Will & Indie

7.

The quill pressed against the page

Appears to be the only sane place

I find myself in

The autumn air was drenched with fog during Will's morning drive to school. The roads had somewhat disappeared other than their edges, leaving the dim street lamps and red brake lights the sole light emitters in the thick cloud of gray.

"Man, this fog is thicker than pea soup." Will squinted, going much slower than the speed limit.

"What are you, 80 years old?" Alice asked, crossing her arms.

"Wisdom-wise, I'd like to think so, yes. But maturity-wise? I'd bump myself down to six, maybe five."

"You're still being quite generous."

"I am very aware." Will smirked.

As if by some kind of miracle, Will and Alice made it to school safely. After Will parked the car, the sibling duo walked into the building together, less than ready for another unbearable day stuck inside it.

Will could always count on James, Forrest and Edward as a sense of normalcy—and immaturity—in a place that was built solely on teaching meaningless subjects and enforcing illogical rules. While Will and his friends didn't have many classes together, he was thankful that they at least shared a lunch period.

They all sat down at their designated Unorthodox Underdogs table and commenced eating glorified prison food.

"So, Forrest, are you and your dad gearing up for hunting season?" Will asked, tossing a forkful of greens in his mouth. He typically opted for salad, considering the look of the mystery meat that loomed on trays surrounding him.

"We're always gearing up for hunting season." Forrest replied with a chuckle. His larger-than-life hands looked a bit silly wrapped around his tiny metal silverware. "We just cleared the weeds from the field last night so we can see more from our treestands."

Will felt his phone vibrate. His heart skipped a beat at the thought of Indie texting him. He quickly cleared his throat as he felt his cheeks warm up, shoving another bite of salad in his mouth before anyone else at the table noticed his red complexion.

"I don't know how you enjoy hunting," James shook his head.

"I don't know how you enjoy playing football." Forrest replied, flattening out his dark buzzcut with his palm. "Everyone's got their thing, like Mr. Hacker over here."
Edward raised a brow. "I'm not a hacker, I'm a coder. I know those sound extremely similar to your adolescent ears, but believe me, they are different."

Forrest smiled. "Yeah, yeah, I hear ya, Eddie." He nudged his friend, who was clearly unimpressed. "You were put on this earth to play Tetris and die."

Edward was at a loss for words. He fidgeted for a moment before sheepishly mumbling, "I also play sudoku..."

Will felt his phone vibrate again. He tried ignoring it just in case it was Indie, but it was nearly impossible because of its jarring sound against the bench. Will bit his lip, standing from the table abruptly.

"I'm... gonna hit the lavatory," Will managed to squeak out. He clenched his fist as he sped into the boy's bathroom.

Unfortunately, though, Will did not realize that his pocket-sized notebook of poems had slipped out of his back pocket and was now laying directly beside James on the cafeteria bench.

"What's up with him?" Edward asked, raising a brow.

"Prolly diarrhea," Forrest shrugged casually as he devoured a quarter of his burger in one bite.

Will went into a bathroom stall and locked the door, immediately pulling his phone out of his pocket. Multiple messages from Indie graced over his phone screen. He nearly fell backward into the toilet with excitement.

Indie: I had a lovely time with you at Ivy, don't worry. I've found that just being with you makes any place special.

Indie: Also, I'd love to meet your folks sometime soon :)

Will's heart pounded wildly in his chest. The little words in tiny gray text bubbles were burnt into his brain immediately. His thumbs flew over the keyboard as he crafted the perfect response.

Will: I feel the same, Indie. And, about meeting my family... As you might've been able to tell by Alice's antics, my family is crazy. I don't want to subject you to that torture before you have to be.

Indie: Oh, come on, they can't be that bad. Not to mention your crazy had to come from somewhere. ;)

Will instantly felt his ears heat up.

Will: Ha, ha. You aren't wrong.

He thought for a moment before typing another message.

Will: Maybe I could meet your family first?

Will swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. Was he being too pushy? Too secretive? He couldn't bear the thought of Indie being thrust into the world of his father's alcoholic tendencies, cigar-smoking habits, and condescending actions. He'd introduce her to them all when the timing felt right, but at that moment, Will's dad was still pressuring him about college. He didn't want his dad to embarrass him more than he'd already embarrassed himself, or worse: embarrass Indie.

But maybe, he thought, her family situation wasn't the best either.

Indie: Sure, why not? We have a great place to stargaze on our back porch.

Will smiled, relieved. Nature was something that greatly inspired his poetry.

Will: Sounds enchanting. Friday night?

Indie: It's a date. :)

Will clicked his phone off. His happiness had peaked—that is, until he tapped his pants pocket and realized that his notebook was gone. It seemed as though in his rush to check his new messages, he hadn't noticed it slip out of his pocket. Will's heartbeat pulsed nervously in his chest as he feverishly washed his hands (although he hadn't even used the facilities) and rushed back out to the cafeteria.

His friends wouldn't read his extremely personal poems and writings without his permission... right?

When Will made it back to his lunch table, he couldn't help but notice three pairs of eyes watching his every move. To Will's relief, his book of poems was sitting at his spot on the bench. He snatched it up as if he were a raccoon stealing a scrap from a garbage can.

"What took you so long?" James asked, clearing his throat.

"Some people actually wash their hands, James." Will decided to crack a joke rather than start blindly questioning them. Dull laughter arose from Forrest.

"Psh, whatever, Whitlock. Some people don't spend 20 extra minutes grooming their luscious locks." James fired back, throwing a piece of untouched broccoli onto Will's tray.

Will readjusted his glasses. He tried not to read too far into his friends' actions, since they always acted like idiots; but something about this particular interaction fueled the fire of Will's suspicions. After he emptied his tray in the nearest trash can, Will moved his poetry book from his back pocket to his front pocket, giving it a few taps to ensure it would stay this time. His poetry was his escape alone, not anyone else's; why should he be forced to share it when he wasn't yet ready? Not to mention he knew for a fact that his friends wouldn't understand his over-felt feelings and gushy prose—in fact, he was almost certain that they'd pick on him for it until the day he laid down in his grave. They may not have said anything to Will directly, but the looks that they gave him spoke volumes of judgement.

Will wished that he was hiding beneath a blanket, crying and writing poetry, rather than walking to fifth period.