Faster Than Your Bullets

Chapter 21

Chapter 21


So, this new trouble with Drew means that he won't be my private driver anymore, right?

What would I do if the weather decided to be a bitch, e.g: it rained?

Of course, Peter can always drive me home, but unfortunately, my cute little made up tale has seriously bonded them by giving his redhead girlfriend an oh-my-lover-is-so-romantic-he's-totally-in-love-with-me kind of feeling. It makes the couple happy, obviously, but doesn't work in my favor. And after a while of observing, I'm pretty sure Scarlett isn't even a real redhead. So fake.

Okay so maybe I'm being a little biased. But frankly, Scarlett is not lovable, like, at all. She's a bigger drama queen than Mandy Stuart, and that says stuffs.

"She drank more than me, other liquor, also." Peter shrugs as we are walking to the parking lot, both of us still haven't gotten use to the taste of school and studying after the break, no matter how short it was. Drew didn't show up today, which makes things seems even weirder and the scribble on my hand gets more inviting. "So it wasn't until 11 last night did she wake up, and she couldn't remember a thing. So at 2, she completely freaked out and called me."

I shake my head and groan into my hands. "Gosh, Peter. And you rushed there?"

Peter shudders and makes a face. "You should have heard her on the phone. I was sleeping and thought she was being raped or something. Like, weeping and whispering. Mad." He shudders again.

"Potato po-tah-to." I stick my fingers in my ears and chant. "Lalalala dude you're wiped."

"What d'you think I should have done?" He raised his hands defensively. "Went back to sleep?"

"Duh!"

"Yeah, then change my status back to single." There is sarcasm in his tone. "Dreaming 'bout the moment for months."

I slap his back like the guys from the football team. "What? You're afraid of being available?" I wave my hand frantically in front of his face. "Are you even Peter or oh my god what has she done to you?"

Peter swats my hand away, laughing. "It's pretty cool, once you've quit dating assholes. You'll see."

I stare at him round-eyed for two seconds then look upward and adapt a thoughtful voice. "Not really sure how to feel about this. You giving relationship advices." Then I turn to him, who has already got a cheeky smile plastered across his face. "I thought I'm the love expert here?"

Peter laughs and throws his arm over my shoulder. "Consider yourself dethroned. She's awesome, you know?"

I place a hand on my chest and act like I'm gushing over the news with squeaky voice. "Aww so she's the one for you? Ohmigosh that is so cool! And she taught you cool words! What else does she do, shit unicorns?"

His eyebrow cocks. "She might. I haven't figured out yet."

I roll my eyes and pretend to vomit, then stop when we reach the parking lot, where Scarlett is waiting with one of her friend. The friend turns around and I am completely frozen. It's Jewels. But Jewels is my friend. Mine. How could she-? Why is she-? Oh God, what did the redhead bitch do? Jewels's eyes flicker between me and Peter before scanning me from head to toe. Then she turns back to Scarlett and mutters something. Okay, stay calm and cool, Andrea. Calm and cool. So, trying not to tear the green hightlights off Jewels' pretty head, I smirk, bide Peter a cold goodbye then begin to head for the gate, nasty whispers of the inner devil ringing in my ears.

So she thinks she can just take away my best friend then bitch about me with another friend of mine, huh?

Like stealing one isn't enough, huh?

First the fight with Peter. Now this.

The Peter trouble was a deep cut, and this is like salt in the fucking wound.
I can see what she's doing. She's doing what Mandy Stuart had once tried to in junior year. But everybody knows Stuart's a bitch. But they have never know that Scarlett Regan, the lovely redhead with the title of "Peter Bradley's First Real Girl Ever" or, more sickening, "The Girl Who's Won Bradley's Heart", could be a sneaky dog. And what's with the names anyways? Bullshit. Total bullshit. I was Peter's first girl, since he was thirteen. I was the one who took his virginity (okay so I'm not very proud of that, but still). I was the one who he's spent Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year with, the one who'd always got more chocolate eggs than him every Easter. Not Scarlett. Definitely not fucking Scarlett. And she knows it. Fucking Scarlett knows it and now she's begun manipulating my friends. Those girls are stupid. I'm not going to deny. My friends are morons. Not a single one with IQ over 120 (okay maybe apart from Pamela and Janet). So what? So they're easy to deceive, of course. Just tell them this person called them fat once being their backs and the next day they'll be throwing dagger glares and tripping this poor girl with their pretty princess feet in glorious high heels and maybe, if this person is really unlucky, she might get the honor of having slushie dumped on her head or chest, whichever they'd feel like targeting. Anyways, the whole point is, they are stupid and Scarlett is trying to turn them against me. She wants me hated. She's trying to remove my popularity from me. Bitch. Bitch.

