Black Velvet (19) (Patreon)

"Why are you crying?"

It took me a moment, Tobias’ steady voice cutting into my frustration in a wonderfully distracting manner. There was a way that my stomach lit with nerves that day in fifth grade — when he spoke to me for the first time, a light that hasn't dimmed throughout the years. 

Why was my brother's older, cooler — best friend talking to me?  

Sunlight reflected off of his eyes — and that was the day I saw the storm clouds in him. Before then, I'd always thought his irises were definite black, a sheen to them like black licorice scented markers.  I'd been mistaken, and the sob that quaked in my throat died around wonder and curiosity at the soft, dove-like shade hidden in them.

He waited patiently for a response, linking his fingers like an adult — something so unlike the eighth graders I had met before.  Flecks of slate grey danced around his dilated pupil, brows gathering and darkening the iris with its shadow.  

I don't know when I had started crying.  

All I knew was that I had read six books on neutron stars, fell in love with the concept of binary systems, and sold fifteen gallons of lemonade to enter the Jameson science fair. I even spent the rest of my earnings buying a cheap plastic wagon to transport the model two neighborhoods over safely.

— but there I was, hands full of broken components and hard work. I shook my head and continued to retrieve my shambled project from the ground in an effort to hide my face, hoping maybe the concrete would open up and suck me in.

I was crying in front of Tobias Amadeus. How lame — and for what?

I had skinned my knee on the pavement, but the wound was superficial at best, just a warm sting;  

I think what I was feeling was a disappointment, a leering sense of discontentment at the thought of forfeiting my desire to impress my parents, my peers, and hopefully myself — as my projects were the only part of me capable of doing so.

"I spent all summer on it,"   I said finally, staring at Tobias's scuffed baseball shoes. My voice was dejected and hoarse, embarrassed that the older boy had caught me in tears.  I motioned towards the mess of Styrofoam and paint specks on the sidewalk, fishing line, and a Popsicle stick that had snapped in half near his feet. 

"I haven't seen you cry before,"  Tobias wrinkled his nose as he inspected the pieces, hands dangling loosely between his knees where he'd crouched down. "I thought you had hurt yourself."   He said as he stood, eyes still trained on the broken model of Alpha Andromedae. 

"They only have one fair a year."   I pushed my finger against the ragged edge of the Popsicle stick, mostly speaking aloud,  "... this year is the first year I've been old enough."

The dark-haired preteen ran a steady hand over the rest of the project. "Your main star is fine."  He pointed out, motioning towards the identical styrofoam piece that was planted in its galaxy cardboard background. "You can still enter."

I shook my head.

"It's not the main star." I dug a folded paper from my back pocket, flattening it against my knee hurriedly. I point to the diagram, "It's a binary star,"  I protested, warm tears prickling with new fervor in the corners of my eyes.  

He tilted his head, eyes flickering down to the paper in my lap before they bored into me curiously.

I took another breath, 

"They orbit together, so when they shine, they look like one star —" I grunted mid-sentence and palmed my eyelids, knowing fully well I was boring him with the information.  "The other one's platform broke."

"... Crying won't fix something that's broken,"  he was ever-patient, assessing the situation with his hands then pushed down into his pockets.  "Tears aren't hands."

 "I know but,"  I knew, but couldn't help it,  "my parents aren't home."  I finished meekly.

"Why does it matter if your parents are at home?"  He asked, gaze shifting to my reddening knee as I pulled myself up from the ground.  I glanced up to see him watching with an intense frown. 

"I can't use the hot glue gun,"  I whispered docilely, picking up the broken bits from the pavement, "I can't use it unless my parents are home.  I won't be able to bring this to the fair."

Tobias gave me a long, hard look.  His lip quirked as he bent down and wrapped the fishing line tight around his finger.  It left white stripes as he loosened it.

"Is that their rules?"  He asked, but there was an air of mischievousness to his tone. I nodded, and he rolled his shoulders back as he took hold of my wagon's steer stick. "Is that why you're crying?"

"Yes."

"My parents aren't home," Tobias tugged the wagon and motioned for me to follow,  "I'll fix your star."

—

This is bad.

I'm a tangle of wild hair and limbs as I erupt from the comfort of my bed. I throw myself towards the closet, grabbing my Sweet Spot t-shirt and hopping from one foot to the next — into my laced shoes by my bedroom door.  

I can't get him out of my head.

The sneakers rub my heels as I try to force them into accepting my feet without being untied — because hello, I'm not bending down.

My phone chimes with another alert from my back pocket. Usually, I'd be annoyed, but thank God for Nic's tirade of middle of the night texts, or I would've never woken up on time.    I forgot to set my alarm, I never forget to set my alarm — but here I am, one arm out of my pajama shirt and one into my work shirt with thirty minutes to spare.

Car keys, car keys, where did I put my car keys?

It's a silent mantra as I struggle to remember where I had placed them hours before, brain shot, and frazzled from lack of sleep and the conversation that had taken place beforehand. 

— because Tobias, oh Tobias, had a way of offsetting every nerve in my stupidly over-energized body.

I shake my head, but can still feel the warm prickle of goosebumps on the back of my neck from Tobias' heated glance as he assessed me, waiting for a response when he assumed, correctly, the extent of my sexual proclivities. 

— and how was that becoming the norm? 

"Screw you, stupid Tobias."  I mutter, "What gives you the right?  I could totally be,"  I'm near simpering, nearly smacking myself in the nose as I gesture angrily,  "the least virginy virgin of all male nineteen-year-olds."  

I know fully well that the unset alarm wasn't his fault, or the misplaced keys — or my virginity,

God, when did that start to sound like some sort of illness?

It didn't when Tobias had stated it frankly, tone low and rolling against me like a breeze on exposed skin. It sounded sinful because he was just the type to take something pure and blister and bruise it until it was dark and heady. 

... The groceries.

"Shit!"

I swear that my work shirt must have shrunk in the load I washed two nights ago because it's proving to be quite the task to shove my head through the thin material.  I bolt blindly down the narrow hall, shirt half over my face.  Of course, this ends with a full-body slam into the bannister, and a half-naked me sprawled against the top three stairs.

"Oliver Abernathy!"  My dad bellows from beneath my feet, sounding much angrier through plywood in his half-woken state.  "It's three in the fucking morning — for Christ's sake! What the hell are you doing?"

I cringe, peeling myself off the wooden fixture. Something about being scolded by parental figures always calms my inner spaz to a moderate lack of cool. Okay, well—

Maybe I'm not exactly Grade A sex on a stick, but who needed hanky panky when you were this uncoordinated — and had science, baked goods, and space, right?   

Oh my God, Nic stole my sex drive in the womb —

And who says hanky panky?

Feeling like this is a legitimate concern, I decide to assess it further when I'm fully dressed, and there aren't fifty dollars in groceries spoiling in my backseat.

Fifty dollars, I grimace, thinking of the small dent that put in my savings, it's still a dent—a marginal waste of money.

I finally realize that I've been trying to push my head through the space specifically meant for my much smaller arm, and groan to myself — standing on sleep wobbly legs and bouncing down the stairs.

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