Intertwined

Chapter Two

Ignorance is bliss; ignorance is bliss; ignorance is bliss...

Ignorance got me nowhere.

Though I made no further attempt at eye contact with the boy across the room, my body shook and shivered at the unspoken threat. I glanced slightly at him again, sluggishly moving my eyes from the desk to the floor, before sliding up the jean leg and landing on his face.

A frozen lake burned into a pit of molten lava.

Fear, unadulterated fear, filtered through my body. An instinct to run, scream, pressed at my arms and legs. My heart slammed against my chest, and something about the angle of his head had me guessing that he could hear it.

Nothing of his physical form did much to strike fear. If I had to be honest, he was averagely built. If anything, the way his jaw cut away at the edge or how his lips curved in a plump line, I'd say he was below average. If a fight were to break out, I would win. I'd have the best outcome if the threat level sat on mass alone.

But his eyes.

Overpowering rage spilled into the room, leaving my limbs weak and my body sore. He'd made a promise deep within those searing, white-hot, blue eyes. Without words, the boy promised to demolish me.

It took a second before the contact broke, and even then, I wasn't the first to let go. I had to wait, frozen in his grasp, until he decided he'd done enough with me. If this staredown would have been to set the new kid in his place, a winning smile should have broken across his face; hell, a small grimace should have cracked through, but nothing came. When he looked away, there was nothing but madness—a strong hatred that had given birth to madness.

I thought that he would let go as the teacher started to talk. I thought that as soon as the rules of poetry scattered across the whiteboard, this violent moment would dissipate, but it didn't. The chairs and desks were boiling with the heat that wouldn't fade.

A loud thump sounded at the back of the class. I turned toward it on instinct. I heard the sound and stared at the person who made it without the conscious effort to do so. Some sort of self-preservative instinct had been triggered, making me highly aware of the ins and outs of the classroom—had the sound sharper, louder, to my ears.

To my relief, it wasn't an attacker ready to spring at me from behind. It was just James, his face red with embarrassment. I was sure I wasn't the only one who looked, but at the same time, I knew one person, in particular, didn't look at him.

No, he only stared at me.

James's eyes shot wide, the whites bulging around the muddy brown when they met my face. He'd taken a gander—a glance toward the arrows of disgust shot in my direction. The shock told me enough. The boy in the corner never gave that hateful glare to anyone. He'd crafted it just for me.

The teacher, Mr. Baldwin, called the class back to attention, and still, ice-blue eyes watched me with disdain.

Each second grew longer and longer as the period ran on. I racked my brain in each frantic second, trying to understand what I had done to deserve this... hostility. I'd drawn two conclusions, though neither was stable enough to convince me.

Option one, I'd walked into the class with arrogance. Maybe my head was held too high or my shoulders too straight, but that couldn't be right. When I entered the room, the eyes were already on the door, expectant—waiting for me. I must have done something hours prior, must have wronged him in a way that was unknown to me, but meant eons to him.

The second option was far more obscure. I didn't want to believe it, but something about it fit. The theory matched the situation too perfectly. This boy had a vendetta against me. He felt wronged by my very presence. That could be the only explanation for this extreme, murder-like loathing. He didn't just hate me; he wanted me gone.