𝐌𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐂 ♬✼:* hunter sylvester

stares

stares ｡･:*:･ﾟ★ Chapter 2

Like a child, I was drowning the remains of my Cobb salad with vinaigrette dressing, utterly lost. One hand held a fork as I stirred the concoction in the small bowl, and my other was vigorously scribbling on the notepad. 

If I'd known picking a song to play for the Battle of the Bands was going to be this difficult, I would have never written our band name on the sign-up sheet. It's like picking a song to listen to right before you die, as dramatic as that analogy is. 

No, but seriously, the song needs to be fucking chill-inducing.

"Vinaigrette soup? Didn't see that one on the menu."

"Hey. Lyra" I pursed my lips. She had humor that made you walk a tight-rope of 'should I roll my eyes? Or smile cuz' it's just so darn cheesy.'

I crossed out another song. Clarren's favorite. I winced.

"Sheesh, so no Florence and the Machine, then." Lyra leaned over the cafeteria table, raven hair cascading over her shoulders like a deep waterfall. 

"Doesn't fit my vision."

She angled her head to stare at the titles, "Cities in the Dust would've been freakin' awesome. Though my electric keyboard skills only go so far."

I snorted. Far was being generous. I didn't say anything though, in fear of the whole lucky, not-sure-how-she-even-managed-to-pull-that-off, grade school performance story to be brought up as her line of defense. Lyra liked to humble herself and nonexistent talents, as if they were anything to brag about to begin with.

"Jesus." She muttered but the pencil against the paper and my sole concentration was blocking out anything she was saying under he breath.

"Can't you feel that?"

I looked up.

"Feel what?"

"Those damn burn holes in the back of your head." Her rhetoric, left-for-the-open statements were killing me.

"What are you talking about?" My eyebrows furrowed as I considered looking back down at the notepad.

"He is staring at you."

My head whipped around, immediately spotting Hunter-- all the way across the cafeteria. His dark eyes dead-set on mine.

Wow, that takes some dedication. To stare at someone sitting— quite literally 30 feet from you.

I wasn't sure if I should feel creeped out or flattered. Or satisfied, since he's obviously still pissed, by the tiniest scowl that etched his mouth.

"You're just too good to be trueee.... can't take my eyesss off of you-" Lyra sang, criminally off-key, especially for a music-lover. I rolled my eyes.

"Shut the hell up." I popped the p at the end and slammed my hands on the table, the action making a louder, more head-turning sound than I'd prefer. "You might as well have spit on Frankie Valli with that ear-bleeding pitch."

"Rude." She flashed the faintest glare but  a malicious grin soon pulled up at her cheeks, showing off her dimples, "And sure, I'll shut my beautiful, ear-blessing-producing mouth, once you tell me what's going on here."

"There's quite literally nothing going on. He probably zoned out." I mustered the most realistic, annoyed scoff possible. Which turned out to be not very convincing, considering Lyra's brown eyes were bunching up by the second, clearly suspicious.

"Puh-lease, there's always somethin' goin' on with you and him." She gave me a sideways look, resting her face against her hand.

I returned the look, except it was a I'm-serious-there's-nothing-going-on glance. But I sighed, and soon began to contradict my previous facade. "Ok. I mean, I suppose he's a little pissed at me."

At that, Lyra's eyebrows shot up like a slingshot. "I would say 'when is he not pissed at you' but you guys have been on a cool-streak for like... at least 3 and a half weeks, which is the longest y'all have gone since, like, first grade."

"I wasn't here in first grade."

I was feeding strays from Ruth Lenford's porch in first grade, all the way in the edge of Florence. I wont lie, I bathed in the sympathy I received every time I told an older lady or a middle-aged counselor that story-- but it was getting fucking old. It's like there was some kind of short, unspoken list of sympathetic responses. Like, 'Goodness, bless your little heart' or 'Good God, I can't believe you were only 6, goin' through all that.'

"Exactly. You guys have never been cool. Now, why that is? I couldn't tell 'ya." She tossed a fat French fry into her mouth.

"It's pretty obvious, actually, I'm sure I have a list somewhere. Reason number one being, he's a fuckin' dickwad. Reason number two, he's a fuckin' asshat-"

The rattling sound of a cafeteria tray cut me clean off. "Who's an asshat?"

Kevin was staring me down through his lenses, making me think he knew full well who I thought was an asshat.

I saw Lyra opened her mouth to answer, and I— knowing better than to just let whatever ignorant reply she was concocting to fall out of her mouth— blurted out, "Mr. Fitz. He's making me three more paragraphs for the social studies project, because I was 'interrupting his class.'"

I had a brief moment of cockiness, believing that he wouldn't see the lie right between my teeth— before his eyebrows fell flat, and a big sigh guttered through his lips. "June. That project was due on Tuesday, remember? He changed the deadline."

"Well, shit, he's an asshat for that too."

"And his name is Mr. Fiz." Kev uttered, shoveling runny ravioli into his down-turned mouth. With a full mouth— clearly disregarding all the manners I had tried to beat into him— he continued. "Y'know, at least have the decency to admit you were talking about Hunter."

He looked at me with those eyes that I'd seen a million times before from his mother when I got in trouble— well, my mother. Worn out from this conversation, I rested my head on the table. Sigh. "If you're going to sit here and lecture me, you might as well go on because I'm not listening." 

I covered my ears like a child getting fussed at, and Kev pursed his lips, assuming a more apologetic expression. "Sorry, June... I did have something I needed to talk to you about."