Donnie Huberant, the high school's infamous nobody, was a senior. And as if there was anything more valuable than his name, it was the fact that he was indeed a star at badminton. Maybe too much, overstaying his stay and overshooting his value, yet he didn't shine. He was the hollow and dead kind of star, what people called 61 Cygni AB (or in Cygnus), the dimmest star visible to the naked eye in the night sky. His parents considered him more of a "lost cause," "wasted potential," or "what could have been."
It was depressing, truly. He could have been great.
If anything, he didn't give a jackshit about astronomy. That was an interest too Barnaby-like for his tastes. Though he had somehow found himself in a first-semester astronomy class.
It sucked.
He could only thank God that it was only one semester. He pretty much waited the entire semester before cramming his homework (which included a coloring worksheet of some thirty-something pages) into the last week or two before the deadline due to an early onset of senioritis. His teacher somehow still accepted it for credit, which made him wonder if his teacher ever gave them a good look.
In fact, he received credit in full. But that was probably only because it was homework.
His captions and explanations were unoriginal, and it appeared as if he was doing great when, in reality, it was hell.
"Forget it," he often said. "It's a sunk cost," which meant it was an investment already incurred that couldn't be recovered. Even ChatGPT couldn't help him. He input all sorts of prompts, telling it, if not forcing it, to "Color Mars to the best of your ability." He made sure to add in, "Be as accurate as possible." Those were the direct instructions written on his worksheet, but ChatGPT hadn't gained the ability to color. Yet. He was sure it would happen eventually, but he was the type to always be out of luck.
Time proceeded forward as finals closed, and he somehow managed to end the class with a grade no lower than an A-.
A very low A-. But an A- was an A-. He took it.
Although it was far from beneficial in a college-preparatory unweighted class, especially at a private high school built on the foundations of success, he felt he was doing just fine, and no one could discredit that.
Not even Barnaby.
But even as friends, they had their disagreements.
As a rabid Taylor Swift fan, he called anyone who disagreed with his worship of Swift as if she were a goddess "a swine." He adored her, and his unchanged and unshifting worldview pissed countless people off, most notably Barnaby Ontorio, a classmate who much preferred a roar. He felt Donnie was just abusing it as an excuse to be "stuck up."
Donnie valiantly disagreed and considered such remarks every bit of his freedom.
Despite their opposing musical opinions, they both had orchestra as a class during their first period. They were both violinists. Although one was clearly better than the other, or so it was self-proclaimed, they appeared to be friends, acquaintances, perhapsâ?"just enough to be in the know-how.
It was Friday.
"So what are your plans for the weekend?" Barnaby asked with slight curiosity as they neared the exit, heading towards the junior parking lot of their school. It was always better to ask.
"I got badminton," he said, sounding a tad grumpy. He just about had practice every day. Yet being the cocky kind he was, he simply played to kick asses; the technicalities and requirements to be an active and attending member stuck more like a thorn in his side. He was ready for the weekend.
"Tomorrow? Sunday?" Barnaby asked in continuation.
"No. Today," he said, only to let out a sigh.
"Well, for your information, today's not the weekend, or at least I don't consider it as such." Barnaby sighed. "Friday's a weekday." He expressed it in such a manner that the word weekday appeared to be verbally broken down into its syllable parts.
Week day.
"So you staying after school?"
Barnaby was the type to be a stuck-up know-it-all, the type to dress properly for school, abiding by all the rules. He was a head shorter than Donnie and a junior. In his mind, he still had time to grow, except he had just about told himself that exact line since middle school. There's still time! However, it appeared that that time never came. On occasion, he came to wonder how he got himself tied up with the likes of Donnie, someone a grade older than him and half as smart, but he had the orchestra to blame.
Rawlinson, he expressed with internal spite. He was going bald anyway. Why did Donnie have to play the violin?
