"He is Half of My Soul, as the Poets Say."

This story mentions death, insomnia/insomniac tendencies, mentions of food, mentions of 9/11, war, and covid.

“So, what’s the catch?” I asked. Mr. Lin turned away, from the whiteboard, a twinkle of interest in his eyes. His eyes. Oh, how beautiful they were. His eyelids met with his cheeks somewhere in between the middle of his eyes and the corners. Mr. Lin is my history teacher. He’s older, so he can speak first-hand about some of the topics: The Vietnam War, 9/11, and the Coronavirus. He claims that he even met Micheal Jackson!

“The catch, Indigo, is that you have to work on the project with someone you don’t know. It can even be done with someone in a different grade, a neighbor, or even one of the staff in this building. But if you decide on a teacher, they have to be someone you know but don’t have a connection with,” Mr. Lin explained. 

Okay, I can work with that. I nod and look back down at the paper on my desk; it’s slightly crumpled. Marcus had passed out the assignment papers. Marcus was one of the “Popular” kids, always picking on the LGBT students. Or the “abnormal” ones. Unfortunately, I fall into both categories, making me a perfect candidate for him and his lackeys to use as practice with their idiotic insults that make no sense most of the time. 

“How did Greek mythos play a part in life in Greece and Greek culture?” I mumble the question out loud. I pick up my pen, but before I can write down something with Achilles, the bell rings.

“Alright then, this assignment is due by the end of the month. Have a good weekend everyone,” Mr. Lin pauses for a moment. “Indigo, please stay for a moment,” he adds quickly when he sees me zip my bag after putting my pencil case away. I hesitate for a moment, but sigh and walk over to his desk.

“What’s up, Mr. Lin?” I ask when the class had finished filing through the door; a loud slam echoed through the large classroom. He sighed and took off his glasses, setting them on the desk that was in between us.

“I want you to work with Mr. Browne. I feel as though the both of you could get along, and he could use the company,” Mr. Lin looked worried, to say the least. Why would Mr. Browne need company? “His wife died…his step-kids went to go live with their father,” Mr. Lin continued, he must have seen the confused expression on my face. 

He put his glasses back on and opened a drawer in his desk; taking out the orange pad of passes and writing on the top one. Students began to fill the classroom as Mr. Lin handed me the pass. I took it and walked out of the room just as the bell rang again, signaling that the 8th period has just started. 

Before I entered the Home Economics classroom I stopped and read what Mr. Lin had written. 

Thomas, I am deeply sorry for your losses, but please let this child help you. Indigo has been the kindest and most understanding student in this building I have ever met in my 30 years of working here. Please. They can help, but only if you let them. 

That’s sweet, but how could I possibly help? I know nothing about coping with loss. Nevertheless, I reluctantly opened the door. 

“-The end results should- Oh hello there, Indigo. Do you have a pass?” Mr. Browne looked more tired than usual, and that's saying something. I looked around the classroom and nobody seemed to have been paying attention to us. I nod and walk over to hand him the late pass.

 When he takes it to read the lengthy note at the bottom, I look at his desk and the trashcan next to it; almost halfway filled with disposable coffee cups. I knew that Mr. Browne had a coffee maker in the room so he could drink the bitter, caffeinated liquid throughout the day, but this was the first time I had entered the class with the trashcan being this full; it was concerning, given the circumstances. 

“Thank you, Indigo. You may go sit down now, next to Hector,” Mr. Browne sniffled and gestured to the table with an empty seat. A student- Hector- raised their hand slightly and waved. I smiled slightly and walked over to the table, pulled the seat out slightly, and sat. 

“My name is Hector,” They said plainly. I nodded, acknowledging them. I was too worry-focused on Mr. Browne, who now was walking back to the front of the classroom, a new cup of coffee in hand.

“As I was saying, we are going to be baking my favorite dessert, with a twist. You have to work with the person at your station to make a new recipe from scratch,” He explained, obviously fighting a yawn mid-way through. I ignored the whispers coming from next to me, trying to assess Mr. Browne’s current mental state. Keyword: Trying. I couldn’t fully focus with Hector bothering me. Thankfully Mr. Browne was finished explaining the assignment, so I turned to Hector. 

“Hi, Hector. My name is Indigo. I use they/him pronouns, preferably they/them,” I introduced myself, Hector was a student whom I had never met. Hector was from the special education department of the school; I’ll have to find out why soon.

“It’s nice to meet you, Indigo. My name is Hector, as you know, and my pronouns are he/him,” Hector smiled. His smile. He’s gorgeous. I could just swim in those fern-green pond-like eyes for hours, willingly drowning in them when I lose energy. I can hear people around us getting out of their seats and moving around, opening cabinets and letting them slam shut. I don’t move. I’m entranced by his beauty. 

After a few moments, he clears his throat, startling me slightly. I chuckle awkwardly and adjust my glasses and tuck a few strands of rusty-orange hair behind my ear. I assure myself that Mr. Browne will be fine as I stand up and walk over to the oven. I loot around in one of the cabinets, taking the container of sugar, and the container of flour down. After setting the dry ingredients up on the counter, I move to the refrigerator.

“Oh- I am lactose intolerant, just to let you know,” Hector announced after I had gotten the eggs onto the counter. I usually put milk into my brownies instead of water- makes them a bit gooier, just as Mr. Browne likes them. Hector must know this.

“We can stick to water. Or, we can substitute,” I supply. Hector pauses for a moment, weighing the decisions. 

“Well, what do we have that we can use?” I check the fridge.

“Coconut milk or oat milk,” I hope he chooses coconut milk. The recipe I have in my head calls for a bit more milk than usual, oat milk makes the texture a bit chalky, whereas coconut milk makes it sweeter and fluffier. 

“Coconut milk, definitely. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to know that coconut milk is superior to oat milk,” He smiles and reaches for a bowl from one of the cabinets. I set the carton of coconut milk on the counter and walk over to him, grabbing the bowl for him. I’m about 3 inches taller than him- 5’9 

“Just a person with lactose intolerance,” I joke as I hand him the bowl. He smiles and I look at the clock. 2:15 It's the last class of the day, so we have enough time to play around. Hector takes the bowl and moves over to a table, the dry ingredients already set up. 

“Or a vegan,” He declares as he begins to scoop a cup of flour.