Shoot

I DID NOT CONSIDER MYSELF A PSYCHOPATH.

In theory, a psychopath is a person who suffers from a chronic mental disorder with abnormal or violent social behaviour; a madman.

According to that definition, I had no psychopathic tendencies. I hadn’t been diagnosed with any mental illnesses, I didn’t behave abnormally–at least I hoped so. And I never ever exhibited any violent social behaviour.

But I suppose you haven’t been reading correctly. If you were, you would have noticed that I referred to myself in the past tense. Meaning that before now I was what most people dubbed normal.

I guess stalking your best friend isn’t normal. Not for most anyway.

I’ve known Ryder Gretzky since freshman year. A skinny boy who sat at the back of my math class and played chess on his phone instead of paying attention to Ms. Morrison’s lessons on slope and rate of change. He was tall. Really tall. The first thing I asked him was if he played basketball. He didn’t. He preferred cricket.

Easthill High doesn’t have a cricket team, but they have a football team. We joined together in sophomore year and climbed to the top pretty quickly. I became quarterback–still am. Ryder was a fullback—still is. I always counted on him–still do.

For someone his height he was fast and powerful. Not to mention smooth when it came to tackling a real sport.

Girls.

They loved Ryder. Everything about him. His auburn hair, brown eyes and those two dimples stationed perfectly on either cheek. I loved Ryder too–still do. It wasn’t long before he got together with Stephanie Rodriguez.

I had never seen two human beings so perfect for one another. I was prone to believe God put them both on this planet for the sole purpose of finding each other.

I watch him stop by his locker to talk to Stephanie for a few minutes before they both head out the main doors together. They’re all smiles and laughter. He’s got his arm around her shoulders and she’s got her lips on his cheek, a long way to go for someone her height.

Poor thing doesn’t know what’s coming. That I’m going to steal the only person she’s learned to give her glass heart to. The death of a loved one is a strange thing. Why love when we’re all going to die? It only makes the pain worse. I prefer distance, not attachment. Attachment makes people do crazy crazy things.

I make sure to put some distance between us, stopping to hide around some corners, casually greeting a few other students, anything to seem normal.

By the time I follow them out, they’re locked in a kiss next to her car and all I can do is wait and watch it happen. I’m not trying to be creepy, but I can’t just walk away. I have a goal, and it’s to put Ryder out of his misery. Whatever misery he’s in–that’s what I convince myself.

When they’re finally finished, Stephanie gets into the vehicle and drives off.

Ryder walks home every day. It used to be with me. Then I’m suddenly forgotten and the only thing on his mind is Stephanie. She stole him from me. Which is understandable, right? She’s his girlfriend. But let’s be honest, he isn’t trying hard to remember me. We only know each other on the field.

I don’t hate Ryder Gretzky. There’s just an ache somewhere deep inside me. An evergrowing chasm of curiosity and wonder. A part of me that just wants to open him up and see what the hell it is that makes Ryder, well, Ryder.

I want to see his blood, and it terrifies me.

He starts down the sidewalk that leads away from the school building and takes the next right. I make sure to keep the sound of my footsteps to a minimum. The last thing I need is for him to know it’s me. It’ll be easier if he doesn’t. Maybe he won’t hate me more than he already does.

“Monty!”

I halt mid-step but don’t turn to face the source of that eccentric voice. “Hey Monty, is that you?”

Monty. It’s always been Jackson, Jack or Jacky. Only one girl can completely contort it into something right out of my mom’s old movies.

“Wait up! I need to talk to you!”

She’s an explosion of quirkiness, a real dramatist, a true oddball. A living, breathing, half-bred Russian and South African who’s always enraptured by the smallest of things. If I paid close attention in the halls earlier, I might have spotted her whizzing to the drama room in a whirlwind of loose sheets and mahogany curls.

Darcy Ivanov.

She has a knack for finding me at the strangest of times. She’s found me again, Ryder now long gone.

Fuck.

Darcy jogs toward me with one of the most radiant smiles I've ever seen on her face. She waves exuberantly, her round hazel eyes shining beneath her round-rimmed glasses. “It feels like I haven’t seen you in months, Monty. How are ya?”

I grunt an answer. As I said, I don’t talk much to her.

“Anyway,” she babbles on. “The drama club is putting on a school play. Are you gonna watch it? It’ll be really cool. It’s like Romeo and Juliet, except, cooler. You should’ve auditioned. I’m sure you would’ve gotten Romeo. You’ve got his blonde hair already, and those pretty blue eyes.”

Darcy rocks back and forth on her heels, hands in the pocket of her beige suede skirt as she awaits my answer. As always, she doesn’t receive one. “Monty, you’ve got such nice eyes. It’s like an ocean in there.”

Swerving on my heel, I begin to pace in the opposite direction and away from Darcy. I failed my mission all thanks to her. Ryder is gone, and so is my only chance at finally satisfying the only craving I have.

“Wait, Monty!” she calls after me and races to my side. I don’t look down at her, but she’s got her eyes on me and that dazzling smile on her face. “You’re so tall. I have to look up, up, up to talk to you.”

I stay quiet and let my fingers curl around the Swiss Army knife in my pocket. I don’t say it, but listening to her voice gives me some sort of high.

“That sucks because everyone around me is so tall. Papa. Dedushka. Uncle Abram. Mama’s got height too. I don’t and neither does Babushka,” her laughter is finely tuned to bring a rush of heat to my cheeks and electric shock to my lungs. “Sad, huh? Papa looks especially tall when he speaks Russian. Kinda gives him un air de supériorité. But he always calls me his zvezda. Star.”

“You’re not even short. Plus, you can speak Russian, most girls can’t do that. So if you ask me, you’re odd and grandly fucking irritating to be around.”

I surprise her with my voice. I surprise myself too. My own sounds are foreign to me. Like I forget I even have the ability to form words.

“You think so?”

“That’s a redundant question. I already gave you an answer.”

She giggles, “You’re pretty funny, Monty. Mostly pretty.”

“Hmph, okay.”

Darcy lets her eyes sweep over my face as she breaks out into another grin. I look away before she can tempt a smile out of me.

“Let’s go get ice cream. It’s hot out here.”

“I’m lactose intolerant.”

“When has that ever stopped anyone from having a little fun?”

I steal another glance at her. Instead of replying, I stop and start walking in the other direction, towards a place I hope is an ice cream shop. Darcy is absolutely beaming because she knows it too.

She reaches up on her toes and plants a little kiss on my cheek. It reminds me of Ryder and Stephanie; she kissed him too. I’m guessing he feels this way about her. In the same way, I’m trying not to feel things (good things) about Darcy.

She has my stomach knotted and tangled in all sorts of ways. And it’s weird. Good weird. I don’t get it and I don’t like it.

“You’re my hero, Monty. I’ll be able to get home without melting into a puddle first.”

“Yeah.” I glance down at her. “We wouldn’t want you melting, now would we?”