I should do something about this. There's still six months until graduation and I'm not going to live those six months best-friend-less, if not to say friendless.

But what should I do?

A prank.

It has to be a perfect prank. Let's see... What does Scarlett love the most about herself?

Obviously her heart and soul are out of the question.

This is tricky, though, since I don't really know anything about her. It can be anything.

But c'mon. Girls are basically the same. They always have something in common, not counting physically.
With thoughts of revenge jumbling in my minds, I find myself fifteen minutes later spilling the psychotic intention to Pamela in her kitchen.

Now, this is why Pam is probably a greater friend than Peter: she actually listens and acts bitchy along. Plus, she helps me figure out the most perfect way to wound Scarlett Regan's killer-whale-sized stupid ego.

Though admittedly it's not her boyfriend I'm trying to mess with.
"Hair." Pam snaps her fingers, devilish look dancing in her eyes and all over her face. "That stupid red dyed hair."
Hair. Why didn't I think of it before? Girls love their hair more than their parents, at least that's the girls I know.

"Bet she won't look hot in blue." I feel my face muscles stretching into an ear-wide grin. I must be looking so creepy.

A plan is sketched up within half an hour. It's simple and easy to carry out. So basically, I'm gonna buy blue hair dye, we'll sneak into her house tomorrow night and mix it with her shampoo. If possible, it can be done tomorrow evening. Scarlett can be hanging out with Peter. They spend a lot of time at his place. As sour as the piece of info may be, it is useful and beneficial for us right now, so I will try not to complain and let another bitching session explode.

"We're forgeting one teeny problem here." I put my pencil down. "We don't know where her house is."

"I do." Says Pam. I cast her a look. "I've been there. This guy I once dated was her cousin. One time his dad got some presents for her mother so he dropped by. It's not far."

I joint down Scarlett's address on my hand, right next to the line "Spy on British". The rewrote it this morning after the shower had made it disappear. I'm not giving up on figuring out what Drew is doing. Sure, his little speech did bother me for the first one or two hours, but frankly, if I had a nickel for every time people call me "hypocritical plastic bitch", I'd be richer than my dad.

At precisely ten that night, after swallowing down the last spoonfuls of Mr. Duncan supper, I grab my money and set out to the nearest store, walking, of course. The idea of revenge is getting steadily less aggressive with every step I take since I almost twisted my ankle. The stupid hole on the sidewalk. It has been there since like ages ago, when it was super cold. And last year's winter was hot due to "ugh global warming" - as Pamela phrased it. Walking is so uncool.

However, the vengeful desire kicks again when I'm standing in front of shelves and shelves of cheap hair dye. It's the kind of product that works easily just by washing your hair with it. I figured we will mix it with her shampoo. There are about five shades of blue, so I pick the brightest one, the one that will stand out from her bright red hair. Turquoise. Pamela hates turquoise. This should makes her happy. However, I am not satisfied with the color yet. Sure, it's bright, but it's not bright enough. If things are done wrongly then it may look good on her, which will turn out shittily for me, which is totally not in the plan.
So I put the jar I've been holding back down and begin to search in other aisles for something better.

Dissatisfaction changes into desperation in a very short amount of time. Stupid, stupid store. What will happen when someone, like a punk kid, wants to dye her hair bright blue like the freaking neon lights? I can try other colors, sure, but the tiny issue is, as long as I hate myself for admitting this but Scarlett Regan is quite damn gorgeous and so is her hair, which means she can look perfectly stunning in almost every hair color. Except for the really, really bright turquoise. I'm pretty sure crankiness is all over my face as I storm up and down aisles, scaring away an old lady and a middle-aged woman. And her kids. And no I don't feel bad about it.

Maybe I should just get some bleach. Or maybe I should give up and think of another plan.

