248 Days

November 19th

The steady increase in my enjoyment of Grayson's presence was becoming worrisome. I had told myself this wouldn't happen. The thought of turning my back on a self-made promise was infuriating. Luckily Grayson had the tendency to be overdramatic which resulted in the questioning of his likability.

     It started in English class. The bell had long rung, but Mrs. Straw had yet to speak a word. The eccentric woman not taking advantage of every possible minute to drill information in our minds, was certainly not a regular occurrence. Usual unruly grey hair pulled into a tight ponytail, and bright, mismatched clothing replaced with a grey knee-length dress, I watched her controlled movements with furrowed brows. Exaggerated look of wonder aimed towards the strange box on her desk, I felt as though I was watching a low-budget film. My friends wore expressions as confused as I, but Grayson... My eyes fell on him, and immediately I grumbled miserably. He showed no indications of thinking the woman's behavior odd, and I was struck with the horrible conclusion that he was responsible for Mrs. Straw's poor acting.

     Lifting a freshly painted red box from the top of her desk, a plastic spider sprung at our teacher. With a horribly fake shriek of horror, she shot a furious gaze at her painted hand. She had truly made a wise decision to choose a career in teaching over acting.

     Everyone but Grayson cringed at her reaction. I shrank in my seat in anticipation, placing my head in my hands as though peeking through my fingers would somehow make me invisible.

     "Which one of you troublemakers did this?" she demanded.

     Her attempt of fury was laughable. Scanning every student, her grey eyes landed on Grayson and me, and I knew with certainty that this was the idiot's doing. As her attention turned our way so did that of everyone in the room. Face still half hidden by my hands; I didn't care that the gesture screamed guilty. This was Grayson's doing, thus no matter how I reacted, the scene would unfold as he wished.

     Acting abilities even worse than Mrs. Straw's, his forced nervous habits of bouncing legs and exaggerated worried glances, caused me such great second-hand embarrassment that I considered pushing him off his chair. He really could not have made it any more obvious that he wished to be claimed as the guilty one.

     "Mr. Ryder!" Mrs. Straw called, confirming my suspicions. "You look awfully guilty."

     Grayson didn't answer, instead he furrowed his brows in a ridiculous manner, as though meaning to claim her accusation preposterous. I thought the expression resembled more one of constipation. I hoped he didn't envision an acting career in his future either.

     "Come here," she ordered, pointing to a chair next to her desk.

     Labelled with a white sign with large black lettering reading interrogation chair, I wondered how I hadn't noticed the chair earlier.

     As though it was an act of upmost courage, Grayson stood from his chair. On his way to do as the teacher requested, he swatted my hands away from my face.

     "Don't hide your eyes," he muttered.

     Partially removing my hands, this time I couldn't swallow back the groan. Grayson sat in the interrogation chair, Mrs. Straw lifted his left hand with a huff of triumph.

     "Oh, no!" Grayson exclaimed dramatically; gazing upon his paint covered hand as if it had betrayed him. "I've been caught red handed."

     While I wore an expression of complete exasperation, my peers snickered.

     "You know the punishment," Mrs. Straw failed to speak sternly. "Get on with it."

     When I thought the situation couldn't possibly become more embarrassing, Grayson took a deep breath and broke into a song. It was in moments like these that I questioned our friendship. I didn't like to be the center of attention, but with Grayson's tendency to be over the top, we often found ourselves to be the room's main focus.