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Travis is used to the routine by now. In fact, he's better at it than he's ever been; he can avoid detection without breaking a sweat and he can pump out poems at the speed of light.
Usually he just writes them at home, but he's started feeling brave enough to write them after his schoolwork is finished between classes, and then slip a few into Sal's locker.
He's been doing this since the new school year started and he's got no end in sight. If it makes Sal happy, makes him hold the little notes to his chest and sigh, then Travis isn't about to stop anytime soon.
He looks down at the new poem he's written;
Of azure locks, of sky-wide eyes; boy in black clothing; silhouetted against the stars; what imaginations are mine; to see you with eyes closing; to want a love that could be ours.
It's not very good, but it's an end-of-the-school-day poem, so it's not really meant to be a gourmet meal. Really, it's just meant to be a little reminder of someone thought of you for Sal to take home with him.
If there was ever a way to make up for the awful things he's said to Sally Face, he hopes these notes do at least half the job. He wants to take back every word. Every single horrible thing he's ever said or done to Sal and his friends… but he can't. So he keeps his head down, he keeps his mouth shut, and if Ashley Campbell needs a pencil, he's lending her one even if it's the only one he has.
And he writes Sal his love poems. Sal deserves them.
-
Another day, another headache… Travis sighs and fights to ignore the way the school's lighting burns behind his eyes as he leaves the classroom. The loud voices filling the halls doesn't help, but he keeps his frustration to himself.
At least it's almost eighth period now. Just one more hour and then he'll be in a car on his way home. Hopefully Father won't be around… It's not unusual for the man to spend hours on end in the church, so Travis doesn't feel too hopeless.
He avoids touching the people around him as he makes his way to his locker. Used to be he would just shove his way through and shoulder check anybody dumb enough to be in his way. Now he makes himself small.
His locker is right between his seventh period and eighth period classes, which he's still happy about, so he makes it there quickly, opening it, throwing his book in, grabbing the next, and-
Wait. He didn't put that in there.
There's a little envelope in his locker. It's a powder blue color and has holographic stickers where the stamp would be. In an unfamiliar handwriting is his own name just beneath, surrounded by tiny, raggedly-painted hearts.
Travis blinks at it. Then he shoves it into his pocket and makes a bee-line for the boys' bathroom.
His shoes against the floor feel a little too loud and the people around him feel a little too quiet. He can feel his heart beating in his chest, anxiety souring its way up his throat. Why he's having such an intense reaction, he doesn't know, but it's getting a little hard to breathe.
The note in his pocket feels heavy. Why the hell did someone give him a letter? It's probably some awful prank - it'll be someone trying to get back at him for all his years of being a shitty brat to everyone. Yeah, it has to be. He knows it.
Swallowing hard, he pulls the stall door closed and takes the letter back out to look at it again. The stickers are from some Sickalodeon cartoon - he doesn't get to watch cartoons at home, but he's seen a few hours of the channel's programming at another house while working on a group project, so he recognizes the figures, just not the names.
It's… cute. And so is the handwriting his name is printed in. It's not cursive, but there's a few loops on the capital T and P that make it look fancy. The hearts look like they were done with a dry paintbrush.
He turns it around, but there's nothing on the other side. Just the sharp zag of where the envelope has been sealed.
He bites his lip and carefully - carefully - opens the envelope.
Though he winces, nothing happens. He's not sure what he expected - a cloud of poison? Ugh. Face hot in embarrassment, he carefully pulls the paper out of the envelope. The paper is just regular lined paper out of a journal, at contrast with the fancy envelope it came in. There's even still a few tiny strips of paper stuck on the end from where it was torn out of the journal.
The note is, of course, addressed to him.
Dear Travis, it says. He's too afraid to look down at the bottom, afraid to see a name (or no name), so he simply reads on:
Sunlight is a bad memory. Blue skies turn red in bright sun, dry grass grows wet with [the next word is scratched out] . Sirens. It makes me afraid. Sunlight is good, but it makes me afraid.
Travis blinks. This isn't what he was expecting at all. Is this meant to be poetry - or a threat? He shakes his head with a confused huff, then grows very still and quiet as the door opens and a boy walks in. He goes back to the letter.
Fear is a comforting memory. Fear is familiar. When blue skies stay blue, I wait for sirens. It's easier. The grass needs sunlight, but I'm afraid and I don't like being proven wrong because for a moment I was safe I was safe I was safe and the next I was proven wrong. I like you. I am afraid.
'I like you.' Travis swallows hard. Nobody likes Travis. That's not possible. Even just walking down the halls, he still gets glares - worse ones now that it's late in the year and people know he's not going to hurt anyone. This is a prank. An… oddly involved prank. It has to be.
Still, he continues reading.
You are sunlight. It's comforting to see you that way, brilliant and bright, even hidden behind clouds. Will the sky turn red? It's been so long since we talked, but the gift of your voice graces me daily. Will the sky turn red? You know, when I see him, the profile of his face, isn't he handsome? My friend laughs at me as I blush. Will the sky turn red?
I like you. Thank you for the poetry.
Travis' heart falls out of his ass. If it weren't for the guy washing his hands outside the stall, he'd scream.
I wanted to write some for you too. I'm not very good at it, but I hope you understand the message. Your notes have made life a lot easier and have done a lot for my self-esteem, but I still feel nervous about your intentions. I can see you trying to change and I'm proud of you. But I can't help but think - "will the sky turn red?" It's deeper than your past, too. My past is far from perfect.
Anyways, your feelings aren't completely unrequited. It's taken me months to decide this, but… If you want to hang out or something, I do too. Call me.
And, it's signed, in loopy script, Sal Fisher a.k.a. Sally Face. Beneath the name is a phone number.
Travis blinks. He blinks again.
"Holy shit," he breathes. He's suddenly very glad the guy is gone, because, "Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!"
Sal Fisher knew it was him all along. Oh, God. Sal Fisher knew it was him all along. Sal Fisher knew-
"Holy shit!"
And he wrote him back. Sal Fisher wrote him a love poem.
Or, well, a like poem. Something like a like poem.
He's late to eighth period now, but Travis finds himself grinning the whole way to the classroom. He's not going to be able to process a word in this class, but that doesn't matter. Sal Fisher likes his poetry. Sal Fisher likes him.
With Father at home, he won't be able to call Sal on the phone, but that's okay. Sal will be here tomorrow. Travis smiles. He'll be able to give Sal his poem in person tomorrow.
And maybe the sky will turn red. Travis is used to wondering and waiting, looking into the distance and waiting for a hand to strike him. For now, though, the sky is clear.
The sun is shining.