The Girl With the Cross

Chapter 1: Tyler

  Life is a strange thing: it gives you exactly what you want, only to take it all away.

***

  I sit alone in detention again. The familiar burn from lack of sleep makes my heart pulse in my eyes: I was up all night partying at my friend's house, the usual. I'm twiddling my thumbs, thinking only about leaving this classroom and how uncomfortable this seat is getting. All I really remember out of the blur of last night is how the lights seemed to dance with the girls as I spun them around me. Once the police came, more flashing lights turning to blue and red, stumbling out of the house, dragging myself further from the sirens and the yelling. I still have a dull ringing in my ears that makes me feel like everything's in slow motion. I remember the sharp taste of alcohol that re-entered my mouth with every kiss I engaged in, and I recall the sweet smell of perfume mixed with cologne, sweat, and beer.

  I suddenly notice how rough and callous my hands are, how every limb in my body is now a weight that my body can hardly carry. My mouth is so dry.

  I'm at detention so often that it's practically my home, if I had a real place to call home. I'm here almost everyday after school, even though the school year has just hardly begun. In moments like these, when all I hear is my heart pounding and the slow, eternal ticking of the clock, I realize how lonely I am. The void in my chest seems to grow wider, longer, with each breath I inhale. I stare at the clock on the wall of the detention room, now almost gasping for fresh air.

  Three minutes.

  Two.

  One.

"Okay Tyler, you're free to go. See you tomorrow." Mrs. Baker sighs. I pick up my light, sagging backpack and give her a lazy solute with my right hand.

"I'll be here." And I walk out of the room, dreading the long skateboard home.