~Z~
According to quantum physics, the chances of passing through a wall are low, but never zero.
Unfortunately for Z, that rule treats them with about the same amount of respect as everybody else.
They’re holding their throbbing nose, feeling the ache slowly grow as the shock wears off. Around them, laughter seems to echo. When they pull their hands away from their face, there’s no blood. Disappointing that they can’t look at least a little bit cool while embarrassing themselves. Walking into walls is a talent of theirs that’s only gotten stronger in their second year of high school. In fact, this is the third time this week
They stare at the wall for a moment, one hand plastered against the dull white paint, and watch the little grooves in it come to life with stories — little men on horses, a dragon enraged by the fools of the world, a girl having lunch with her mother.
But then the bell rings. The hallway becomes alive, like the roaring of an approaching wave, and students rush around them, filtering through the main set of doors into the hallways where the actual classrooms are, a jumbled mess of arms and legs and faces. No one pays them any mind.
Z turns around, squeezing their eyes tight. There’s a dull throbbing that’s starting to build in their skull. Their skin tingles underneath their sweatshirt. It’s one of those unbearable things that just begs to be attended to, to be replaced by something else. But they can’t do anything about it here, so they just ignore it, and head off to do whatever they’re supposed to be doing.
Got to start paying attention to other people in the hallway instead, or some-
To add insult to injury, they immediately slam into a person standing behind them, bruised face meeting flesh.
A pen drops to the floor as the person freezes in place. Z lets loose a frantic muttering of “Sorry, sorry, sorry-” under their breath as they stumble back, trying to regain their bearings.
When they recover, Z is practically eye-level with the moleskine notebook the person clutches tightly to their chest — whoever it is is ridiculously tall. Z has to look up to see their face. Their eyes are cold and their expression looks terribly offended — as if Z has just interrupted a sacred ritual.
Strange ritual, to be writing in the middle of the hallway.
It’s odd enough to make Z have an inclination to perhaps stop what they’re doing and actually talk to them. Something in them needs to find out why this person exists in this particular way. What exactly are they writing down? What’s so important that they’d block the flow of students just to record it?
But unfortunately, Z has places to go, and classes to do, just like any other person. So they just settle for a polite gesture instead. These things never really lead up to anything anyways. They’re never going to see them again.
“Ah- sorry about that. Here.” Z picks up the person’s pen, and hands it back to them. Or rather just … places it on top of their notebook, since their only movement appears to be that of their eyes. Everything else is still frozen like a deer in headlights. Z smiles nervously, an attempt at peace.
But the person doesn’t say thank you when Z turns to leave. Instead, they just …
… Stare.
There’s a large whiteboard inside of Z’s high school, easily visible as soon as one comes in. Hundreds of names are stacked there magnetically, based on grades. A horrible display of rankings, no doubt a tool for parents to compare their kids more than anything else. Most high schools keep a list of class rankings, but keep them secret except when needed for something like figuring out who is valedictorian. Not this school.
But it doesn’t matter to Z. It’s never really occurred to them to try.
For them, high school is just one long list of things to do — grades are important, sure, but not personally. They’ve never been a sign of their worth, whether they’re the worst or the best. It’s not a good system for that, so the whiteboard remains meaningless — just another blur in the back of their mind.
That is, until the next morning, when Z finds themselves abruptly boxed in against the hallway of the main entrance before the bell rings.
They register the rustling of freshly-ironed clothes before they realize that there’s someone in front of them. Their mind churns slowly, blinks out the possibilities of a life with muscle exposed. Only then do they realize that they’re being pinned by the same person they bumped into yesterday.
Z looks up. There's no light in their eyes as the person looks down at them, awfully close. Their hands are on the wall besides Z’s head, and Z doesn’t know what exactly they messed up in the two-second interaction they had the other day, but it must have been something because this is not the type of response you get after bumping into someone.
“Uhm … hello?” What kind of body language would be appropriate for someone who probably hates you? “Can I help you?”
For a moment, when they hear Z’s voice, the person’s posture softens slightly, and Z instantaneously saves it to memory. It’s the kind of thing they tend to notice when they have to talk to new people: Did I do this right? Am I going to get an A in social interaction this time around?
