Yellow [Dwayne Hoover]

1

The summer heat was creeping. It was windy so it made it feel less hot than it truly was. You sat against a tall, old, tree. Yellow flowers covering every inch around you. The sun peaking through the leaves above and shining down, highlighting the words on the pages in your hands.

You were at the flower field. It's where you always went to calm down, relax, read, etc. It was Dwayne's spot, too. He was inches away from you, laying flat on his back as he read.

You picked up the old, dried up, flower that rested on your knee and set it onto the page you were reading, closing your book. It was your bookmark ever since you started hanging out with Dwayne at the field.

*Flashback*

You dug through your backpack. Nothing. You lean back with a groan. "What's up?" Dwayne asked, looking over to you. "I don't have a bookmark."

"Fold the corner in."

"No. That ruins the pages. Makes it look ugly."

Dwayne gave you a look. He leaned over, plucking a small, yellow, flower. "Here."

*End of flashback*

"Dwayne."

No response.

You move closer, leaning over him; your shadow blocking the sun hitting his face. "Dwayne." You repeat, poking his shoulder. He set the book on his chest, looking at you. "The sun's gonna set." You say, backing up as he sat up.

He shrugged.

"We gotta get going."

He rolled his eyes.

You both collected your things before standing. You brushed the dirt off of your pants as you walked, Dwayne beside you.

He nudged your arm.

Walk you home?

His writing was always messy when he wrote while walking but it was readable.

"You don't have to." You say, looking over at him. He rolled his eyes once again, shaking the notepad to make his point. He was walking you home.

The sun set completely when you made it home. You invited Dwayne in. "Tell your mom to pick you up." You suggest, pointing to the phone. He gave you a 'really' look. "Oh, right." You mumble, walking to the phone.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Hoover, hi!" You answer, smiling even though she couldn't see.

"Oh, hi, y/n! How are you?"

"I'm ok, thank you. How are you?"

"Ah, you know, busy." She chuckled.

Dwayne poked your side with his pen. "Oh. Dwayne needs a ride home."

"Oh, ok. Is he with you?"

"Of course."

"I'll be there soon!"

The line clicked. "You're in a hurry." You joke, walking into the kitchen.

You talk a lot.

You pressed your lips together. "Thirsty?" You ask, ignoring what he said. He shook his head. You nod, pouring just yourself a glass of water.

Minutes later, a knock came from the door. "Mrs. Hoover!" You smile, his mother standing in the doorway. "Hi, sweetie." She smiled back, Dwayne shuffling past you. "Your parents home?" She asked, looking past you. "No. Business stuff. The usual." You sigh. "Well, you're welcome to stay with us if you want."

You smiled slightly. Sheryl was always a sweetheart. Felt like she was your actual mother. "Thanks but I'm alright. Really." You chuckle. "You sure?"

You nod.

"Alright. If you need anything, give a call."

"You got it."

You closed the door and locked it. Silence. It was quiet. Too quiet. The worst type of quiet.

Even though Dwayne didn't speak anymore, that silence was different. His presence was louder than his writing. It wasn't quiet when he was around.

You run a hand through your hair and wander back into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, your eyes scanned over every inch. Three week old Chinese food, week old pizza, or TV dinners.

You grab the pizza box, tossing it onto the table. You took the cold pepperoni slice and took a bite.

'You talk a lot.' Repeated itself in your mind. This is why you didn't like the silence. Made you think. Over think.

You knew he didn't mean it in it mean way, but it was hard to read Dwayne. For someone who reads so much and found it easy to read people, you couldn't read him.

He never once showed emotion unless you somehow managed to make him give a quiet laugh. It was always a blank face. Emotionless. Blank.

You grabbed your book and sat at the table. Finding the page you left off at, grabbing the yellow flower. You stared at it, spinning it between your fingers.

It was dry. Flattened by being pressed against the books pages. It was still bright yellow.

You set it down on the table and glued your eyes onto the inked pages.

A/n: I know it's short but shh