Black

Home time is the noisiest time of day. I throw my bag over my shoulder, weave my way through chattering clumps of students and exit through the main building without saying goodbye to anyone, like always. I take the stair two at a time and head towards the gate. “Hey, wait up.” I turn around. It’s the new guy, Aiden Sweet. I’ve heard other girls talking about how hot he is. He’s been here for three weeks, but apart from spotting him a couple times at the school canteen, we haven’t crossed paths because we don’t share any classes. He looks me straight in the eye and thrusts his hand forward for mine. “Hi, im Aiden” “Hi” We shake. He shifts awkwardly from side to side, nervously clamping his jaw shut. “I’m in English B” he says. I nod, confused. “But you’d know that. It’s just that, you know, we seem to be studying completely different subjects and English is the only one we all have to do, so if there was going to be one class that same it could have been English. But it isn’t. I mean, we don’t share the class, because you’re in A. . .” he laughs embarrassed. “Look, I’m new, but you know that too. Oh man, this was so much smoother in my head. I'll jump straight to it. The formal on Friday night . . . I was wondering: do you already have a date?” I’m stunned. I haven’t been asked out in three years. Not since Oscar – I hear someone laugh, a hushed hiss from the seats behind the hedge. Two more follow. Their sniggers are a familiar sound and I know instantly it’s the three guys I call the knuckleheads: Nigel Parks, George Trimble and Jake Holland. They bully anyone they see as an easy target. That includes me. They think I’m odd. A little scary: a freak. Aiden’s face flushes red, he’d heard them too and realizes he’s being played. I’m seething. For years I’ve put up with their taunts. And now they’re using the new guy in their stupid games. I feel like storming over and screaming at them. Or throwing something at them. Something sharp and heavy – an axe comes to mind. I step in closer so only Aiden can hear. “The idiots behind you – they told you to ask me out?” He smiles “kind of” his voice is low and deep. “Look, I’m sorry. I figured you must already have a date….as if you wouldn’t” I almost forget the sniggers as I bite down a grin. Sweet Aiden thinks they put him up to it because I already have a date. Cute, but wrong. The knuckleheads assume I’ll say no because I never go to anything. I open my mouth to tell Aiden that I don’t go to school stuff, but then he meets my eye. I see desperation. Desperation to fit in, to spare the humiliation of rejection in front of the knuckleheads. I feel for him. Being new must be a tough gig. “No” I say “I don’t have a date” He stares at me. The silence is awkward. Now the embarrassment is mine. He no longer wants to be my date. He’s probably wondering what’s wrong with me, why I’m the target of the prank. If I was popular – normal even, I’d already be going. After all, it is the year twelfth formal, the biggest event of the year, and it’s in two days. “Would you like to go with me?” he finally says “Yeah” I say “sure. Why not” His smile is uncertain. “I’ve got to get to work” I say as I turn. He throws his bag over his shoulder and falls into stride beside me.  “Where do you work?” “At the water plant” “That’s cool” he pauses “not what I expected, I thought you would say at the servo or the shopping center” “Nope. I collect and analyze water samples from the dams that supply the town. We treat the water and make sure its ok for people to drink.” “Right. That’s different… kinda like you” he laughs “you’re not what I expected at all, I can’t quite figure you out” I stop walking and face him. “Look I said I’d go to the formal with you to stick up to those three douche-bags behind the hedge. I don’t go to school functions – or any functions. And I don’t date.” A smile spreads across his face “Ahhh now it makes sense. Hey, I have no issues with gays. I have friends who are gay. I’ll still go to the formal with you.” “How charitable” “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, I want to go with you even if it’s-“ “- I’m not gay” I peel away from him through the school gate and onto the footpath. He catches up “ok, this isn’t going as planned. I was much funnier, more charming and quicker witted when I rehearsed and you weren’t so-“ I stop and wait for it, challenging him with my glare. “Weird? Psycho? Scary?” anger creeps into my voice. A simple play on his lips “no. intriguing, beautiful” he whispers holding my gaze “sexy.” He blushes “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. Nothings coming out right.” I’m thrown by this guy. I don’t know if he’s joking, stirring or serious. ‘I’m such an i***t sometimes’ he says. I turn away from him. ‘Black?’ What now? I slowly turn to face him. ‘Will you go to the formal with me’ he asks ‘What? So you can get your prize?’ ‘No, it’s not like that.’ ‘Do you think I don’t know what they say about me? Do you think I don’t know asking me was a dare?’ ‘No. yes. That’s too many questions. You’re right. I mean, you’re called black right? You must have done something to earn that name. I’m curious’ he moves forward as he talks, closing the gap between us. ‘At first I thought you might be a weekend Goth Your hair is black; you could carry it off if you wanted. But Goth doesn’t quite fit. I’ve heard those three guys call you black magic, so maybe you do séances or practice voodoo, but hocus-pocus doesn’t fit either. I mean, you analyze water samples so you must be a science head right? And then I thought maybe you have a kooky, black sense of humour, yet you don’t seem –‘ ‘Do you analyze everyone you meet like this?’ ‘Yes….mostly……I try too’ ‘Psychology?’ ‘Media studies. I write screen-plays, create characters. ‘He laughs ‘god, listen to me. “I write screen-plays”. It’s not like I’m some kinda Hollywood hotshot or anything. I want to be a screen-writer. I’m trying to write a movie….another movie, I’ve attempted a few……you know? Still learning-‘ ‘So you’re profiling me, like a character in a script?’ He stares at me. It seems the rambler has run out of things to say. ‘I burnt down the local church when I was ten’ I say keeping a straight face ‘You did not’ he says. His eyes popping. ‘Yes, I did. Then I went on a rampage in the local cemetery. I dug up the graves and ate the bones of dead people.’ He laughs. We both do, unguarded, together. Before we realize it’s a genuine moment. His lips come together, perfect in shape and colour. My gaze brushes over them before reaching his eyes. Hazel. Warm. I’m suddenly aware of how close we're standing, of how his shirt is pulled tight around his chest under the weight if his bag, of how his chest rises with every breath. ‘I better go.’ I say, a bit off balance. ‘Right’ he says, his voice thick. The moment drags into an awkward awareness but he doesn’t pull back. He’s confronting, intense – like Oscar was. His interest won’t last. He’ll soon hear the full story about me, if not from the knuckleheads, from Ged. She’ll waste no time. I turn to cross the street. Before I step off the kerb onto the road, I look back. Aiden doesn’t look away. He doesn’t pretend indifference. I look him straight in the eye ‘my name is Ebony’ I say ‘Ebony Marshall.’ His face shows no recognition that Ebony means ‘Black’. For one brief moment he’s forgotten to wonder why they call me black. One beautiful, brief moment. Maybe this guy won’t listen to what they say. Maybe Aiden Sweet won’t believe in the curse of Black Marshall. I leave Aiden staring after me and head in the direction of the church at the end of our street. Cars congest the road, parked close on both sides. The further I walk from Aiden the more the heat in my face fades and my breathing becomes easier. I can’t stop my lips from curling into a smile. Organ music pulls the warmth from my thoughts. A black hearse sits close to the church door, waiting for a coffin. A ghastly tune plays as people pile outside. Father Ratchet leads the pull bearers. Goosebumps crawl all over my arms and the back of my neck from the sight of him. Though he stands out in his robes, even when he’s in civilian clothes he’s conspicuous in a crowd. He’s a head taller than most, his hair is shock white and his eyes are a milky grey. It’s his eyes that freak me out the most. They make me think of vampires. His lips move with the whisper of prayer, but his eyes are on me. A shudder passes through my shoulders and I walk faster. When I look back, he’s looking over the top of mourners and down the street. Directly at me. Like he always does.