“Are you aware that you have the highest grades in the entire class?” they ask, voice serious and low, like it’s some kind of secret. Z sneaks an awkward, very confused look at the whiteboard from where they’re pinned against the wall.
They can’t see the names on the magnets from here. Figures.
“Nope … I don’t really pay attention to that kind of stuff,” they say, shrugging and looking off to the side as the person makes a confused noise in the back of their throat. “Thanks for letting me know, though.”
The person looks frustrated now. Z feels almost guilty — they aren’t even trying, and yet here they are. No wonder no one likes talking to me. Their accomplishments should make them more … surprised, or maybe excited, but there’s nothing. Once you’re at the top, where is there to go?
The person leans back a little, taking their hands off the wall, and reaches into their pocket. Z lets out a breath they didn’t know they were holding. They’re not used to being in such proximity with another person. Maybe they can spin this into material for another daydream.
“Hold out your hand,” the person commands.
With the brush of an absurdly cold palm, a small piece of paper is slipped into their fingers. The person finally steps back from them, waiting for them to look at it.
They’re shaking, Z notes, taking the chance to look at them properly now that they’ve backed away.
They glance at the barely-contained twitches in the other person’s tightly clasped hands, the slight movements of their stiff, iron-rod shoulders. They stand with feet perfectly spaced apart, back straight, but every now and again, they jerk to one side and shift their posture, like they’re about to fall. When they catch Z looking at them, they shift their gaze to the side.
Z lets a small smile slip onto their face.
They must be nervous. They’re probably just putting up a front, and they’re trying so hard to make me believe it, too!
It’s … almost admirable.
Filled with the giddy joy of knowing something someone else doesn't want them to, Z unfolds the paper and reads it.
Q
8xx-6xx-9xxx
65 Maple Street, Fallow Village
“My house, 6 p.m. this Tuesday. If you are not able to make it, message me and we can reschedule,” Q says, their words just as stiff as they are. One of their hands comes loose from its prison, and they promptly grab it again with their other hand. “I intend on learning your methods and studying with you in order to overtake your place at the top of the grade. Understand?”
Z nods. Geez, straight to the point, huh? It’s almost funny.
Q’s plan (and their own, it seems like, given how hard they’re trying just to make an impression) is like a perfectly placed tower of cards. They’re even wearing a white buttoned-down shirt, like they’re supposed to be at some kind of fancy event right now. They definitely weren’t wearing something like that yesterday.
One poke, and it all falls over. Like dominos. One perfectly ruined plan after another.
“What happens if I don’t text you, or come to your house?”
“Then I will pester you, and be incredibly obnoxious towards you for several weeks during the school day, until you agree to study with me,” Q replies, matter of factly, as Z laughs a little. Their stern expression loosens just a bit, and there’s a twinkle in their eyes that’s gone the moment Z blinks. “I will be even more annoying than I am now.”
It’s funny, how they think they’re being annoying, Z notes, the gears in their head turning with plans, looking up at Q for maybe a little too long. I don’t think that at all. Where did they learn that? What are they hiding? What do they really want?
Z doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually the bell announces a return back to reality. Q abruptly turns around and starts heading down the hallway, shoulders hunched, footsteps fast.
“Wait!!” Z yells. They fervently dig a piece of used paper out of their backpack.
Q stops in their tracks, and Z scribbles their name, number and address on the piece of paper with a pencil they had tucked behind their ear.
After all, it can’t hurt to give it a try. They push the piece of paper into Q’s hand. Their fingers close around it with a sort of gentleness that betrays their expression. Even if this studying arrangement takes advantage of me, Q might be fun to analyze. I’ll humor them. My mother will be proud of me. No one will get hurt except possibly myself.
“Thank you,” Q says gently as they carefully tuck the slip into their pocket. Oddly, it feels more genuine than anything they’ve said for the past two minutes, coating the inside of Z’s throat with something unidentifiable.
They brush it off. Can’t get attached too quickly.
“You’re welcome! See you in a couple days!” Z chirps, waving Q off.
They leave them in the hallway with one hand half raised.
~Q~