Sweet juice filled my mouth as my teeth broke into a segment of blood orange. Chewing on the sticky fruit my fingers flicked through the pages of my Literature textbook until I reached the section I was looking for. "There. Look, this is the story we're being tested on," I said, swallowing a mouthful of orange.
Zim leaned forwards to analyse the content of the two pages. Almost instantly his face paled. "Mmm . . . Not this one. H . . . how can Zim do it? Z . . . Zim hates this wr . . . writing person and story." A despairing whine passed his threadbare lips. Whilst he excelled at all classes revolving on logical calculations, the Irken reached an enormous wall when faced with English Literature; he simply could not comprehend the creativity involved in the weaving of such classic stories, or the imagination required by the students. The news that our first practice exam paper was to take place the following Friday had sent Zim into fits of terror.
I consulted the page containing the printing of The Snow Child, and lost battle to the smile birthing in my jaw. "Really? I quite like it." As I liked both writers we were studying in our English Literature classes, and I was not ashamed to admit so. Shakespeare and Carter both possessed phenomenal skill in the wide tapestry that created their writings, and I was one of very few students who had followed the lecturer's advice in downloading audio readings of their works, to listen to in my free time.
"Z . . . Zim knows you do . . ." The Irken kept his gaze upon the text, a single claw traced a single letter, as if trying to entice to the surface the binds that created the workings of the story, his eyes blank - glassy, almost.
I looked back to the textbook. "It's only a page long, Zim. Not that much. My dad once showed me a good way of note taking. If you want I can show you," I offered, trying to keep him relaxed as I reached into my tupperware container for another orange segment, then offering the pot to Zim, who took a slice with very little hesitation. Ever since I had revealed to him that fruit contained so few calories that it was incapable of making a person fat, Zim had taken to eating vast quantities in place of most other foods. I did not think that the consumption of so much fruit was good for his body, but at least he was actually eating.
"Later, Dib-thing. D . . . Do not confuse Zim by talking o . . . of Literature, when we h . . . have mathematics next," said Zim, licking juice from his gloved fingers. On Tuesdays the only lessons we shared were the fourth period English, and fifth period Maths.
I sighed. "Fine. Whatever. Not that you need extra practice in Maths anyway." I grinned, for mathematics was one of the lessons in which he thrived in. The curriculum split sharply into two categories for Zim: the classes in which his knowledge was far beyond anything a human had the right to know, and the ones where he was utterly clueless. Unfortunately there were far more lessons he was bad at than there were good - another quality which did not help to revive him. I shoved my textbook back into my bag and retrieved my own Maths book. "You did bring your Maths homework with you, right?"
He did not answer me until the lid of my now empty container was clipped back into place and his gloves evacuated of all traces of orange juice. "Yes, Dib-thing. Z . . . Zim has it." When we were alone together I noticed that Zim's stammering would reach a point of reducing. I sincerely hoped that this would be a sign of his recovery, but I did not want to get my hopes up so soon. "D . . . did you need to c . . . copy again?"
I gave a gasp of abundant mock fury. "Again? What do you mean 'again'?! I have never copied anyone else's work in my life!" I have never been much of an actor, which was a good thing because I knew indefinitely that Zim was fully aware that I was not really upset with him. Nonetheless, he appeared only slightly nervous.
"Y . . . yes you d . . . do, Dib-thing. You copied Zim's work last night."
"Uh, I was comparing answers, Space-boy. There's a difference." I grinned cheekily, and stuck my tongue out at him.
"If you say so . . ."
"Oi! What's that supposed to mean?!"
"N . . . nothing . . ." His voice trailed off; light-hearted touches of unease and amusement glittered in the air he breathed
"No, you mean something, Space-boy. Tell me!"
"Z . . . Zim never copies . . ."
"I was comparing answers. Besides, you wouldn't need to copy because your superior Irken brain outweighs us stupid dirt-children."
"Yes."
It was not so much the bluntness in his answer, or the growing stupidity of our friendly argument that made me burst into laughter. No, that was owed to the blatant lack of arrogance in Zim's 'yes'. He said it as a clear statement, as one might say 'I'm a boy'. Nevertheless I was clinging to my sides in an effort to suppress the growing cramp born through my uncontrollable laughter. I could feel my glasses bouncing on the bridge of my nose, threatening to fall at any given moment.
"Z . . . Zim made the Dib laugh . . . Victory for Zim." That one little statement, spoken so flatly yet sparkling with the smallest glimmer of the real Zim's spirit, forced me backwards, and before I had time to prevent my own falling, I was spasming upon the earth. My glasses had fallen off - a good thing in reality, else condensation would blind me in face of the tears streaming from my eyes, flowing thick with my enjoyment. Above my amusement I could hear Zim shifting about, whether uneasy over the sight before him I was unsure.