They paced back and forth a few times in near silence and subtle conversation as they awaited the clock to strike three, when most parents arrived. Barnaby's parents were the type to call upon arrival. Class ended at around 2:40, plus or minus a few minutes. The warmth of the sun could be felt as it warmed the atmosphere, with cool breezes of slight wind occasionally overtaking. It dispersed the heat as heat radiation came in waves. Yet despite the subtle oncoming coolness, Donnie maintained his stance on wearing shorts even though the occasional gust of wind caught him shivering. The feeling of air running up one's leg was better left undescribed.
Riot Society. It was just about the only brand Donnie seemed to wear willingly. Even on the hottest days, he could be seen wearing his geisha hoodie in black, but given its aged nature, it was thoroughly grayed.
"I'm going to the front of the school. It's cooler there. Wanna come?" Barnaby offered. The heat was getting to him.
"Eh. Sure, why not?" he responded. He didn't seem to care.
They wandered into the school's halls as they made their way toward the school's foyer, where most gathered. It was either that or the power courtyard, which housed a couple of green tables, some trees, and not much else. It was a lot more peaceful there.
"So your parents picking you up here?" Donnie asked.
"Nah. Just bored. But probably." Neither of them knew how to drive.
They wandered down the school's halls only to cross Barnaby's sophomore chemistry teacher, Ms. Tobbagi, who was sauntering down the halls. She was in no rush as she walked in a two-step to-and-fro. She was wearing her iconic beige flats, brand unknown, and even with such down-to-the-floor shoes, she was taller. She was practically a giraffe. They crossed every so often that way.
It was Friday. Everyone was going home.
"Hi!" Barnaby acknowledged, sounding sweet. He raised his right hand in recognition. As a student in her class, he had almost always been the one to fall asleep, and she was the type to just let it go. It was his grades and his education anyway. Wasn't her problem. But in terms of keeping in touch with teachers, that was his strong arm.
She waved. "Any weekend plans?" She was heading towards the staff room, just right next to the water dispenser.
"Nope!" he responded, sounding a tad weary. "I'll probably finish my homework for Tuesday. Get ahead of schedule, you know?" The second part of his remark sounded a lot more muffled, and he chuckled. As a junior-year student, an answer like his was to be expected.
"Well, I hope you can find some time for yourself. Take some time to relax, you know?"
Ah, if only, he thought. "You?"
"I'll probably take my dogs out for a walk or something. You know, get some sun." The door to the staff room would be open. "Well, I hope you have a restful weekend!" And she was off.
"Who was that?" Donnie asked.
"Chem teacher." It was nothing too exciting. Past a frame of doors, they entered the foyer, where awaiting students were in constant decline, their population thinning. A vibrating jolt captured Barnaby's attention. It came from his phone.
"Hey, give me a second," he said. "I think someone's calling me." He reached into his hoodie's front pocket as he withdrew his phone. It was his mom. "What's up?"
"Hey Sondee." Sondee was a mother-made nickname. He didn't understand how such a name could be derived from Barnaby, but given that it was from his mother, he accepted it. "I'm at the front of the school."
"Alright. I'll be there in a minute."
"No rush. Just understand they'll probably have me pull forward, so I'll probably be a ways right."
"Mhm. Sounds good." His mother drove a white Toyota Camry with splatters of black like a panda. It was smooth yet rigid, plagued with what Barnaby liked to consider unnecessary folds. "Well, see you in a bit!"
He hung up. By then, Donnie had already wandered off, examining the art pieces pasted on boards on display. It was typical of a school like theirs, always trying to find a way to exemplify student achievement.
He gently tapped Donnie on the shoulder, giving him a nudge. "Hey Donnie, I gotta go."
"Mhm. I'll walk with you." They passed through the school's steel-framed doors with tempered glass. Instead of a handle, it was more of a push-down-and-out handlebar. It took a hefty push. He had already begun indulging in Spotify, listening to Taylor Swift's Red through his AirPods. It was always one in and one out, with his right ear always being the one to be plugged up.
"Well, there's my mom," Barnaby noted. He could practically see his mother from a mile away, idly sitting in her car, gazing off into the distance without a care. She looked bored, but if asked, she would likely respond with something along the lines of, "How else am I supposed to look? I'm not looking for a husband." The ginormous frames of her sunglasses, too bold and out there for a face her size, made her distinct. "Well, I guess I'll see you Monday!"
