Secret Thoughts.

Chapter 11- Paige

I don't want to believe he does all that stuff. I don't want to think he's a dumbass. Although, what am I to know? I'm 16, and I have a great home life. People are school are terrible to me though but I've never seen troubles outside of that so, if he's going through something different than I could ever understand...maybe this is his way of escaping. I've seen a different side of him tonight that I haven't seen before. A sweet side, that makes him look so vulnerable and unhappy. It makes me want to help him.

"I don't believe that you're messed up or any of those things" I say.

He chuckles.

"Well believe it chica, because I am."

No matter how many times he says it. I don't want to believe it whether it's true or not.

"How much shit have you gotten into?" He asks me.

None.

"Oh just about a ton" I laugh, nervously.

He smirks.

"You're a bad liar."

He tries to get up but when he tries, he grips his stomach and groans.

"I feel nauseous"

Geez. I wanna help him but there's not much I can really do. He's sick to his stomach. Poor guy.

"Just relax" I say, as I touch his dark, tan, and beautiful face.

He gets on my last nerve but the thought of him sick or hurt makes me sick myself. He gets on all my nerves but when it comes down to it, he's only human, and humans make mistakes I know they aren't proud of.

"I'm gonna go get...a bucket" I say.

He raises his eyebrows.

"I thought I wasn't getting special treatment. Because I'm drunk." He says, imitating what I've said before.

Sometimes I say things I don't mean... people should know that by now.

"Be right back" I say as I walk out the door and go to the kitchen to try and find a bucket.

"Ah, a bucket!" I say to myself as I go back upstairs and give it to him.

"What the fuck? You loca? This is a bucket for mops, not for thowin up in" he says to me.

I sigh.

"Well it doesn't matter, suck it up, it's still a bucket" I reply. "Be right back again"

I walk to the bathroom and wet a cloth with cool water, squeeze most of the water out of it, bring it back to the room and put it on his forehead.

"What the hell is this for?" he asked, looking up at it, cross-eyed.

I sigh again.

"It's something my mother always does for me when I feel like vomiting, when I feel sick. It calms you down." I explained to him.

Mexicans don't really know about this kind of stuff do they? Figures they don't, he doesn't.

"So tell me, why are you helping me?" he asks me.

He's so perfect, but he's such an asshole. I don't think I've ever felt such mixed feelings about someone like this. But, I wonder what his deal is all the time? I want to help him.

"Cause I want to." I said, smiling.