Balconial Conversations

I walk into the apartment, and mom drops the keys on the island. Sunlight streams through the wide windows into the cramped living area. I can see a simple balcony made of brick and iron rods directly in front of the couch and the island. "At least there's a balcony," I say. Mom laughs and says something about carrying in more boxes in that I completely ignore. At least there's a balcony. * * * I let myself inside of the apartment, dropping my backpack and the heavy expectations of high school on the floor of the tiny foyer. My jaw hurts from clenching it all day, and I’m starving. I sat on a bench outside and couldn't eat my lunch because my stomach had twisted itself into irreparable knots. I'm not good at making or wanting new friends, blame it on only child syndrome or social anxiety I guess. I pluck a banana from the almost superfluous banana rack and look around the apartment. Mum asked me to organize the living room this afternoon, but the balcony is far too tantalizing. I step between the box mountains and slide open the glass door. The smell of smoke hits me immediately, and my face twists in disgust. It seems to be billowing from somewhere to the left; I step closer to the rails and see a boy leaning on the neighbouring balcony with a cigarette hanging from his lazy lips. I guess he’s closer to man than boy, but his arms are skinny, and he's got a sort of youthful carelessness about him. His gaze slants over to me, and he exhales a puff of gray-blue smoke. "Hey," he says. His t-shirt is white with a bright blue stain, like paint, on the side. "You must be the new neighbour." "Yeah," I say. His gaze slides over my jeans and hoodie in a way that doesn't quite make my skin crawl—vaguely curious and in an entirely non-lascivious way. I'm not sure how I feel about his eyes on me, either way. I don't peel the banana. "High school?" He asks, idly. He shifts, so he leans on his side, facing me. His hair is a dark mahogany colour, wavy and all over the place in a way that is entirely on purpose. "I'm seventeen." "Hmm. Bad day?" "No, why?" "You look bothered; shoulders slumped, furrowed brow, locked jaw." He shrugs, "I'm a psych major." I'm not sure I'm comfortable with a college boy talking about my jaw. Especially the way the word trips off his tongue, just a hint of suggestion contradicting his non-lascivious attitude ten seconds prior. I hum politely. He squints at me with a smirky little smile. "You can talk about it if you like." He makes a you might as well type of gesture, "I haven't got anywhere else to be." "No thanks." I step back towards the glass door. "It was nice meeting you," he calls, waving with the cigarette between his middle and index fingers. "I'm Cam, by the way." I sit down on the box with assorted ladylike throw pillows and peel the banana.