Jawbreaker ❆ Tom Kaulitz

[ 09 ] If Looks Could Kill

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09. If Looks Could Kill
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                The clock reads 4:05PM and my patience is already wearing dangerously thin. I tap my nail against my laptop keyboard and cast my narrowed eyes over the quickly emptying library in an attempt to spot a row of black braids anywhere. I wear my mood evidently on my face — pulled tightly into a scowl, I'm certain that I look incredibly unapproachable right now.

After last night, I'm feeling especially unforgiving. I almost cancelled out of sheer annoyance, but since I'm a good person (and definitely not a witch), I'm keeping my word.

Though if he's not here in the next five minutes, I've decided that I'm leaving. He can figure his own shit out, right?

I give up on looking for him and duck my head back down into my textbook, highlighter at the ready. I glance back and forth between my textbook and the notes on my computer, double-checking that everything I've written down is absolutely correct, no mistakes in sight.

I'm not surprised to find that it is, in fact, all correct.

A muttered, "Hey," pulls me out of my silent, dwindling rage and my head snaps back up, gaze trained heavily on the boy sliding into the seat across from me. I squint at him as he drops his hockey bag on top of the desk.

                His hood is pulled all the way up over his head, black bandana slightly visible underneath, and he's wearing a pair of oversized sunglasses — he's definitely hungover.

                That's Karma, baby; I feel fucking fantastic right now.

"You're late," I say plainly, eyes drifting back towards my textbook.

"It's only five past," Tom says in a confused tone, and I can see his eyebrow raised out the corner of my eye.

"Late," I repeat firmly, and he sets an iced coffee down on the desk in response.

                Without saying anything, I hook my finger around it and pull it closer towards me, warily taking a sip (he may or may not have poisoned it). Caramel. I assume he went with the safest choice, and I'm not going to admit it to him, but caramel is my favourite flavour.

                I take a peek over at him to see if he happens to have a bag of donuts on him, but I can't see anything — I frown slightly, trying to hide my disappointment.

                Not that I could've eaten it anyways.

I realise that the space around him is strangely empty — no textbooks, no stationery of any kind; just a laptop and an old tattered notebook. He brought a notebook without even bringing a pen?

"Where are your things?" I ask in an irritated tone, lowering my reading glasses further down my nose.

"What things?" He asks densely.