as quickly as it arrived.
“I’m not little.” I cross my arms in front of my body ready for a fight.
It always comes back to this. I get so sick and tired of the both of them telling me how young I am. News flash, I know for a fact Tyler’s prom date is in the same grade as I am. Two years is nothing, and yet they treat me like they’re my self-appointed babysitters and not one hall over for locker assignments at the high school.
“You can’t even drive yet, Click.” He says my nickname with a smile as he grabs the brass doorknob to leave.
Click.
Damien’s been calling me Click since I was eight. My mama bought me my first camera that year for my birthday. I remember being so excited about that camera. It was a Polaroid. I’d been asking for a camera for months. That thing was glued to my face from that instant forward. I’d do any side job, take any dare, anything to scrape together enough money to buy film. I once licked the bottom of T’s shoe for a dollar. I’d do it again.
Damien’s the only one who calls me Click, and it doesn’t bother me as much as it probably should when he says it. It started as a joke, but now it’s kind of nice. Nobody’s ever given me a nickname. It feels special.
“Two more months, and I’ll be free.” I let out a monster of a sigh, tossing my head back to stare at the off-white ceiling tiles. A couple of them have yellow spots from roof leaks long since patched.
In two months, I turn sixteen. I don’t have enough money for a car, but my curfew will get bumped to midnight on the weekend. Mama says nothing good happens after midnight, but I beg to differ.
I’m not looking for trouble. I just want to stay out long enough to capture the stars twinkling in the sky at night. Or the way the streets look after most people are asleep and the only lights on are those on the marquee of the old movie theater in town.
