Within/Without

chapter six.

Simon

It's mid-afternoon, maybe 2 or 3-ish (I don't keep track of time all that well) when I reach the coffee shop at the edge of the campus. It's the only one I go to because there's rarely ever anyone in it and their soundtrack is calming and the seat cushions are particularly comfortable. I order just a plain drip and doctor it up with one tin of cream and two packs of sugar, then resign myself to my corner—the one between the Indian-looking wall tapestry and the French doors.

I've just come back from my psych class so my brain is sort of fried and I need a break. I take out my pen—fountain, black ink—and my journal, and set to work.

Words have been coming more easily now. Some days—most days, I should say—it's like taking a shovel to a rock, hoping you'll eventually find something worth your time. Now, though, it's like I've finally hit my stride; I'm running and running and the words are natural, rhythmic, breathing. I inhale and exhale language; I'm everything, I'm nothing.

Maybe what's worrying is that I have felt this all before, and I already know how it ends.

I frown, doodling a square at the edge of the page. Okay. It's a date, then. God, how stupid can I be? There had to have been a cooler way to say that, but I just—God.

A secret worth keeping, I write. A secret worth keeping/Feels the same as one that isn't.

I stare down at my handwriting until it blurs into a blob of illegible ink, until I have lost touch with the world, until I forget where and who I am.

The coffee shop's bell dings as someone enters; I don't think anything of it, until I look up and recognize the 6'1" 205 pound blond guy that walks in, all gamed up in his cycling gear, souped up phone held to his ear. Noah's one of the nerdiest people I know besides myself, but when I look at him in this context, I can sort of understand how no one can tell.

He orders, then goes to wait by the pick-up counter. He hangs up the phone call.

"Noah," I say, and he jolts, looking around. His gaze skips right over me, and that's when I remember that there was some sort of debate event earlier this morning, so I'm Jun at the moment, who is me, except Korean. You'd think it'd be hard to forget when you're not wearing your own face, but you get so used to it that every face feels like your own. "Noah. Psst. Noah?"

Now he peers at me, eyebrows risen. "Shit. Simon?"

"It's—"

"Jun," he says, taking the seat in front of me. He has a navy blue USA hat on, his shades hooked on the collar of his t-shirt. He looks very much like a jock. I think Noah secretly always wanted to be a jock. I don't know why. "Yeah. I know. Debate?"

"Yeah."

"You're crap at that."

"I'm not when I'm Jun."

"Bullshit," says Noah. He glances around for a moment, as if checking to see if the coast is clear—but what of, I can't be sure. "Look, I don't really know or much care how all your face-juggling works, but whatever you look like, you're always Simon to me, and I know for a fact Simon's crap at debate."

I roll my eyes. "You talk too loud."

He casts another quick glance around the room; only one or two people's interest seems to have been piqued, which actually isn't too bad for Noah. He's done much worse. "You know," he says, "I was just about to call you."

"Were you?" I ask, raking a hand back through my hair, which is pitch black and much shorter at the moment. My hands are also different. Broader, more veiny. Very good for weightlifting. "Why?"

Noah opens his mouth to answer, but the barista calls his name, and he gets up for a moment to retrieve his drink. When he sits back down again, he opens the coffee cup's lid for a moment, inspects the drink to make sure that a satisfactory amount of foam sits on the surface of it, then continues. "We have to go home this weekend, Ginger Snap."

A cold anxiousness spreads through me. "What? Why?"

"Dad called me. He said it's Great Granny Etta's birthday and we have to be there. If we don't show up I'm fairly sure he'll be pissed," Noah says, taking a long sip of his latte as if it isn't piping hot. I'm pretty sure he's just numbed his tongue at this point from all the searing coffee he's sucked down in the twenty-five years he's been alive. "Besides. Mom would be sad. Why are you frowning like that? Did you have plans?"

"No."

"Oh, of course you did," Noah says, laughing a bit. His breath is tinged with scents of coffee and sugar. "It's Val, isn't it? You made plans with Val."

I don't say anything, because there is nothing to say. Instead I just stare down at the yellowing pages of the journal, worrying at its cloth tie.

Noah ducks his head, resting it against the table. His ball cap falls off and onto the table, and I silently put it back on for him. "Jesus, Simon. When?"

"Well, I saw her again last night, and—"

"No, dumbass," he says, flicking me in the head hard enough that my skull seems to throb for a moment. "I mean when were you supposed to go out with her?"

"Friday night," I say, a bit timidly.

"Oh, that's definitely not going to work," says Noah, inhaling another half of his coffee. He bangs it down against the table with an odd sense of finality I don't know the meaning for. "We have to be down there by then. Sorry, buddy, but you're gonna have to take a rain check."

"Or," I begin, "or—I could just come late."

Noah stares at me. I stare back at him. He tilts his head. I tilt my head.

"No," he says, which is exactly what I knew what he would say, because both of us know that's the only right answer when it comes to dealing with the rest of the St. Johns. "We're leaving Friday after your last class and that is that. I'm sorry, Simon. I really am."

He isn't. He lives to torture me; he always has.

"Now," Noah says, getting to his feet again. He picks up his coffee and finishes the rest of it in one swig, then ruffles my hair. "I have to be back at the lab in ten. Pizza for dinner?"

I grimace. "I want a sandwich."

"Fine. Sandwiches," he says, turning in the direction of the door. "Good talk, Ginger Snap."

"Jun," I correct with a wary glance around, but the door's already slammed shut after him.