Malakai
4 years ago
Malakai, 18
It’s the middle of the night, and I can’t fucking sleep again.
I blame it on the cigarette I’ve been smoking. I think it messed with my sleep. Instead of lying in my bed, I thought I’d skate at Blackwater Lake.
By day, there’s a bunch of people skating. Most of them have their cameras out, taking pictures. Some Olympians and athletes on their freestyle, but it’s mostly families and their penguin sledges.
It’s not even fucking Christmas.
The snow crunches beneath my boots as I make my way to Blackwater Lake. Nobody really skates at night. It’s dark and silent and scary, which I like.
I sneaked out, making sure nobody heard me or mom will kill me. She’s like that. Overprotective, which is why I’m homeschooled. I don’t mind it though, I still have more than enough social life.
Thankfully, she let me join the hockey team and other ice sports. During the winter, I join my stepdad’s boxing club. My uncle is the mayor Snow. Love that guy, but Mom still says I should stay away from him and refuses to let me take any job he offers me.
Despite being an overprotective hassle, she’s a lovely woman. She took care of me and my siblings. She’s a good mom. She even taught me some Krav Maga and shooting skills.
When I asked her about it, she simply said it was a hobby of hers. Something I’ll never understand, considering she’s the typical cook-and-clean housewife.
Despite that, I know why we ran away.
I have a few memories from before I was five. We used to lived in a huge mansion with spiraling Gothic architecture that overlooked the city. I had an older brother.
Mom cried a lot of times because we couldn’t take him.
But she couldn’t leave because if she did, she’d never see me again.
The forest thin.. A melody. Soft, haunting, It sounds like *Spiracle* by Flower Face. Who the fuck is here at midnight?
I follow the sound, moving through the dim forest. The air grows colder as I approach the lake. Bright lanterns line the rink at the edge of the ice, their beams cutting across the darkness.
My eyes are lock on her, watching the way she moves. I recognize her. I recognize Giselle Laurent from anywhere.
The song builds into something heavier, the guitar screaming through the rink, and she answers it. She jumps, her silhouette suspended for a heartbeat before crashing back down with terrifying precision.
She slides across the ice on her knees, her ripped stockings dragging against the surface. Her hair fans across the ice before she snaps back to her feet.
Then she lands too hard, the ice cracked although holds, she doesn’t even flinch. She gets up like nothing happened, like it’s part of her dance and goes again.
I never gave two shits about figure skating. I thought they were always so controlled and precise, dancing through some mozart. This? This is badass.
The music ends, She plops down and lies there flat on her back. Her chest heaves, each gasp for air visible as white plumes of steam escape her lips. Her hair is plasters to her forehead with sweat. I want to reach out and see if she’s real.
I should walk away. I should turn around, go back to my room, and pretend I never saw this. There’s something about the way she’s lying there. She lies there staring at the night sky for a long time. five seconds. Ten.
I seen her since she moved here. Here and there she would appear in this town. Her black hair, pale skin, and big eyes. She’s pretty. Hot even. A combination of two at the same time. It made me so nervous that I never approached her.
My stepbrother, Nicky, loves forcing me to go to his house parties and hang out with his crowd. I hate socializing. Never even tried to fit in. I’m always the weird kid who was homeschooled, with huge headphones over my ears, always wearing black even in summer.
But in one of Nicki house party, she went up to me and introduced herself. She was soft-spoken, so I had to lean in to hear her.
It would’ve gone well. She was tipsy, and so was I. Even though I’d only had a couple of beers. But being the weird kid I was, I managed to completely flop and mumbled a bunch of idiocy.
Great. I thought. She’ll think I was homeschooled because I had some sort of mental impediment. She laughed saying that I was too tipsy, and I acted like I was. She left and I wanted to punch myself in the throat.
I’m not even like this with other people, other girls.
Now here we are. Here goes my second chance. Completely sober and sleep-deprived.