But what other plan? Is there possibly another way more perfect to attack Scarlett's hair? Of course there isn't. Blowing some stands of hair away from my face with my mouth, I lean against the wall, arms locked in front of my chest.

"Grumpy much, love?" British accent, but not the one I know. I whirl around to see a man in his early thirties, maybe, about a few inches taller than me with clean-cut black hair, black goatee, aquiline nose placed right under black eyes that would be quite attractive if they weren't looking so frightening. Instinctively I jump backward and shove my hand into my pocket, where the pepper spray is lying cold. The man laughs, apparently amused. It isn't a great laugh. It's not deep and sexy like boys'. It's deep and deadly like psychotic criminals'.

"I'm not doing anything." His eyes move from my head to toe, something in his gaze makes me feel more naked than I should be under three thick layers of clothes. I squirm and take another step back. He raises his two empty hands as a proof. "See? No harm." But fuck it, for all I know, this man can have like three hand and is hiding that extra hand somewhere, probably holding a knife or a loaded gun. Why? Because normal people with no intention of raping people or robbing the place don't act this creepy. And I'm about ninety-nine percent sure that this guy isn't just simply hitting on me, unless my judgement about flirtation is seriously wrong. And my judgement about flirtation is never wrong.

"Now, sweetheart," he continues, "are you looking for something?"

A place far away from you, yes. "No." I squeak. I should just stop there, but I am not known for the power of shutting my trap at the right time. "Hair dye, yeah."

The man's mouth twists into a smile. Again, it would be a nice smile that people at the age of Daphne's could like if it didn't make people feel like they're about to be brought into a doom pit. "I think there's an aisle for that over there." He jerks his chin to the direction of the place where I first found the dye. Stepping on my own feet out of nervousness, I nod and thank him as politely as possible and turn on my heels and start to pace away.

"But if you're looking for something else," Mr. I'm-Such-A-Creep calls after me. Now what? Suppressing a cry of despair, I face him again. Should I scream for help? Or run away? Or spray the guy with my pepper spray? It wouldn't really help if he did have an extra arm hidden under the windbreaker. "Something brighter colored, there's another place over there." He points his thumbs to my left, the area which has three or four fluorescent lights not working.

There's no way in hell I'm going in there with this guy around.

"No thanks." I mutter and shake my head. The man scratches the back of his head and sighs huffishly, as if he's dealing with a stubborn child who doesn't want to eat broccoli or something.

Which is somehow kinda insulting.

"How about," the man eyes dart from my face to the spooky place and back, "I'll go there and bring you something? What color, love?"

Can this possibly get weirder? I should just thank him again then run away, cower behind a security guard while dealing Pam to pick me up. But then Scarlett's face pops up in my mind, and so does Jewels's, and so does the humiliation of having lost one of my friend to the redhead. So instead of doing anything reasonable, I cough

"Light blue."

The man gives a small "Ahh" then quickly disappears behind the shelves on my left. I take some steps to the right, just in case he stuck a knife through the stack of whatever on the shelf at me. But that doesn't happen. By the time the man comes back with a metal can in his hand, I am pretending to be interested in a dinosaur-or-something-like-that cereal brand.

"Here you go." He grabs my hand, open it and press a small plastic jar inside before I can protest. Squeaking a nervous "thank you" to the creepy stranger whom I would like to never meet again, I scurry to the checkout counter. While waiting for a bald man to pay for his beer, I have the time to scrutinize the object I was given. And to my surprise, the guy wasn't shitting when he said he knew where they store the brighter colors. Because this is the worst and the most terribly blinding shade of turquoise I've ever seen. By blinding I meant bright. Scarlett Regan will walk out of the shower tomorrow's evening and scream in terror when witness her head looking like she's been attacked with some kind of alien viruses that came from a strip-club's-neon-light planet. The cashier throw me a concerned look when I feel a grin creeps across my face.

But the possibility of payback on Scarlett doesn't make the possibility of me being killed by the scary guy before I can plan out any further possibilities less possible. So I practically dashed home, once again almost breaking my ankle in the cursed hole on the sidewalk. Tonight is not my night.

