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Cold

by Larry Carter  
10/07/2007 / Short Stories

With all matters considered, intention is only undermined by circumstance.

It was day one, and my eyes felt darker every minute of staring at that blackboard. First semester chemistry droned on from the time the initial bell rang till the, perhaps, life-saving bell sounded. In fact, the mere repetition of the word "formula" promoted instant and almost perpetual drowsiness, and the monotony of it all couldn't excite me more than watching a faucet drip into a sink.

You might have mistaken the class for slipping into a coma, had you entered mid-class. But something differed on this first day that could not be claimed as usual class behavior. A particular character sat next to me (I had never really noticed him), and he began to stare at me. I woke from my slumber and was disturbed as I shot a concerned look toward him. But as I focused in on him, on the pits of his eyes, they drove into me like hammer on nail. A shiver ran straight down my torso, immediately jerking involuntarily.

He chuckled, leaned into the aisle, and whispered, "Like ice, isn't it?"

In response I answered, "What are you talking about?" He smirked slightly as if amused by my answer.

"What's the matter?" he chuckled again as he lay his head back onto his desk. I left my state of alarm and peered upward; the whole class had fixed their eyes on me as if I had a giant wart on my face or something. They looked at me with blank faces, transfixed upon me with their empty canvases that were once in deep tranquility on the desk tops. The teacher even paused for a moment. All was silent and all was focused on me until the teacher broke the penetrating illusion that I thought I was having.

"All right class, now the formula for ammonium.." Immediately, the class, in harmony, lay their heads onto their wooden beds, some on arms and hands, others didn't bother padding their skulls and slammed their foreheads into eternal comas again.

I was frightened out of my mind, and I almost didn't want to return the following day. But as the bell sounded, I glanced toward the boy that started the whole scene. Nothing was different, most was usual, but I had to find out what this kid was all about.

It was now day two, and my eyes seemed to blink more slowly and even more slowly as our assignment was written on the blackboard. Contemplating the action I was about to take, I plunged into deep thought zoning out of reality,, not noticing that I was focusing on the back of the person seated in front of me. I intended to turn and ask this boy that had stared at me yesterday what his church affiliation was. Although we were off to a rough start yesterday, maybe he would be more open to me if I asked.

I still needed to figure out what was so different about him. And while I earnestly planned my actions on the back of my classmate in front of me, I eased back into the reality that I was still in class. I turned my head toward the boy, expecting to only see his head on the desk; his head was on the desk in sleeping position. But it was also turned toward me and his eyes were wide open, yet again fixed directly upon me.

Why was this boy still staring at me? And so I asked him firmly, "What are you looking at?"

He didn't even twitch. I repeated it again with vigor, but nothing was getting to him. I began to panic; but I looked again into the depths of his eyes. His pupils were opening and closing in again and again, pacing faster with each second. I reached my hand toward his face, my fingertips nearing his pale cheek; I wanted to save him. The tips of my fingers felt like ice as I drew closer and closer to his face. With the smallest amount of space between my hand and his cheek, he shot up and grabbed my wrist forcefully. Trying to pull my hand away, his hand tightened like a vice grip.

He whispered, "If you ever think of touching me again, I'll make sure the rest of you stays that cold too."

His grip ceased, and I pulled back to already see the markings of a forming bruise; then I looked up. Again, as if they were waiting for this to happen, the entire classroom was in a trace that was directed on me. I could've swore that I even saw the inanimate objects on the teacher's desk peering their attention toward me. They seemed to grasp the soul. At this point, all practical reality was slipping away from me, and I lay my head onto my desk, but as soon as I made this action, the unit of them followed the same pattern as the day before. This wasn't so annoying as it was scary. I intended, without argument, not to return to school next day. But glancing over at the same boy, the same complex boy that seemed to be the icebox of the class, I had to know why this was happening.

It was day three; the backs of my eyelids appeared so pleasant as I breathed one deep breath of solitude. But my intentions were still clear in my mind. I was to write a small note without looking a this boy, for the problem seemed to rise only when I met with him eye to eye. The note would contain only one simple question. "What are you?"

The class was again full of sleepiness as I neatly penned the question to a small tear of paper. I set it on his desk and pulled my hand away quickly, feeling him pull it from my possession. My palms were clammy, and my brow was drenched in a cold sweat. I kept rubbing my hands together for warmth, but the coolness was undisturbed even by friction. I turned my head to the right (he was seated to my left) closing my eyes, praying that all would turn out fine, when I heard a sharp clatter on my desk. I rotated my head toward the spot and saw my piece of paper in a frozen almost ice cube form. Something was, in fact, scribbled on the paper tough. I held it closer to my eyes to maybe see it clearer. I read, "What are you?" And a few inches below I muttered silently the answer in dark bold letters, "COLD." Immediately, the paper ice cube was snatched from me and crushed onto my desk by the boy. He stood up staring into me, and he place his hand on my shoulder. I jerked and twitched at the feeling of frost forming on the tips of my fingers. In the midst of the antics, I took a glimpse upward noticing that the whole class, including the teacher, was about to lay their hands on me. They were frozen also, their faces only seen beneath a sheet of ice. I screamed and heated air from my throat was the only thing keeping me alive as they closed their hands over my eyes.

I lifted my head off the desk, my neck aching in places I never knew could ache I lifted my eyes to the classroom, and the students were in complete, uninterrupted nirvana as the usual sleepiness echoed throughout the room. I carefully turned toward the desk where that particular boy had sat; he wasn't there. In fact, no one was sitting in the desk at all. All was quiet except for our teacher and a faint whirring to my right. Again swiveling my head toward the wall to which I sat by, the air conditioner was blowing at a continual steady pace directly at my desk. I smiled, realizing what had happened. Raising my hand, I asked, "Excuse me, do you think you could turn down the a/c? It's a little cold in here. Thank you." The teacher turned the knob to the 'off' position and resumed his monotonous fashion of teaching; and I lay my head gently onto my desk again. It was day one, and my eyes felt darker every minute of staring at that blackboard.

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