1. Hershey's

things are as awkward as you make them to be, really

Edelweiss, England

On the 30th of December that year, I suddenly realised that I couldn't read anything when the letters were brought closer than a foot to my eyes. Dr. Amiruddin announced me blind by +1.75 the next day, and therefore I dramatically slipped a pair of silver-framed reading glasses atop my nose at the ball drop. Ironically, it was also the year I saw more of reality than I had all my life.

And that reality has a very mean sense of humour - having spent sixteen years in a town full of generic white boys, I could be found perpetually bored and prone to rejecting the few who asked me out, and when I'd said that I would like it if a transoceanic guy or two joined this school, I meant a Mexican ex-villain's only heir or something, so that I could fall in love, get ignored, get my heart broken and end up writing a good book.

Instead, life handed me an arrogant, outrageously handsome Pak-Korean asshole with an acquired taste for driving me insane, and left me to deal with falling for him.

It was the second Monday of the school year, halfway into August, and for the first time in three months, I was smiling at the bright poppies dressed in neons - crimson, azure and highlighter-yellow, growing in clusters beside the pavement. This overgrowth of California poppies was probably the only special aspect of my quaint, charming, boring town.

Mrs. Fuller next door was out in her lawn watering her prized beds of roses even though it'd rained last night. Her wispy greying hair stuck out in tufts at odd angles, making me feel better about the mess on my head. Droplets of water sprinkled onto my shirt like confetti, warning me to protect the large paint-splashed canvas in my grip from her hose.

The Art Club had demanded 'a portrait of the hottest celebrity you know, with a twist', and today was the deadline of submitting Benedict Cumberbatch's rakishly hot centaur doppelgänger. The actual deadline was weeks ago and I wasn't planning on doing the work, but considering that the Principal had lost her shit at how much I was slacking and threatened to kick me out if I didn't do it, it wasn't much of a bargain.

Gilded rays from the sun, sweet as they shifted from a blazing summertime sunlight to a softer autumn one, reflected off the puddles Mrs. Fuller made on the sidewalk. The recently developed fear of water immediately tried to creep in once again, and inhaling deeply, I tightened my grip on the edges of the painting and focused on the soothing taste of the Hershey's Kiss rolling around on my tongue.

The best car in EA belonged to the Principal: one of the older Aston Martins she'd inherited from a distant aunt (word gets around). So when a sleek black sedan with a Mercedes-Benz logo screeched into the driveway a moment after I'd walked in through the gates, startled eyes snapped to the scene.

"AH FUCK!" I screeched, jumping when the car zoomed past me at an incorrigible speed, barely avoiding a lame death at its tires. The audacity! It screeched to a halt in front of the school building, leaving me to stare open-mouthed in horror at my shoes, which were tainted brown with splotches of damp dirt.

Well, shit. The sneakers were made of the kind of fabric that's impossible to clean without baking soda and peroxide. Besides, after being thoroughly washed, these shoes made your feet itch so terribly in the middle of English class that you wished Shakespeare would shut the hell up.

Wait, my painting? Where's my painting?!

I whipped my head around in a frenzied search for the canvas, and froze with terror to find it lying face-down on the road, tire marks dominating the expanse of its dirt-splashed surface.

There's a large diagonal slash.

I'm gonna get kicked out of Art Club.

Cradling the canvas in my arms, tears beginning to prick along my lower lash lines, I fumed as I walked up to the stupid too-expensive-for-this-humble-neighbourhood car. Though nothing could be seen through the black-tinted glasses (and I'll deny peering in if you ever happen to ask), I could hear the slightly muffled conversation emitting from inside. A stern voice with a distinct Asian accent snapped, "I simply cannot allow this reckless driving to continue, sir. My job is to protect you from danger. This is not how my job is done."

A spark of interest shot across my mind. 'Protect you from danger'?

What does this kid's parents expect to happen to him inside a school?

A second male, presumably the crazy one behind the steering wheel, huffed as an unpleasant feeling settled at the bottom of my stomach. "Blah, blah, advice, advice. You're no fun, Shuan. Learn to let off a little steam." His deep but boyish voice was enticing, but he'd made the hours I'd spent pouring over the canvas with dried paint cracking on my palms completely worthless. Right foot impatiently tapping the gravel, I waited for him to step out of the car.

The guy opened the door before Shuan could continue, swung his grey bag over his shoulder, slammed it shut and ignored my existence with style to step towards the school building. From the passenger seat, a ruggedly handsome man clad in a sharp black suit and shiny sunglasses emerged.

His gaze seemed to stare straight into my soul. Wondering whether I'd messed up in some way, I nervously stared back at him until he looked away to march stiffly around the front of the car and reach for the driver's door. Turning around, I found the tall brunette in the crisp green-and-white school uniform strolling forward. I realised that my legs seemed corgi-like in comparison to his as I stormed after him - but then again, my legs were corgi-like in comparison to anybody's.

When I cleared my throat, he didn't so much as glance my way. I coughed, louder this time, but to no avail. So I reached up and tapped his arm lightly. The hell? Does this guy have carbon fibre for muscles?

