The Cult of Romeo

XV. Something Wicked

Act 2, Scene 5

While my teacher's monotone voiced droned on and on, I slipped in and out of consciousness. Then, when I wasn't asleep, I was distracted by the words scribbled on my desk, the sound of rain outside the window or with thoughts of Julien and our argument that neither of us had recovered from, yet. I struggled to read the text we'd been assigned.

I used to love photography but learning about it in school had dimmed the passion. Now, I was just a girl stuck in the class doing nothing but trying not to fall asleep and get sent out.

"Do you need to copy my notes?" Francis turned his body around from his seat in front of me and placed his papers on my desk. While his book was full of neat handwriting, bunched together to make sure there was extra room for more information, mine was completely empty except for a single smiley-face that Beatrix had written neatly upon seeing the sheet of paper on my desk last night. 

She often did that if I left things lying around the dorm She scribbled smiley faces on my schoolwork, my music sheets and even letters I'd written. It was a cute habit, one that I loved. It always made my usually empty worksheets a little more enthusiastic.  

"Thank you," I smiled.

He seemed taken aback by the smile for a second and while the teacher was busy helping other students, he dragged the chair forward and opposite me with a loud and obnoxious squeak that made me cringe against the sound. I'd tried to ignore our awkward moment from Monday but the feelings that wandered my stomach as I sat in his dorm still festered when I looked at his face for too long. I was sure that Francis was embarrassed by it too as he hadn't made eye contact for longer than a second since we'd arrived at the classroom. 

I felt bad for him. 

Francis sat poised with his forearms splayed along the end of the table and deep breaths. Every inhale was calculated and timed as his lips clamped shut into a thin line and eyebrows pointed.

I didn't understand him. I didn't understand how he was so cold one moment and melting into a smile the next. It wasn't malicious, it wasn't two-faced; it was talent.

"Have you read anything new lately?" He asked quietly.

I glanced up at the boy through my eyelashes.

"I've been busy," I spoke up, surprising myself with how soft my voice was. "Something about being in a real-life murder mystery has put me off reading them for a moment."

His lips pulled into a frown and he ran a finger over the papers between us absentmindedly. His touch trailed a path over the ink, capturing my attention and I couldn't pull my gaze away. 

"I heard about your fight with Julien," he commented. 

"Which one?" 

Francis snorted and I was surprised a noise so casual could escape from the boy. His character was such an anomaly to me. While everyone else I knew was taken straight from a textbook, he deviated from my expectations. I wanted to know everything about him. I needed to get just a slither of his attention, to roll in his secrets and dig through his mind. But then I was reminded about the uneasiness that had radiated from him and paused that thought. 

"The one where you shouted at him for trying to tell you who to be friends with." Francis looked down at his long fingers as they drummed a steady beat against the edge of the old table. "I'm surprised you didn't slap him."

"What can I say? I'm a lover, not a fighter," I shrugged. 

Francis lifted his head and stared at me with a lopsided smile. Except the smile wasn't so lopsided that it seemed young and spontaneous. It still felt crafted, he was pretty. Those sharp eyebrows and dangerous eyes that lifted like a cat's. He seemed to carry the eloquence of a controlled animal, poised to pounce and always watching.