***
In my head, Andrew Archer and I are playing a game of who can care less. In reality, I know he doesn't give a shit while I, miserably, am stuck with an alerting amount of English homework which I can never ever in a million years handle alone. Plus, we still have that footage of something related to lost love or anything sounds kinda like that, I don't really remember. The fact that all his bruises are gone and he looks like a sex god doesn't help. How can it be, anyways? He has just looked like a panda 72 hours ago. Trust me, if I can whack myself in the head to convince my pride to apologize or whatever this guy demand, I will. But I won't, because I can't. Because I am a girl and a girl is not a girl without her girly pride.

But I mean, c'mon, three essays due this Thursday? Has the old lady gone insane? What is there to write about "Romeo and Juliet" anyways? They met, they got married, they had sex, she pretended to die, he died then she died, whatever - I'm not really sure of the orders. It's pretty dull if you ask me.

No one's bothered to ask me, though. Apparently the class is drooling over the idea of drinking poison over your girlfriend's dead-body-but-not-quite and waking up feeling like shit when your boyfriend has just committed suicide a moment ago. Yes, so romantic.

As if English class itself isn't hellish enough (I cannot believe a month ago I felt okay with it. But as announced: I'm a total bat-crazy mood swing so...), sitting next to Drew-I'm-So-Ignoring-Andy makes the experience worse. He obviously is a vampire who can read thoughts, or some obsessed nerd. Whichever it is, it's really starting to get on my nerves when he prick keeps murmuring along with Mrs. Black's droning like he had learned her syllabus by heart and slept with it under his pillow at night.

"And why is the act of sex so important?" Mrs. Black raises her voice, her eyes roam the class hopefully. To my right, Andrew's voice whispers the answers straight away.

"To Elizabethan, sexual desire was not antithetical to romance; it was the essence of romance. Moreover-"

Drew's stupid muttering is interrupted by Mrs. Black clanking voice calling: "Andrea Hales."

I look up from my book. Mrs. Black nods her head vigorously as repeating her question. "Can you tell us the answer?"

Crap.

I stand up with clear hesitation, wrecking my useless brain for something to say.

"The act of sex is important because...um...to Elizabethans, sexual desire was...not antithetical to romance..." I don't even know what 'antithetical' means, "but the essence of romance." That comes out more like a question than an answer, but Mrs. Black's eyebrows show that she is impressed. Maybe she doesn't know what the heck 'antithetical' means, either.

"That's one good point, dear." She smiles and waves her hand, signaling for me to be seated. I sit down with a breath of relief and stare at my book, a side of my face burning under Drew's eyes, which are now fixed on me. I know because I've just looked. The asshole is smirking. He stays like that until the end of the class, even when his gaze is not on me. Yes, I peek. And got caught. Very smooth, Andrea.

The bell rings and my stomach does a flip. It's the last class of the day. The blue dye is lying safe in my bag, ready to ruin some lives. I have planned out the detailed plan with Pamela earlier today. We shared four classes today and that was more than enough time to do anything.

Also, I've been avoiding Peter all day. I didn't meet his eyes at classes when he sits next to me. I gave one-word answers to his question. I didn't laugh at his jokes, which is kinda hard since his jokes are sometimes funny. I declined all his offer. Peter is not an idiot. He realizes the symptoms of the girly mental issue but luckily for me, he isn't good at guessing the actual problem. The actual problem is guilt. It has to be. I am going to destroy his girlfriend's hair - a girl's most treasured part of her head. But he thought I was mad at him for not having had a word to his chick about stealing other people's toys on the playground. I assured him it wasn't that, but the thought was eating the poor guy up alive. It was miserable, I think, for at lunchtime, he pulled me by the hand out of his girlfriend's sight into an empty classroom. Awkward conversation has never been my favorite things in the universe.

"What?" I raised my brows. His brows knitted.

"You're mad at me." He pointed out.
I shook my head a forced a smile. "I'm not."

It didn't convince him. Peter placed one of his hands on my shoulder and continued. "Listen, I am sorry for Scarlett. And everything she's done. And I know that you don't like her. She's making you unhappy, yeah. And," he took a deep breath. Boys can be so stupid, "I don't want anything to make you unhappy."

