Letters...

𖧷4𖧷

I don't think you understand agony yourself. If you did, you wouldn't have interfered with mine. Did you ever think that my words weren't meant for you to read, either?

"Lizey?"[pronounced Lie-zy short for Eliza, remember that! <3]

I look up. The cafeteria is nearly empty, Gracie is standing there, looking at me expectantly.

"Are you ok?" She asks. "The bell rang five minutes ago. I thought you were going to meet me at my locker."

I refolded the tattered letter I found this morning and shivers it into my backpack, jerking the zipper. I don't k ow when he wrote it, but it must have been last week, because the paper is crinkly like it's been wet and dried again, and we haven't had rain since Saturday.

It was the first weekend I didn't go to the cemetery in a while. A little part of me is irritated that this letter sat for days. His self-righteousness has probably faded, while mine feels fresh and new, hot in my chest.

I'm glad I went this morning they mow on Tuesday nights, and it probably would have gotten thrown away by the staff.

"What were you looking at?" Gracie asks.

"A letter."

She doesn't push past that. She thinks it's a letter to my mother. I let her think that

I don't need anyone to think I'm any crazier than they do already.

The late bell rings. I need to move. If I et another tardy, I'll end up in detention. Again. The thought is enough to add extra speed to my step.

I can't get another detention. I can't sit in that room for another hour. The silence hurts my ears and leaves me with too much time to think.

Gracie is right beside me. She'll probably escort me to class and sweet-talk the teacher our of writing me a late slip. She doesn't need to worry about tardies or detention, teachers love her. She sits in the front of every class, and hangs onto every last word the teacher says, as if she wakes up every morning thirsty for knowledge. Gracie is one of those girls you live to hate: delicately pretty, with a kind word for everyone, and straight A-averages in every class. She'd be more popular if she weren't so perfect. I tell her that all the time.

If we are calling a spade a spade, she'd be more popular if she weren't best friends with the senior-class train wreck.

When I found the letter this morning. I expected to read it and start crying. Instead I want to find this loser and punch him in the nose, hopefully I snap it in two. Every time I read it, I get more and more furious.

Did you ever think my words weren't meant for you to read, either? 

The fury helps cover up the little part of me that wonders if he's right.

The hallways are empty, which seems impossible. Where are the rest of the slackers? Why am I always the only late one?

Besides, it's not like I wasn't here. I am physically in the school building speed walking to my class. If anything happened I would know.

By the time Gracie and I reach the arts block, we are gently jogging, skidding around the corners. I grab hold of the very edge of a turn to propel me down the last hall.

I feel the burn of the collision. Hot liquid sears my skin, I squeal in pain. A cup of coffee had exploded across my chest. I slam into something solid, rock solid. I skid, slip and fall. It wasn't just something solid... it was someone solid. 

I'm on the ground, eyes level with a pair of scuffed and dirty white air forces.

 In a 'Rom-com', this would be 'meeting the cute new boy'. The boy would be movie-star hot, first-string quarterback, and class valedictorian. He would offer me his hand and he would coincidentally have a spare t-shirt in his backpack. I'd change in the restroom, and all of a sudden my boobs would get bigger, waist smaller and he'd walk me to class and ask me to prom. 

But no, of course not, don't get ahead of yourself Eliza. In reality, the guy is Liam Sunders, and he is practically snarling. His white t-shirt and football, jock-jacket are also soaked with coffee. And he's pulling a soggy, now see-through shirt away from his abs.

If the 'rom-com' guy is the nice, sweet A-star student, Liam is the senior-class fuckboy. He has a criminal record and a frequent seat in detention. He's big, mean and while reddish-brown hair and a sharp jawline might turn some girls on, the dark look in his eyes is enough to keep me away. A scar bisects one eyebrow, and it's probably not his only scar. Most people are afraid of him, except the girls, but the ones that are have a reason to be.

Gracie is simultaneously trying to help me up and pull me away from him. He looks looks at me with anger in his eyes. "What is wrong with you?" Hi voice is rough and low.

I jerk away from Gracie. My shirt still plastered to my chest, I guarantee you he is getting a lovely view of my new red bra trough my pastel blue shirt. Although the coffee was streaming hot, now I'm just wet and freezing cold. This is humiliating, it's horrible. I can't decide if I want to cry or yell at him. 

My breath actually hitches, but I suck it up. I'm not afraid of him. "You ran into me."  

His eyes are fierce. "I wasn't the one running." He moves forward sharply and I shrink away before I can help it. Okay... maybe I am afraid of him.

I honestly didn't know what he was going to do. He's just so intense. He stops short and scowls at my reaction, then finishes his motion to lean down and grab his backpack where it fell.

Oh.

There is something wrong with me.