Pain shot through my hip. I groaned, and heaved against my side. "Uh . . . I've got a . . . cramp. Don't . . . speak . . . anymore," I stuttered through my chuckles, finally managing to suppress themselves as I lifted back onto my knees. One hand remained upon the ground, so to steady my twitching body, whilst the other sought for my glasses and pushed them back into place. I was relieved that they appeared undamaged.
"Ca . . . can Zim speak now?"
My lips brushed together, forcing back another rush of laughter. God, if I had to go through that again then I would most certainly be sentenced to the Crazy House. "Yeah. Sorry, Zim," I breathed out, still rubbing a hand up and down my hip in order to eliminate the cramp. It was momentary, and as soon as the ache passed I lifted my head.
The world stopped turning. Everything around me froze; focussing in on the centre point of the spin of life itself.
Two purple blushes, pale, and smeared into Zim's gaunt, yet oddly inviting cheeks; the sweet spice capturing my senses, freezing them into one solid moment.
And there, inbetween it all:
Soft, tender, and small. But nonetheless the most beautiful smile I had ever seen.
I do not know at what point I decided to move. All I can remember is that first we were apart, and then I was closing the gap so that there was only a tiny pocket of space separating us. A single crack of air, distancing my face from touching his.
That smile was gone, replaced by something I cannot describe, other than my own starvation for the missing beauty. "D . . . Dib-thing, yo . . . your face is changing c . . . colour again. A . . . and why are you so close t . . . to Zim?"
My limbs were trembling. My whole body, mind and soul filled to the brim with the understanding that I had been missing for such a long time. And now that it filled me, I needed to reach out and embrace it.
Embrace him.
"Do that again, Zim." My voice was as soft and tender as the absent sweetness from his face. "Please smile for me. Please . . ."
A shiver. A passing cloud of confusion, followed by a small twitch . . . and then the fog broke. Shining through the beautiful rays of sunlight that carved the perfect smile into Zim's face. "You really are a foolish hy-ooman creature, Dib-thing." He did not stutter once. Such was the perfection of the light.
I closed the gap.
Never before had I experienced a sensation quite like this one. So much to take in; so many messages penetrating my psyche all at once. The warmth; the feel of my soft human lips pressed against Zim's exotic alien ones. The dying of the life around us, leaving nothing in existence save for me, Zim, and the moment. The wondering of my hands onto his shoulder, his hip, moving downwards, hooking into the waist band of his jeans. The tastes; the involuntary flicker of my tongue, running against his closed lips. A passing thought; does he naturally taste like a blood orange . . ?
"NO!"
The collision was broken. The sensations, the moment, all shot dead in the instant I was suddenly thrown backwards when a pair of powerful fists thumped into my chest. A yelp escaped my tongue, drowned out by the tormented screams rippling from Zim's mouth. He launched himself backwards, his body smashing into the unforgiving surface of the skool wall. His falsely coloured eyes as wide as I had ever seen them before, shinning with the promise of tears to come. His fingers lifted to brush against his defiled lips; the purest of fears defining his features, rapidly engulfing his quivering body.
"Z . . . Zim! I am so sorry, I didn't mean it! I wasn't thinking right! I'm sorry . . ." The words kept on running, kept on falling from my mouth in desperation to reach out to him, for my flesh could not. My legs had turned to jelly, my hands trembling so badly that the force shook my very bones.
But my trembling had nothing on Zim. The Irken was a leaf caught in a hurricane: trapped, tide down by the unstoppable force that kept his movements immobilised in the twisted shaking. His mouth moved, the words barely breaking through his violated lips. "W . . . w . . . why w . . . would th . . . the D . . . Dib do t. . . .that? Zim th . . . thought D . . . Dib-th . . . thing . . . di . . . different. D . . . does D . . . Dib-th . . . thing think Z . . . Zim . . ." He was cut off as a sudden attack inside his own throat tour at the flesh. He choked, spitting up bile with his tears.
"No, please! I didn't mean it, you have to believe me!" I was desperate, my own eyes stinging behind my glasses, terrorised by self-anger. I gained control of my limbs. My hand reached out, wanting to touch him, show him my sincerity.
"NO! LIAR!" A flare of snapping pain lashed out as his own hand whipped a white-hot strap against mine. His claws gripped the wall, and with great effort heaved himself to his feet, his body still shuddering. "Th . . . the Dib wa . . . wants . . . b . . . but Zim . . . No! Zim is not a defect! I'm not, I'M NOT!"
"I am different, Zim! Don't think like that, please! I'm sorry!"
It was too late. The dust was spraying in my face; I could taste the gritty twist of filth and the spice of shame; burning in my ears came the strangled sobs escaping Zim's mouth, the thumping of his spiked Goth boots banging on the concrete, leaving me behind with nothing but the lingering echoes of his cries.
. . . Oh come on! Did you honestly think I was going to make it so easy? ;D