The Composition

Chapter 2: Andy

Andy's P.O.V.:

It was exactly three o'clock when the public schools were released. That is exactly five minutes before the private school on Westbrook was dismissed. Everyday, for exactly four months and six days, I have been unofficially watching an adorable red head get on the bus.

I remember that day specifically because it was the first time he had ever rode this bus, and also because his eyes were rimmed. I would have guessed it was red eyeliner, but his eyes were also bloodshot. His lips sore and trembling. I didn't understand how someone could make crying look so appealing. It took every ounce of my willpower to refrain from going over to him and cuddling his smaller frame into my longer one.

I always stood, (sitting all day then getting on a bus and sitting made me uncomfortable,) on the drivers side about three quarters of the way back on the bus. I knew when he entered, it was like my nerve endings went into overdrive and the little hairs on my arms reached for the silky lining of my (trademark) leather jacket.

His hair was always dishevelled, like he had more important things to worry about than the arrangement of his fiery locks. His pink lips were always slightly open, muttering about something, chewing on each other, or moving to some lyrics. I tried really hard not to look forward to his appearance, but how could I not? He had this oddly colored greenish-blackish peacoat with a few pins on the collar and some sharpie scribbled on the pockets.

As per usual. He sits down, rubs his beanie over his head, sighing like the bus was a haven from his private school, and pulls out a black book with band stickers on it. I watch him scribble in it for the remainder of the busride.

Today though, is my lucky day. Today, he leaves his black book on the bus seat in a scramble to get off the bus. Today, I get to pick one of the few lines I've practiced in my head on him. Quick as a pickpocket in a flea market I snatch up the well worn book under my arm and slip out of the bus doors to see his head bobbing as he makes his way down the street.

"Ginger! Cu-" Oh god. Yeah. Call him cute. Tall goth man chases small ginger boy calling him cute. Marvelous. "Hey!" His head whipped around to me. I decided to maybe change my typical facial expression to one of a smile. Maybe he won't be afraid then, right? Wrong. He took off in a dead sprint. I tried calling after him but fvck have you ever tried running in Doc Martens in leather pants? It's hell. After the third alley he took, I decided to call it quits.

I missed my bus, made a fool of myself, and scared away the cutest boy I'd seen since Ashley Purdy my 8th grade year before he moved. I silently stalked to the nearest bus stop before taking a seat next to a rather smelly homeless man.

I flipped open the book and on the back of the cover where you entered your information, I saw something.

In small fine print, the journal read:

Alan A. Ashby
699-8910

Well, Alan Ashby, expect a call from me. I quickly put his number in my phone. Clamped my fingers around the journal so ensure I wouldn't a) lose it, or b) read it. Alas, it began to burn in my hands. What if it has something about me written in it? Maybe he noticed me. What if he writes about what he likes? What if he writes about something he wants to do or currently does? Maybe I could be closer to him if I read it..

As my resolve weakened, so did my grip on the book. I eventually cracked open the book and began to read.
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Hey guys, its Manic_!
I really hope the first chapters have gone well for you guys. Keep reading ;)

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