Winchester High| 16+

Chapter 14: Staring Contest

I was as cautious as ever. Each time I passed the boys' bathroom, I looked right at the back wall. The light outline of the graffiti reminded me I live in the context of it, or whoever, or whatever has a vengeance with me, my friends, and the entire school. The artwork that put a rupture through my life, sent knives through me, and I couldn't help but be on alert for the vandal's next attack. I watched door frames for buckets of paint, I opened my locker very slowly and jumped at loud noises. Nonetheless, I was a student, so despite my weariness, I had scheduled locations for attendance, and at 1:21 p.m. I'd show up to Period Six, which was P.E.

Val and I sat on the wooden flooring and Ms. McCoy, our P.E. teacher, had us stretching damn near for mercy. We sitting just beside the  Winchester crest on the floor. It was this huge dramatic thing of an uncategorical bird. The bird (we're just gonna call it an eagle for now, Although Val says it's an owl) had a blue banner in its claws legibly saying Winchester High. I conjured a fear-induced fantasy that deeply associated the owl-eagle with that of Winchester's newest hot topic, the vandal, sinking its claws into our lives, and changing the school's history forever.

"So you guys just talked the whole time?" Val asked stretching her arm from under her chin, I was rolling my shoulders. I raved to her about last night, with Carlos.

Carlos.

The word flew out my mouth perfectly as if my tongue evolved to say its name with perfect pronunciation. I was giddy now, despite my nerves.

"We talked, we laughed..." I gave myself a pleasant moment to relive the scene I relayed to her, "He's weirdly perfect to me... damn." She smiled.

I looked at the crest to my right, becoming especially aware of the extent to which its beak was widened, and the furious expression of the owl-eagle.  It was created with the intention of looking patriotic, but upon recent catastrophic events, it was seemingly violent and ready to swallow Val and me whole.

"Do you feel that too?" I asked, giving up on my shoulders and tending to a tense part of my neck. This wasn't a part of McCoy's regiment, but I definitely needed it anyway.

"That feeling something terrible is about to happen. Yeah. Since yesterday."

I let out a short breath of relief, still asking, "Are we just a pair of nervous wrecks or--"

"No, no, it feels very real." She reassured. The tense part of my shoulder softened.

"Alright!...POP" McCoy's gum popping echoed across the entire gymnasium, frightening my shoulder back to a sting, "Girls, locker room! POP...It's Volleyball day."

Volleyball day is Val's favorite day. I'd always sit on the bleachers--eating probably--watching her zip around the room, her hair floating with her. My all-time favorite thing to do was watch as she'd smack down the ball on the other side of the net (whatever that was called). She did it so passionately as if to smack down her enemies, and I'd imagine her smacking down her bullies--Paris and her, albeit, lackluster crew--in a way I could never do for her.

"Yes!" She fist pumped. She tied her braids up quickly with the hair tie she always had on her wrist. She got up quickly, if I was getting up with her or not, and began unapologetically light jogging towards the locker room door.

I saw it coming from a mile away, but the words couldn't escape until it was too late. Malik's girlfriend, Paris, and a variety of other mean-spirited "jockettes" were huddled up a not-so-discrete huddle.
"Val!" The words finally ready to come through. She turned, but not fast enough to stop Paris from tripping her right on the gym floor. Her prior joy sucked out of her body as the thud hit our ears.

Everyone around us appeared from around the gym to howl together in a symphony of deranged laughter. I appreciated humor, truly, but never in this way. Though throught it all, I still, somehow, wanted to punch my hesitation square in the face. The sight of Val laid out on the floor only applified my frustration. I looked to Paris who didn't shudder with guilt, or silence the crowd or tell them to tone it down. She ate this moment like it tasted fantastic, like it satisfied her to fullness. Despite her boyfriend being completely missing, Paris always found it essential to terrorize the weak.

Without my input, my body stood up from the floor and started walking over. I didn't know what I'd say, or what I'd do, but I charged again, though it was short-lived. My movements began and stopped, right in the worst place you caught be, and as I was close enough to see a pimple on Paris' pristine face I saw Carlos tying his laces on the bleachers. Either 1. he was sparing Val by not looking at her, or 2. he was simply not looking. Eventually, one of these options would prove to be false as he finally caught a glimpse of what was happening.

"Is there something you want to say?" Paris spoke in a way that curved and formed a noose that suffocated me. There was that hesitation, again. Through it all, I looked at Val who was starting to stumble up, she puffed up her cheeks in embarrassment. My knees were locked in place and I could only repeat the same word in my head over and over, sorry, sorry, sorry.

Carlos was stepped over all the bleachers towards us, the closer her got, the more the chattering around us dwindled. His eyebrows were furrowed and his back bent back--which I imagined flames were coming out (yuck, on my part)--forcing his chest into a square. He was beautiful when he was angry, and whatever else he did. Paris' lashes usually gave her a tired-esc expression, but now and all her shock in the form of the whites of her eyes. He got closer to her, making me feel afraid for just knowing him. I felt scared standing there, like if I blinked he'd wack her across the face, and partly I was equally scared of Paris. I went by his side and placed a hand on his chest to stop his path, forcing him to look at me--although he only saw through me.

"Ismael, please." He said. What?!

I really didn't want him to hurt this girl (or vise versa), although what she did was terrible, it would be a cowardice--I know, ironic, coming from me--to hit a girl. Carlos was standing close to Paris, glaring into her soul, she stared back.