Thrashing Butterflies pt1

Jake and I first met sometime at fourteen or fifteen during detention. I was on a lesser charge of missing yet another homework deadline; he was put in the isolation room for being caught with Amanda Ross in Mr McGivern's cupboard. McGivern was the surely the closest human lookalike of Ned Flanders you'd ever see but he was also the one who kicked my literary habits into touch.
He acknowledged me with a nod. "Name's Jake, bud."

Instantly he was as cool as Pulp Fiction. There was this strange magic characterised by a permanent twinkle in his eyes. A violet aura surrounded him. All the other guys I'd known thus far either bent for black or paled beneath gray. There was light from every pore of him -- in his eyes, his smile, the way he spoke, the way he moved. To this day I can't explain it the way my eyes warm to it. He was the warm breeze of a summer morning.

Just the two of us in the room, I kept finding myself stealing glances that became full blown stares, and I didn't know why exactly. (It's because his eyes are like shiny orbs.) He forgave my lack of interest in football if I forgave his lack of interest in literature (any other guy would have stopped talking to me at all, and that would have been completely fine by me).

I remember looking at his punishment exercise and seeing drawings of naked women scrawled across it. Voluptuous women with deep pencil lines, their modesty protected by sweeping hair, and striking misty grey eyes. They seemed to absorb so much from such a small tool. "You into art, then?" I asked him. He shrugged his shoulders, bat his eyes. "Just something to pass the time. I'm more into taking pictures."

The teachers deserted the isolation room when they ought to be monitoring us, usually with some excuse about marking work when they really just wanted to slip out and have a cigarette. Jake pulled out his packet of Malboro (he used to be a terrible smoker) and flicked out two cigarettes. Placed one between his small, round lips and offered me the remaining one. I declined, shaking my head and smiling. Guys made me so nervous. "You the sensible one of this duo, then?" he asked, smiling right back at me.

I was intrigued with his art, wondering if his penchant for nude women had translated into photography. "Aye well, you know," he said, brushing his hair behind his ears. "When they're sleeping, like."

"So detention today and jail tomorrow then?"

He laughed (I knew he would) so hard the cigarette shot out of his mouth. "Well, you got lucky with that Anna lassie."

A succulent smile sank into a hanging frown. "We're not a couple. Despite what anybody says." The words were harshly emphatic, the brisk edge in my voice almost ruined the mood. Silence ended after he took a draw on the fag, exhaling: "Sorry, bud. You guys look so close, though."

For the fact he apologised while putting me in my place, I softened.

"Tell you what," he tore a shred off his punishment exercise and scrawled his number on it. "I'll show you some of my stuff sometime."

It was the first time I ever got to shake someone's hand properly. Up until then I never even knew the proper conduct of socialising with another guy, so the naked smile on my face was inevitable - a summer breeze had brushed by me halfway through Winter. I've been softening ever since.