Nonchalantly, he cocked his head to face me. His deliciously golden-brown tan took me by surprise - this particular brand of tan wasn't Latin or anything; it was pure, beautiful, brown-people tan.

"Er- dude, you just ruined my painting and shoes with your shitty driving," ridding my thinking space of the temptation to stare at him, I stated matter-of-fact-ly, but his disinterested expression didn't change. Betraying myself, I started to feel strangely threatened by the boy effortlessly exuding an aura of superiority.

His eyes flickered to the canvas and to my feet. He let his shoulders rise with an infuriating shrug, continuing to stroll across the neatly mowed grass. A scowl formed immediately on my face. Um, rude much?

"Did no one teach you to apologise? Or were they too busy getting bodyguards?" He halted, turning around in a slow steely motion. When I spoke next, my voice came out shaky, earning a mental curse from yours truly. "I spent days on that painting."

"I don't want anybody hearing about my bodyguard. Please try to keep your mouth shut," he stated, low and curt. Facing his path again, he paused. "By the way, midget, your painting's just as shitty as your attitude."

At that, I saw red.

I reached up and yanked him around by the sleeve of his shirt, leaving it crumpled when I let go. As he was swung back, eyes wide with startle, I spat the remains of the Hershey's in my mouth - leaving it to land smack on his spotless white uniform. A brown bead of liquid began to trickle down his shirt, making me gag.

"Now we're even, asshole."

I made a run for it.

-

"What's all this talk about you spitting on random people?" Ever ran a hand through his sandy blonde hair and grinned infectiously, slinging his arm around my shoulders in a side-hug as I sat in the middle of the table for six. His jersey, soaked with sweat, clung to his torso like a hormonal teenager with her first boyfriend. My nose crinkled at the musty smell of sweat invading the air as the rest of the jocks filed into the cafeteria.

"Hold on, hold on. Why the fuck don't you guys shower after practice?" I cried, making a futile attempt at mitigating the odour by waving my hand in front of my nose.

"Because." Troy said bluntly, deciding to sit beside me today. I rolled my eyes, consequently gagging at the sweaty smell now flanking me on both sides. He brushed away the caramel curls sticking to his sweaty forehead with one hand and snatched away my can of juice with the other, inevitably spilling some of the greenish liquid on his jersey and cursing boomingly. If it ever came down to it, I'd bet my life on Troy getting messier with every passing second. "Why'd you spit on the new guy though, Adi?"

"Does everyone know about this?" I exclaimed as Lee and Art settled into the seats opposite the three of us.

"Do you mean about you and the spitting? Yes." Lee grinned. I'd never heard her utter a single 'yeah', it was always 'yes' and 'indeed'. We'd given up on trying to make her swear as much as the average teenager, and let her occasionally attempt the vocabulary of a pretentious elitist (which usually occurred whenever she was on her periods and seething). "He's really hot, though, isn't he?" Her lovesick boyfriend Ever pouted at that, making me cock an eyebrow at him since nobody in all of Edelweiss stood a chance against his personality and looks.

"I know, right? He's like a mini Zayn Malik. Maybe even hotter." Art let out a dreamy sigh, placing her small head between her propped up arms, making Troy roll his eyes. "That's why everyone's so into your spitting, by the way."

"Hot my ass. He's a stupid jerk," they winced when I stabbed the soy pudding on my lunch tray contemptuously with the plastic spork. "Damn right I spat on him. I'll spit on him a hundred times if I get the chance. Who does he think he is?"

Now, one might be wondering what I, the stereotyped invisible overachieving brown kid, was doing with the two hottest couples in the school.

The first friend I'd made in Edelweiss was Ever Richards. As a kid, he'd been small and scrawny, but had a terrific knack for standing up for the other little guys. Troy and I may be friends now, but he'd been an absolute asshole of a first-grader who bullied everyone around just because he could. Once, Ever had punched Troy in the stomach for yanking at my hair. Troy managed to knock his front tooth out, and we'd become friends.

Puberty did both Ever and Troy good — while the former grew to 6"3 and passed the basketball tryouts with flying colours in junior high, Troy turned into a collected, sincere person and ditched the rest of his douchebag friends to come sit with Ever and I. Granted, his fuckboy tendencies did still show sometimes, but I forgave him, because with girls fawning over him all the time it'd be weird to not be a little conceited.

By the end of junior year, I was nearly suffocating from earning jealous looks from the girls for hanging out with the two most popular guys in the school. Then, that summer, both of my friends started dating the beautiful black twins that had immigrated to Edelweiss from New York and relieved me of my misery. Amelia and Bertha (their parents were violently into Victorian stuff) were sweet girls that soon became Lee and Art, but I won't lie - it hasn't been quite the same between us ever since. I'm just grateful that it isn't awkward between the five of us. Things are as awkward as you make them to be, really.

But sometimes, when the four of them start to make out in the middle of a party and I'm left alienated among the popular kids I don't belong with, I find myself wishing that I were truly her - the stereotyped invisible overachieving brown kid whose parents don't let her go out after sundown.

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