Survival Of The Fittest

Oh boy, that was more vagueness but not the sort Sven was looking for.

He didn't want to talk about himself. What did it even mean? Was the guy asking in some grand, cosmic sense, or was he meaning something specific in the here and now? It could've been because he noticed something wrong with Sven (very possible, and where to start?) or it could've been a tactless attempt at introductions. Anyone else in this school could probably play it off, Sven thought (except not because a third of the class seemed to have social anxiety). Other guy was done eating so now his attention was on Sven, and why was the guy so tall and skinny? Sven would've thought he had some eating disorder or something going on if he hadn't just observed the boy tucking away a reasonably-sized lunch. This was definitely a mistake.

He let the question hang a second too long to be smooth, but that was all. When in doubt, stall and vacillate.

"I," Sven said, "you know, I was just looking for a place to, uh, to sit, and then I looked this way and..."

This took a few seconds, which let him shift his thoughts into something resembling coherence, decide where he was and wasn't going.

"It was just weird. That sort of thing, people getting weird, it makes me nervous."

Succinct it was not, but his statement did manage to be more or less accurate without dipping into the dreaded zone where it could invite copious follow-up. Still, to really seal the deal, he added, "You?"

"Before I answer ya, lemme get this straight..."

Richard tented his fingers as he rested his arms on the table, leaning forward, towards Sven. "You saw some girl have a fuckin' like... emotional breakdown or whatever? And you, being nervous when people act weird... decided to sit at the table with the guy who probably instigated said freakout."

This guy somehow remained more of a mystery than Caroline was. There were a lot of people that Richard had never talked to during his time at GHHS, but Richard was able to figure them out after one, maybe two conversations if he bothered to put in the effort. Sven so far seemed on edge, keeping the conversation shorter than Richard usually would, as if he was trying to keep his personality hidden.

Well either that or he was just extremely slow. Could be either, really.

Richard leaned back in his chair again, casually putting his legs up in the chair near Sven. "Man, you got some fuckin' masochistic-ass instincts, gotta be honest."

"But," Richard motioned in the air with his left hand. "Whatever man, you answered me, so I'll give you the courtesy."

"My deal is that I'm not much for conversation, and if I'm being honest, I like pissing people off. But that..." He gestured towards the cafeteria doors, in obvious reference to Caroline. "That right there isn't a reaction I've gotten before. Frankly I'm wondering if I actually caused some sort of brain damage by being too awesome and/or too garbage in her proximity."

"Yeah," Sven said, "yeah, that wasn't normal. Not normal at all."

He was sweating a little. He could feel it in his armpits and the nape of his neck. It was this thing he'd always had when put on the spot, especially when he had to present in front of the class for whatever reason. He wasn't even afraid or anything, or not back in the old days, at least. His body just had this strange reaction, cranking its temperature up and then trying to cool off through unwanted perspiration.

He'd tried to kill the reaction several times. Enlightened monks were supposedly able to regulate their own internal temperatures through some process largely unknown to Western science, perhaps channeling their qi, allowing them to stay warm even in the depths of winter in poorly-insulated mountain monasteries. At least, Sven had read that somewhere, or been told it, or... he knew it, somehow. It was fuzzy. Details of memories were like that, sometimes, fuzzy or false, but that wasn't because he'd taken a knock to the head. It was just how memory worked; you just had to be willing to accept your own fallibility and self-deception to see it. But in any case, he'd tried deep breathing, tried meditation, tried any number of things but still he'd sweat when he had to deliver a three-minute speech.

The first bead traced a line down his spine like a raindrop trickling over the windshield, splashing against the waistband of his boxers and soaking in. He could, it turned out, really understand quite well why this guy might have a presence others found disconcerting.

"I wouldn't blame y—" he started, and then he started again: "Don't blame yourself. She's probably just having a... she's probably just stressed. Tests or something. Lots of people wig out."

Sven was not going to wig out. The hair in his armpits felt sticky. Another line of ice ran across the bumps of his spine.