"Mhm. Bye." He looked down at his phone, then up, before proceeding to make a half-wave. It was an answer classifiable as instinctive of sorts. It was one just about anyone could pull off, even though it was only a good five minutes after Barnaby left before they started texting.
"Well, good luck with badminton!" he said. He opened the car door before hopping into the backseat.
"Thanks. And it's not like you could ever beat me," Donnie responded. He smiled.
"Sure. Then let's set up a time to play."
Violin in hand, he pulled the car door towards him, shutting it.
"Now, don't you die on me!"
They laughed.
And pretty soon he was off.
"Well, how was your day?" his mother asked. She was always curious about matters like these, even though it was likely just the result of habit. It had become habitual, to say the least.
"It was alright. Suffice it to say, I'm alive."
She laughed.
"Same."
With Barnaby gone, Donnie was alone once more as he began to gaze off into the almost cloudless sky. He withdrew his AirPod case with a kawaii bubble tea design from his pocket for his other AirPod before stowing it back away. It was decorated with pink cheeks with diagonal blush lines and a few flat circular balls of boba. He tucked his phone beneath his arm, right up against the pit, before relocating it into his dominant right hand. He coughed a little as he brought his attention back to his phone. He looked up.
Well, I guess I'll head back to the parking lot, he thought. At least within the bounds of the junior lot, he had a place to rest. There was a newly built, almost bus stop-like structure with heating for cold days. Other than rainy days, it was never fully occupied, but it was never empty. Except today, it was.
Friday. Home. Fun. It all made sense, like a chain reaction, but he was here to stay. He reopened Spotify as he made for a more subtle tune. Upon the completion of Red, Spotify had gone off-road, and it was his job to be the conductor. He didn't know where the train was headed.
It played Trippie Redd, a whole other kind of red. Blasphemy. He quickly changed it to Taylor Swift's Love Story. Taylor's version. Given that there was no use in re-entering from the front of the school, he began to make his way over to the parking lot, gripping his phone tightly in his right hand. He passed by parked cars as he weaved between them for the sake of being extra, only to commit fully to walking on the road.
He had time to spare.
Repositioning himself back onto the reemerging gray sidewalk of a lighter tone, almost shark-colored, he found his way past a mint green fence before making his way into the waiting area, given he wasn't going home.
He arrived.
The waiting area, or rest shelter, was made with panels of tempered glass on all four visible sides. It had a doorless entrance, a compliment to the ability to gaze off into the outside. But hardly anything passed him by. It was as if the world lay still.
Stowing his phone away in his empty left pocket before settling and setting his backpack down beside him, he pulled out his green-and-orange camo-print Superdry wallet from his backpack's front zipper pocket, unzipping it before he removed a passport-sized photograph of a girl from one of the card slits. His wallet, when opened in full, read "Superdry" in protruding bold orange font with words in another language above that he simply couldn't read. R. The letter R, capitalized, lay above the letter y, lowercase, as it hung in the upper right-hand corner. It meant trademark. There was even a period. A dot.
He smiled.
The girl in the photograph held a letter clearly cut from a piece of regular printer paper that had been written on. She held it up for all to see. The words were hardly visible. If anything, he had written it.
He held it up to the sun as if it were a picture frame, knowing that it was soon to set. It was circular and flowing. Unlike him, it glowed. Pretty as ever, he thought.
He flipped it over to the backside, where the surface remained generally white, a tad coffee-stained, and the front a tad smudged by fingerprints, many of which were his own. Yet of the four corners, one was cut, one bent, and one stainedâ?"one remained fresh, new, and intact. It remained crisp and white and pointed to the touch, and for him, that came to symbolize hope.
On the back, it read in written yet illegible words, that of his handwriting, "Donnie x Isabelle, love is...
The last word, which had once been "forever," had the first three letters crossed out and replaced with the letter "n." Love is never, and badminton was later that afternoon.