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He was feeling guilty. Which just made me feel guiltier. Pushing away the discomfort, I manage to be an easy-going, lovable friend and put my hand on his hand on my shoulder. "I'm not mad, Pete. And I don't really care about her anymore." It was hard to not rolling my eyes and to keep the sarcasm away, but I did it.

"You weren't talking to me." He spoke with accusation in his voice. I stared into his eyes. Hurt. He was hurt. Haha. "You weren't even looking at me." Oh, no. Not the pouty face. Not the pouty face. He did the pouty face and my inside melted. But that didn't make my laugh less dry.

"Well," I gestured back and forth between us. "I am talking to you now, aren't I?"

Sighing (way louder than necessary), Peter turned his head to a side, his eyes glued to the ground. I watched his jawbones moves as he breathed through his teeth. I liked my view. Then he turned to me again, his eyes flickered to mine before dropping to his shoes.

"Was it me? I mean, directly?" He muttered and flashed a quick glance at my face. My subconscious was showing off her groaning while swearing talent inside my head. Struggling with my tongue to not curse aloud and completely lose it, I inhaled and touched his face with my hand, lifting it just enough so I can see his eyes. They were too close to mine and everything was out of focus. I blinked before making up some nonsense about he was being the best friend I could ever wish for and some relevant points. It was like an essay. I can't remember how it went but am pretty sure it was touching enough for Peter to leave me alone with my sabotaging strategy.

"Got it?" Pam asks for the hundredth time since we hopped into her car. My prediction has been confirmed: Drew has pulled out of the driving deal. The pickup truck was on its way out when we arrived at the parking lot.

"Yeah. It wouldn't just magically disappear, you know." I grumble, my fingers seizing the jar as we pull up outside her house. We've agreed on walking there since a car would be a dead giveaway. Pam stalks up to her bedroom while I wait outside the house. Her parents aren't home and her sister isn't known for her hospitality. I've never liked Karen so standing on the porch is fine by me.
The door opens and Pamela's hands sticks out, holding a dark hoodie. Deciding that changing outside would be too risky, I take the hoodie and slip inside before putting it on. My blond hair is in a ponytail and tucked away into the hood. Pam is wearing the similar clothing as mine and her hair is treated the same. With only our phones (on silent) deep in our jeans pocket and the jar in hidden in my hoodie, we walk in discreet along the streets through the neighborhood. It's getting dark already so I'm confident that we are well hidden. At least for now. Besides, with the casual walk of normal people, not sneaky teenagers, we shouldn't be suspected.

We even wear gloves.

As the Regans' house is plain in sight, I am freaking out with nervousness.

"I've investigated." Pam places her hand on her hips. "Her parents are abroad. She won't be home until eight. And I've got her brand of shampoo. Bought it." We intend to switch the bottles after the Blue Hair Disaster happens, just to be safe. Since I'll be the one sneaking in first, that part is left to Pamela.

Scarlett's bedroom is on the second floor with windows facing the house's backyard. With a push from Pamela, I grab the window pane and lift myself up. It's a bit tricky when you're wearing wooly, fluffy hand gloves.

Luck seems to sympathizes me, since her window is unlock. With her mom a famous TV host who earns a mountain of money per year, surely the redhead would have known to lock all the doors and windows. Seriously, what if they got robbed?

Anyways, it isn't my business.

Scarlett's room is nowhere near as nice as mine. Peach walls, baby blue bed, sunflower sheet. Gosh, does she even have any artistic bone in her body? This looks like a five years old's. Of course, except for two makeup table filled with...I'm not really sure.

The bathroom door, unlike the clean walls, is covered in pictures. Half is of her and her friends. Half is of Peter, with and without her. I cannot help but think 'What an obsessed freak'. But what can I do? I hate the bitch that's dating my best friend with a serious passion that isn't going to fade away anytime soon.

It takes a while to spin the door knob with gloved hand, but I manage it eventually. Her bathroom smells funny, the scent of products with...chlorine. Chlorine? I scrunch my nose, bitchy mocks begin to form in my head.
I search for the shampoo, open and place it on the floor then kneel down and uncap the jar. The smell of the nasty bright thing hits me right away. Something is not right. Weird as it is, the dye smell revolting, reminding me of the taste of acidic gastric juice when I throw up with nothing in my stomach. And for all I know, hair dye should smell of the pungent chemical that they use in hair salon. Besides, dye in the jar shouldn't be this watery...

