Saturday's Storyteller: "That means death."

by Belinda Roddie

"That means death."

Kayla raised her head from her notebook, her left shoulder buried deep into the pillow of her bed. She looked at me cautiously as I pointed at the screen of my laptop. "What?"

"That Japanese character, right there? It means death." I gestured at the kanji. "Shi. Death."

Kayla smiled, exposing very white teeth between two browned lips. "I didn't know you were into Japanese."

"I'm not," I replied, "but it's Freddy's new tattoo. Cheery, isn't it?"

Kayla hopped down from her bed to see the Facebook picture. When she laughed, I could feel a certain relief breeze through the empty spaces in my chest. "For a guy who plays French horn in concert band and has a crew cut," she observed, " 'Shi' is a little dark for his character, don't you think?"

We were supposed to be working on a research project together, but of course, Kayla had resorted to doodling in her notebook and I had gone onto the typical social networking sites. Downstairs. Mrs. Brody was watching a movie with her wife, something most likely adapted from very British literature. I had gotten accustomed to living with them after my parents had kicked me out, and now, the homework sessions were beginning to feel more natural, too. Especially when my partner was Kayla.

I was amazed that I hadn't even spoken to her before. Half-Iranian and half-Dutch, she was amazingly smart and practical, certainly very different than Rosie had been with her pale skin and red hair. Kayla was also a short and stout kind of girl, rotund around the waist with a round face that gleamed with excitement whenever she was tackling a subject she liked. Her very dark hair, her big eyes, and her grin beneath her nose all stood out to me. That, and her incredibly voluptuous thighs. I, of course, didn't try to show that I was looking at her legs in particular.

"So, what've you been working on there?" I asked innocently, staring at the scribbled binder paper and seeing more words than drawing. "A new comic? Or maybe some actual schoolwork?"

She stuck her tongue out at me. "Actually, I've been frittering away with poetry," she said. "Silly, I know. But maybe it's because I hang out with you all the time."

I arched an eyebrow. "But I don't write any poetry at all."

"Maybe not," said Kayla, shrugging, "but I feel like you've got a side of you that screams poetic."

"Maybe Mrs. Brody's rubbing off on me," I joked. "Who knows.

Kayla set down her notebook and scooted closer to me, watching as I clicked through my friends list. It had, admittedly, gotten a bit smaller in the past few weeks. Rosie, in a last ditch effort to prove to her parents that she was straight, had not only unfriended me, but had also untagged herself in my photos while removing the ones she had put up of us. A few other "friends" were gone, too, especially when one such "pal" had typed "Homo Romo" on my Facebook wall, as cheap knock-off attack using my last name. He was gone in a flash, and of course not before I lay into him with the power of my keyboard.

"So are we going to work?" asked Kayla, nestling her head against my shoulder. "Or are we gonna keep idling until the last minute?"

I smiled faintly. Kayla felt very warm against me. It was enough to get my palms sweaty.

"I don't mind some procrastination," I heard myself whispering.

This week's prompt was provided by Lyz Reblin.