The Sun Weilders

2

I watched as a pink convertible pulled into the lot.

"Adagio," I mumbled as a blond head emerged from the car. People joked that, if you slap her in the face, a cloud of make-up will be left behind like smoke billowing from a fire.

She didn't look mean. She looked evil. I sighed as she pushed a freshman down, and then checked her manicured nails to see if they had been damaged.

Crimson just laughed. Angry, I shot him a glare. 

That was me, a year ago. Adagio had stopped bullying me when I slapped her across the face and drove my pencil into her hand, earning me an in-school-suspension. I had also spat in her face and claimed it was a muscle spasm, (what was a girl to do?) but Crimson had come to my rescue and had coaxed Principal Celeste into letting me off with an ISS. He was, as some say, a kiss-up, when he wanted to be.

"What?" he questioned, but he was still smirking. 

We saw another car pull up, an electric blue one with a checkered flag plastered on the side. We both looked at each other and shook our heads accusingly. A boy, with bright sun-bleached hair, stepped out, his eyes scanning our older-than-old school in disgust.

Conner Freida. I used to like him, and Crimson knew it. He stared at me while I watched Connor swagger into the school, a group of girls already at his heels.

Crimson laughed, again, a laugh that I knew well. I turned to look at him, my best friend.

Ironically because of his name, his shock of red hair was cut down to the scalp, except for the five or so inches in the middle that were suspended in the air. His mowhawk was his trademark, I guessed, because our school allowed it. His bright blue eyes were often mistaken for colored contacts, but they didn't faze me. He had a black earring in his left ear, and a few freckles that framed his ears.

Somewhat of a mysterious boy, I was at first scared of him. But, in third grade, he punched a kid that was bullying me, and completely took the blame for it. That was the sort of thing that made people friends, I supposed.

People were always ridiculing him about his appearance. Most days he would wear light colored shirts that had skulls on them, and black skinny jeans that made him look, in my opinion, even more attractive. I loved his style, considering it was more creative than my oversized-sweatshirts-and-tight-jeans get-up that I wore.

He had worn his hair mowkawk-style ever since he was twelve. I was ecstatic when he had started wearing his hair like that, mainly because it had made him so much more unique.

Crimson had noticed I was staring at him. He smiled and brought his lean muscled arms behind his head and said, "Sorry, Em. But you can't handle this."

That made me laugh. "Let's just get inside, Chill," I said, using his nickname I came up with in eighth grade. A faint smile was playing on his pale lips as we walked toward our school.

Our school was the sort of educational institution that was regarded with distaste. It's pale red roof tiles were faded and porous, causing leaks during spring rains. The tan bricks that made the facade of the building were aged and cracking, and had green ivy that strung from the sides of the edifice.

As we walked through the weathered front doors, three faces appeared in front of us.

JH, the school's most accomplished athlete, and his friends, Slater, a senior with hair like midnight and eyes just as dark, and, Zylan, a muscular senior with choppy brown hair, were standing in our way.

We walked past them down the hallway to our lockers. The three boys followed. I was thinking that it was wrong to jump to any conclusions, but when JH said something to us, my heart sped up with panic.