Page 7 of Love is Angry

I’m running now. Past the hallway. Across my room. Everything flashes by me like loose blotches of watercolor. Everything is hazy. By the time I reach the bathroom, it’s all coming up. Lunch. The tackles from hockey practice. Every rock hard boner I’ve had because of Madison Willis. I vomit it out and into the toilet, sweat bursting and covering my face as I struggle to breathe evenly…

Chapter 4

Madison

I managed to push Rhue’s existence into the background, at least for the first day. Naturally, the idea of having to struggle like this till Christmas break on a daily basis makes my skin crawl and fills me with dread, yet I become gradually more aware that this might be my only option, going forward. I have already stated my intent to fight back. It would be cowardly to roll over.

Besides, Rhue doesn’t know a few things. Or he does, and he’s just being a real dick about it. Either way, he’s out for blood and I’m not about to cut my wrists for his pleasure.

I like this place. Ithaca itself is a wonderful town, infinitely smaller than Rochester. My hometown is also infinitely smaller than New York—I used to dream of moving there, so the irony of me going in the opposite direction does not escape me. There is an inherent tranquility that is a part of Ithaca’s identity. Cornell, of course, stands for enlightenment and superior education. It draws a certain kind of reverence; a profound admiration for the town that holds it, and for every person that contributes to the opening of academic doors on a daily basis. Unsurprisingly, I am humbled and grateful for every morning that I wake up to the view from my dorm.

The college campus is a pretty wicked affair, if you’re unlucky. I landed one of the single dormitories in the west wing and have earned with it a little peace of mind.

Below my window, the flowers bloom in hypnotic bursts of fuchsia and crude yellow, the lime green shrubbery trembling softly in the dusky orange glow.

Every single inch of this place is carefully brushed and cleaned, swept and mopped. It’s not obsessive perfection, but it’s still perfection. There is the occasional crooked maple tree or a mismatched pair of rose bushes near the fountain in the middle of the garden area.

I’ve borrowed a copy ofA History of Piratesto read over the weekend. It’s so nice outside that I decide to devour it now. One of the benches closest to the fountain is free, so I curl up on one side with my swashbuckler stories. For the better part of an hour, I forget about everything else.

Cornell’s campus garden hugs me with its lazy rose fragrances and the tinkling of water that gushes and splashes into a delicate, white marble Koi pond, while I read page after page about the real lives of pirates. Of course, this book has a more consistent narrative form and a colloquial, simpleton-friendly style, but it’s a good introduction to a culture that so many films and novels have gotten so horribly wrong. I worry I might get scurvy just from this first chapter.

“Hey, you’re… you’re Madison, right?” A voice I’ve never heard before draws me back into the present. For a hot second, I realize I would have stayed on the ship. My inner ear thinks we’re still cutting the foamy waves of the Atlantic Ocean. I can almost hear the hull moaning and the sailors shouting at one another as they brave a deadly storm.

I look up and find myself staring into the soft brown eyes of a man. He seems young. Maybe as young as me. I’ve seen him in class. A guy like him is hard to miss, after-all. Like something outof a magazine, he’s equipped with broad shoulders and a cleft chin and the sweetest dimples when he smiles. His hair is a light brown with copper reflexes in the setting sun, his eyes two pools of molten chocolate. A handful of freckles is sprinkled over the bridge of his nose and cheeks, just delicate mocha-colored spots which I bet vanish at the first tan.

“Hi. Yeah. Madison Willis,” I say.

“I’m Cameron Kennedy,” he replies, putting on a bright smile as he offers a hand for me to shake.

Again, my reactions are slow. I promised myself I’d be a different Madison here, yet I end up doing the same thing. Losing my words. Gawking. Slowing down to the point where people assume I may require medical assistance. More than once, I’ve been asked if I’m having a stroke. It’s so hard for me to explain how hard it is for my brain to include socializing in its daily processes.

I’ll finish this book in a couple of hours, even though its official reading time would be somewhere around nine-and-a-half hours. My brain is great at snapping shots and jumping across pages of text without losing any of the information that it gathers along the way. Yet a handsome guy with chocolate brown eyes and a magazine smile manages to make me stutter.

“Ken-Kennedy?” I say.

“There’s some relation, yes, but distant,” he chuckles. “I hope that’s not a problem.”

“Why would it be a problem?”

He meant it as a joke, and I took too long to catch on. “I was just trying to lighten the mood,” Cameron replies, deciding to be the better man while I breathe a sigh of relief. “Most people usually just gasp and swoon whenever I confirm a family connection to the big’uns.”

“Are you interested in pursuing a political career?”

“No. God, no. I’ve got like… two distant uncles in Congress, already. A third one lobbying for all the wrong people. No. I think the best of what we had to give as a dynasty died about forty years ago. All we’re left with now are good intentions and huge shoes to fill.” He pauses briefly then shakes his head. “Here I am, already yapping about the very people I was hoping I wouldn’t allow myself to yap about.”

I can’t help but laugh. Cameron is as nervous as I am. It’s almost endearing. Such a big name, so handsome, too, yet he’s just as awkward and eager to interact. To talk to people, even when everything about him tells me he’d rather just curl up with a pirate book on a bench somewhere.

“It’s okay. Our families tend to haunt us and follow us around,” I tell him, trying to smile in a manner that suggests warmth and friendship. “History kind of sticks.”

That statement comes with a heavy shudder. I know a thing or two about history and one’s inability to shake it. Hell, I stumbled upon one of my ghosts in this very place, just eight hours ago.

My mind darts back to Rhue, and the day’s effort suddenly crumbles. I was doing so well…

“Thing is… I had a better way of introducing myself in mind. I saw you in class today, and thought we should get to know each other,” Cameron says. “If there’s one thing my grandpa taught me that I like to stick to, it’s to watch out for the quiet ones.” His words give me pause, and I–I just stare at him. “It’s the quiet ones who have the best stories.”

I’m laughing a little too hard at that. Sure, I’ve got tales of my own, but I doubt they qualify. Especially since the most interesting stories are also the most painful ones to tell.

“You just seem like you could use a friend,” Cameron adds.

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