CHAPTER FOUR:
Aftertaste

Ross stared across the room at Evette. She was acting strange—stranger than usual. She was tapping her fingers erratically against her desk and bouncing her feet as she sat in her seat, her head in her hands. She didn't look up at the board once. She didn't even look up when our government teacher called her name. Mrs. Davids was calling names, pairing the students up by twos for their end-of-unit projects on the Constitutional Convention.

"Evette Bonavich and Ross Remington," she called, and then moved on to announce the next group. Once she was done, everyone moved to sit with their partners. Ross shot up and moved to sit in the empty desk in front of Evette. He sat backwards in the seat, a frown on his face as she didn't even look up.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Huh yeah of course not—yes." She glanced up at him fleetingly and forced a pathetic smile. "Sorry. Yes, I'm fine."

Ross stared at her, eyes narrowed slightly. He knew she was lying, it didn't take a genius. "Are you sure . . . ?"

"Yes, okay, I'm fine, so you can just go back to your seat now." Evette stared down at her desk and ignored Ross.

He frowned, kind of hurt and kind of surprised at her impassive tone. "We're doing the project, and Davids put us together."

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's okay." Ross wasn't over it, but he tried to shake it off and get started on the assignment anyway. This assignment wasn't that big of a deal, but he needed all the points he could get in that class. History, along with chemistry, were the only classes he had a hard time managing with his tight football schedule. History homework was just so boring to him, so he found himself skipping the homework every once in a while to get some extra sleep after practice. He hoped this project would boost his grade a bit. However, Ross only got so far as to open his binder and take out a note sheet on the Constitution before he looked up and Evette was gone. He glanced at the front of the classroom and caught the end of her cardigan before the door shut.

He groaned and glared the paper in front of him. Guess I have to do this myself.

Ross counted the minutes before the bell would finally ring and class would be let out for the day. After countless minutes that felt like hours of trying to conjure up ideas on the project without Evette, the bell finally did ring. Having been anticipating the final bell, Ross scooped up his already packed up bag off the ground, swung it over his shoulder, and bee-lined for the door. He took a quick pitstop at his locker to exchange his backpack for his gym bag before heading to the school's weight room. They didn't have football practice that night, but Ross had been itching to blow off some steam, ever since the game on Friday. Coach was so impressed with his performance that he mentioned Ross might be ready to be a permanent starter. 

He didn't feel ready.

Ross tried to block out the intruding thoughts of the game as he pushed the heavy doors open. The extremely air-conditioned air hit him full blast in the face, along with the lingering sweat odor that couldn't be masked with all the Febreeze in the world. He tossed his gym bag to the side and began stretching his muscles out. After a minute of stretching, his body switched to autopilot. His eyes glazed over as he benched and did back-squats, his face neutral as he did calf raises and pull-ups. Sweat rolled down his face and it coated his back, making his shirt stick to his back. On the outside, he was a machine. Never flinching, never showing pain.

On the inside, his mind was a hazy flurry of thoughts. You have to be the strongest on the team, his mind screamed at him. He huffed out a breath as he lifted a bar to do deadlifts. You can't let the team down. It's all on you.

The team was counting on him. They couldn't rely on Cole to take them to the state finals, since he couldn't even manage to keep himself out of trouble. The weight of the team was placed on Ross now. He was the quarterback. It was all on him.

Ross gasped and dropped the heavy bar to the ground. A loud banging noise met his ears as he stumbled to his knees. Black dots swarmed his vision. His body felt so heavy, like it was a magnet being pulled to the ground.

With a cloudy mind, Ross pulled himself up and half-blindly struggled to his gym bag. He grabbed the first water bottle he felt, which sat right in front of his bag even though he didn't remember putting it there. Without a second thought, he unscrewed the cap and downed half the bottle. As he withdrew the bottle from his mouth with gasping, painful breaths, he frowned at the peculiar, somewhat metallic aftertaste.

★

"Hey, Cami," a voice said as a hand slithered onto Camille's waist. The girl brought her elbow forward to launch it back into the gut of whoever's behind her, but when she flicked her hair over her shoulder and glanced back, she relaxed.

"Camille," she corrected, and melted into the boy's arms. He smirked as he studied her. Taking a small sip from her plastic cup, she studied him right back. She'd been hanging around him all night, and when she wasn't by him she was sending him looks from across the room. Camille was fairly sure that his name was Ian, or Isaac, or something similar—she really didn't care. All that mattered to her was the thumping of the party's music, the buzz in her head from the alcohol, and the body close to hers.

