Heat - 1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

I need to go. Somewhere. I don’t know. I just need to be not here.

I stand, suddenly. The teacher stops lecturing, and in the silence every eye in the room is on me. I walk out quickly; no one says a word. They know, and if they don’t they will soon. The hall is empty and cold and I realize I don’t really have anywhere to go. I pick a direction at random and just walk. Eventually I come to a door and then I’m outside. I keep walking, and now I’m at the football field. Maybe a run around the track will help me clear my head. Thirty minutes later I collapse, heaving. My own damn fault. Everybody knows you don’t run in jeans. I must look like a dumbass, splattered all over the asphalt like this. I’m soaked in sweat, but I feel a little better. It’s like the fire in my lungs is helping to numb the pain in my chest. I lay there for a little while until I’m interrupted by a hand on my shoulder.

“You ok there buddy?” the hand asks.

I don’t answer, because what can I even say? No. I could say no.

“No. I am very, very not ok.” I tell the asphalt.

“Well why don’t you sit up and we can maybe talk about it?”

Fine. Whatever. I roll over onto my back, and take the offered hand. He’s very warm, almost uncomfortably so. He must have been exercising too. He pulls me off the ground and we walk over to the nearby players’ bench.

“So… you’re the one to beat, huh?” he says

“What?”

“The way you run. I mean jesus, how many laps was that thirty?” He shoots me a grin.

“No, not that many. Close though.” I give him a weak smile that is half apology for being such a weirdo and half thanks for not mentioning my total breakdown.

“I’m Asher. Ash for short.” he holds out his hand for me to shake, and it feels even warmer this time. I almost want to pull away, like when you touch a hot stove and your hand jerks back by reflex alone. I fight that weird urge and shake his hand like a normal person.

“Hi… uh, I’m Kenan. I don’t really have a short version of that.” That sounded dumb.

“That’s ok. Kenan is a good name. At least it’s not a pun.” He laughs, but I don’t really understand why. “You’re on the track team, right?”

“How’d you guess.” I say, but it’s not really a question.

“Because you were so fast! I hope I can be that fast one day. I’m trying out for the team this year.” He sounds so excited and optimistic. It’s kinda cute, and I would definitely be into him on a different day. Not today though.

“Yeah. That’s great.” My voice is forced now and I hate the way it sounds.

“Hey, if I make the team will you train me? No, not if. When. Just like dad always said - never if, only when.” Fuck this kid. Jesus. Making me fucking cry in the middle of the day. “Hey, are you ok? Oh, no. Did I say something bad? I’m sorry.” Now he’s hugging me and he’s so warm and now I’m crying harder and harder. Just bawling into this guy’s shirt. Until suddenly I feel a sharp pain where his hand touches my back and I jump away, pushing him off me. Something smells like smoke, and then I realize it’s me. The back of my shirt is singed, with small holes open where his fingers had been. What the hell?

“You burned my shirt! What the fuck? How the hell?” He suddenly looks pale, then he jumps up out of his seat.

“Sorry, I have to go. See you at tryouts!” and he runs off. Literally, he turns and jogs away. I… huh? I sit there staring after him for a moment, then look down to find that he left a gym bag under the bench where he had been sitting. He didn’t even bother to change out of his workout gear. I unzip the bag - he owes me a shirt. Inside I find the usual clothes, including a t-shirt that is too small for me and has the words “Iowa State Fair” emblazoned on the front. It is also bright yellow, which is a lovely choice. Whatever, it’s still better than the singed, sweat soaked mess I’m wearing now. If he wants it and the rest of this bag back, he’ll buy me a new one. That was my third favorite shirt and the jerk just took a lighter to it or… something.

I get up and decide to just go home. The idea of facing all those eyes, going back into my next class. Just. No.

In the parking lot, I'm surprised to find a piece of paper shoved under my windshield wiper. “Call me for training” and then a number. Not sure how he knew this was my car but sure. At least I have a way to get ahold of him to return his clothes. Later. Today I have other stuff to deal with. So I get in the car and I drive off, leaving school without explicit permission for the first time in my entire life.