I stop at the barrier, looking down at her. Up close, she looks even smaller.
“You trying to kill yourself out here?” I ask, my voice rougher than intended.
Her head turns slowly from the ice. When her eyes finally find mine
Fuck. Those eyes. Dark and glassy, framed by lashes so long. I always had a secret crush on Giselle. Although I never spoken to her, like a creep and a weirdo. And it doesn’t help that she’s not much of a talker either. At least that’s what i’ve been gathering from our friends and informant Nicki.
For a second, neither of us speaks. Why am I still standing here staring at her like a fucking idiot? Her lips part, before she finally finds her voice.
“What are you doing here?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I said my voice flat. “You?”
Relax. My mom does this thing where she parrots other people. At least, I think that’s what it’s called. When she can’t be bothered with the conversation or is multitasking, she’ll reply with “How about you?” or repeat the last word of their sentence as a question.
She pushes herself up, still sitting on the ice, shoulders hunched. “Couldn’t sleep either” she said.
I wait for her to say something more. But again, she’s not much of a talker either. And she probably is waiting to parrot me. I snort, a dry, humorless sound.
“What’s so funny?” she asked.
“Nothing.” And because i’m nervous I took out my cigarette to ease up, lit it up and blow it on her face. The last part was accidental. I study her, the way she sits there. Her legging seemed ridiculously thin. Wouldn’t she feel cold on sitting on the ice?
Even as she fan her face, she pushes herself up, movements are fluid, and the first notes of *Baby Teeth* by the same artist drift from her speaker. She took my cigarette, finger brushing on my lips which made me shiver and she blows a cigarette. She cough a bit, and gave it back.
“First time?” I ask.
“No, but I don’t smoke Reds. I like Ice Blast, although I quit since Coach found us.” She does this thing where, if she speaks longer than a few words to form a full sentence, she doesn’t look at me. Instead, she stares at the background. Is she shy too?
I huff out a laugh. “Coach gets like that sometimes.”
She gives me the cigarette back, our fingers touching. “You’re on the hockey team?” she asks. “I watched your game.”
“Really?” The thought of her watching me suddenly makes me self-conscious. Especially since we mostly get into fights. It’s not my fault. Ashbury Slasher is known for being notorious, and I’m just there to fit the vibes. Either way, I make a mental note to look good at my next game.
“Yeah. You punched my brother.”
My mouth hangs open. Any chance of a future with this girl just went straight down the drain.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “He moved on to piano. He really likes it.”
Piano and hockey are very distinctive, and I knew he wasn’t fit to be there. Maybe that’s why I punched him. Am I just a fucking bully? My mom taught me better. We share the cigarette until it burns down to the filter. Not wanting the conversation to end, I say,
“Another one?”
She doesn’t even look at me as she skates away. “I’m leaving,” she says. “So you can have the lake.”
I stiffen, the dismissal stinging more than it should. Fuck, she’s already walking away? I haven’t got her number. Or her name. Although I know it’s Giselle Laurent, same age as me, goes to Ashbury High, is on the figure skating team, and wears black UGG boots even at parties.
Might I also mention that she was the girl fromSucker Punchlast Halloween? People thought she was just dressing up as a steampunk schoolgirl.
She skates away, but I call out.
“Hey! Ghosty” Last attempt. Really? Ghosty? She is here haunting like a ghost.
She looks back.
“Since we’ll be here a lot,” I call after her, “we should organize our skating times.”
Because I want her number.
But because I’m an idiot who doesn’t want to look like a creep who’s been stalking her—and maybe she doesn’t even want to share this massive lake with me—I add, “So we don’t run into each other.”
She scrunches her eyebrows.
Could she be any more frustratingly beautiful?
She stares at me for a second. Then she turns and gave me her phone number and skates away.
I’ll make up an excuse why I had to skate at the same time as her. I’ll think about that later. But for now, I have Giselle Laurent phone number.
