"I have pink eye," he says, and he goes on to describe it, in gruesome detail, of course. When he catches my eye, I smile, because I know that he is just fucking with them. He's always just fucking with them.
He attempts to catch my attention by reaching out with his hand while saying, "Yeah, and I was rubbing it with this hand earlier, too," and brushing it against the back of my hand. We are standing a good three feet apart, so he has to step forward a bit first. I look up and call him an asshole, but it's not because of the germs that may or may not exist. It's because of what happened to bring us here; to where he has to fight for my attention. I hide behind my friend of six years so it is easier for me to ignore Captain Hook, and when my friend leaves, my safety shield, I pull out a drama script. It's not because I'm going to study; it's so I can pretend I'm studying. So I don't have to pay attention to Hook.
The pirate, he's conversing with a boy who has no business standing near us about pirates, and a lack of depth perception among pirates in general. They come to the agreement that pirates are extinct (their terminology, not mine) because every time they tried to stab any enemies, they missed.
Captain Hook, he makes an offhanded comment about how he is latino, and, as we all know, latinos make excellent pirates.
"Yes," I say, "that's where all the raping and pillaging comes from." Keep in mind that this is not meant to be racist, and that this is perfectly reasonable within the context of our friendship. If you could call it that at this point.
"Sure, but we're nowhere near as good at it as white people are." He replies, calm, smiling, the way I am. "They've been taking advantage of people for centuries. And they're way better at racism than any of the rest of us."
"Racism!" I laugh out loud. "Don't you get me started on you and racism!" There have been points in our conversations when I have had to yell at Hook and his girlfriend for their mind-numbing racism towards black people. And middle-eastern people. And, well, racism towards pretty much everyone except latinos and whites. Which, of course, has nothing to do with the fact that he's latino and his girlfriend is white.
We're both laughing, though, and he coughs the name of his girlfriend. I smile, remember that I'm supposed to hate him (for the raping and pillaging and whatnot), and return to "studying" my script. The random boy with no business speaking is doing just that again, and Hook, he's talking about stuck-up snotty girls who are eye-patch-ophobic.
"I fucking hate those bitches who are all like 'eew, an eye patch? Eeew.' I'm just like 'yeah, I've got an eye patch, you want one to match?'"
I laugh a little; odd looks didn't bother him before and they certainly shouldn't now.
"You should be used to it by now. You get weird looks all the time."
It's not as mean as it sounds. He wears all black, fixes his hair in a fauxhawk, and is constantly angry. Of course he gets weird looks. This is all that I mean.
"At least I get looks." He smirks and pats my left arm; it is more uncomfortable than I let on. If you want me gone, fine, but fucking be consistant.
He failed to understand that I wasn't insulting him, so I try to explain.
"You know that's not what I meant, you jerk!" I begin, and I continue with bizarre hand gestures and fragmented sentences. "You're always wearing all black and you look so angry faced and people notice that."
He laughs at my attempt and points to his pants. Jeans. The one day he wore normal fucking jeans.
"All black, huh?" and he laughs again. It's hardly my fault.
"Shut up. You know what I meant."
The random boy that does not belong has been shut out by now, and the bell for class has rung. Hook smiles at me, and for a brief moment, I'm convinced it's genuine. I fold up my script and play with it in my hands.
"I'm sorry." I look up at him, and I'm not sure if he's reffering to the looks comment, or to two days ago when he got mad at me for no real reason and called me fat. So I do the only logical thing to do at this point. I shake my fist at him.
"You can shake your fist at me all you want," he says. "We both know you could never hate me."
The shaking continues, and my eyes narrow.
"Maybe not, but I can try."
"I'm sorry," he says, and I sigh, then stare at him a moment.
"Can I have a hug?"
"Sure."
And we hug. He's warm, and I missed him so much more than I let on.
A group walks up to us; a girl hands him a picture of the pirate skull and crossbones. He thanks her and I feel out of place. Some boys come after the first batch leaves, and one of them asks what's up with the patch.
"Pink eye," he says, and they recoil and leave. He watches them, makes sure they are gone and out of earshot, then flips his eyepatch up and says, "Some people are so gullible."
Two perfect brown eyes smile at me underneath, and I laugh.
He's right, I think.
I'm so fucking gullible.