Ian brought his face closer to her ear so she'd be able to hear him over the people in the room and the booming music. "You look great tonight."

"I know." Camille ducked away from him and laughed. His eyes sparkled as he watched her. Camille almost felt bad that she wasn't planning on seeing him again after tonight. He was cute, with his soft features and broad shoulders, and acted very gentlemanly towards her, unlike most people she met at parties like this.

"Want to dance?" he asked.

Camille scoffed. "Oh, I don't dance."

"Come on, Camille. Just one dance." He held her hand and playfully tugged her towards the plethora of dancing bodies in the center of the room. Camille sat her cup down on a little table nearby so she wouldn't spill it on herself.

"Ian, I swear—" she giggled, enjoying this boy's company more than she expected.

"Please?" he pleaded, jutting his lip out comically. Camille slipped her hand out of his and crossed her arms, but she couldn't conceal the smile that grew on her face.

"No, I don't dance. Sorry."

Ian sighed and pretended to be upset, but he couldn't contain his happiness, either. She was a beautiful mystery to him, one whom he never thought would even spare him a second glance. But, here she was, standing next to him, smiling at him, holding his hand.

Camille picked her cup back up from the table she left it on and took a long sip. As the bitter drink hit the back of her throat, she grimaced and almost spit it back out. It tasted a little different than she remembered. She swallowed it quickly and tossed the cup on the floor.

No more alcohol tonight, she decided.

"So, what school do you go to?" Ian asked as the song changed to a slower one.

"Northwood. You?" Camille squinted to focus on Ian in front of her as her vision started to swim. He didn't notice.

"Crimson Prep."

"Ooh," Camille slurred, ignoring the knot forming in her stomach, "a prep kid."

Ian's playful aura disappeared. "You good?" he asked. His eyebrows furrowed as he took note of Camille's slightly hunched over figure and the thin sheen of sweat on her face that came out of nowhere. She pursed her lips into a pitiful smile. Her head started to pound, and the muscles all over her body tingled.

"Yeah, yeah," she breathed. What's wrong with me? Camille attempted to stand upright, but her whole body ached. She groaned and fell against the nearby wall for support. She could've sworn she heard a cracking noise, but she ignored it. "I want to go home."

Ian, even more concerned, nodded and watched her closely. "Do you want me to walk you to your car?"

"I'm fine—" Camille muttered and pushed off the wall to find a way out of that suffocating house. The lights suddenly felt too bright, the air too hot, and the music too loud. Her feet carried her clumsily through the crowd, subconsciously weaving between people and ducking around elbows.

Camille let out a sigh of relief as she found the front door only a few feet away. Just as she started forward, someone pop-locked-and-dropped it a bit too much and bumped into her, sending Camille to the ground. Her hands flew out to catch herself on the tile floor before her face hit the ground and her eyes closed on instinct.

Head spinning, Camille's eyes flutter open to see the tile floor in front of her eyes. Confusion floods her expression. Cracks splintered out from around where her hands caught her fall, and broken pieces and dusted tile littered the floor in front of her. She lifted a trembling hand to her face and stared at it.

"Oh shit, this isn't real," she muttered.

★

Gran's Grounds was, unfortunately, just as cozy and welcoming on the inside as it was on the outside. The designers took advantage of every opportunity to use string lights and mason jars as much as they could. The walls were a warm white and the tables were made of a delicate looking, light-colored wood. A surreal mural covered the entire brick wall on the left of the ordering counter. Lewis stared at it as he ordered a simple hot chocolate.

Apparently, they didn't do "just a hot chocolate." Lewis was left with deciding between pumpkin, peppermint, maple, black cherry, and a plethora of other outlandish flavors. The cashier was . . . a little too friendly? He didn't know exactly, but he was left with a weird feeling. He quickly chose peppermint and sat down in the corner once his drink was done.

Lewis stared down into his warm chocolate drink with a conflicted expression. The place across the street was still open, but he figured he'd check this place out too, since he'd be forced to go here anyway after Christmas.

He took a sip and grimaced. His tongue stung from the steaming drink, and it left a peculiar aftertaste in his throat. He paid it no mind and decided Gran's Grounds may be trendy, but their hot chocolate was shit.

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