But whatever.

The overwhelming scent of the shampoo helps making the dye's almost undetectable. I don't have to dump the whole jar into Scarlett's bottle. There isn't much shampoo left so I don't need much to make the whole thing a disgusting bluish mess that looks like a Smurf's puke.

As I close Scarlett's bathroom door with a smirk plastered on my face and satisfaction dancing inside, my eyes come across something weird I missed the first time.

Me. Me and Peter sitting in his car.

But why the heck...? How did she got this?

Judging from my clothes and hair and face, I think the picture dates back to our freshman year, before I lost some weight and before the abnormal "relationship" between me and Peter. I was laughing in the picture, and Peter looked like he was speaking. Cracking a joke. It must be a funny one. I wouldn't have laughed if it was lame.

As I approach further toward the door and observe more closely, many more pictures of us are spotted. Most of them are old. Most of them are from before she met Peter. Peter and me eating ice cream in the park. Peter doing up my coat. Me sitting alone on the bleacher during his practice. Me twirling around in a purple dress at Homecoming, my arm raised, fingertips meeting his. Us making out. Peter shirtless with my arms and legs around him.

Oh my god, has she been stalking him for all these years?

"Andrea!" Pam's faint hiss brings me back to present. Blinking a few times, I begin to climb out of the window. Pam catches me, not very successfully, grabs my arm and we roll behind a bush.

"What took you so long?" She breathes, checking if the coast is clear.

I shake my head and rub my eyes. "Some insane discoveries." And then I tell her about the freaky bathroom door. At the end of the story, Pam's eyes are bulging like they're about to fall out of their sockets.

"That is fucking spooky." She speaks slowly, eyeing Scarlett's window with clear disgust. "But now is not the best time to chat, I think. You should leave before she gets home."

We exchange see you later's and I stands up and walk/run home. It's hard to look casual when excitement and fear are swarming in my stomach like insects. But eventually I make it home without vomiting.

The uncomfortable feeling soon wears off under the shower. Hot water makes everything better. But what could happen, really? Scarlett will find her hair blue and can never guess why since the bottles will be swap. I will travel to the other end of the city to chuck out the blue dye, which is now lying peacefully on my bookshelf. The plan is that simple. Nothing can go wrong.

And tomorrow morning I will have the pleasure to watch the redhead bitch appear with bright blue patches of hair standing out from the red shade. God, my surrounding seems much more better just at the thought of it.

Mrs. Duncan cooks her Friday Meatball although it's a Tuesday. Poking at the dry protein on my plate with a fork, I check my phone. Seven oh-eight. It isn't until eight does Scarlett return to her house. Sighing, I stab the rest of the meat and shove it all in my mouth. Mrs. Duncan finishes her plate, put it in the sink then go to her room. She enjoys watching her favorite show in her room since the TV in the living space is "too big it makes her feel awkward". So I usually have the big screen all to myself, all night.

However, tonight is not one of those night. Mumbling the most polite insults about English class and the teacher, I move to my room, slam my homework on the table with a scorching determination. But then half an hour passes and I am staring at a blank sheet of paper.

Nothing, absolutely nothing comes to mind. Fuck, I can't even understand the question.

For the probably kazillionth time since I first laid eyes on the goddammed Shakespeare's work, why are people so obsessed with these two hormonal teenagers under the name of Romeo Montague and Juliet Capulet? Their names don't even sounds pretty.

Yeah, right. True love. So that's why it doesn't work its magic on me. I'm immune to bullshit like true love. The two people fell in love over the course of three days. Romeo expressed his sexual desire for Juliet and she completely fell for it. She mistook it for passionate love. Had they been able to live, I've got the feeling I know what would have happened. They would have declared their undead affection to the world, gone great length to hold a remarkable wedding, moved in together, and Romeo would have transformed from a dream lover to a nightmare husband. They would have realized their love was nothing more than a meaningless fling, and it was once heated because it was forbidden. Society didn't invent divorce at the time, so their marriage would have been likely to become abusive. After the supposed happy ending came an even greater tragedy. Shakespeare was smart to let the lovers die. At least they died in their delusional happiness.

Personally, I do not consider the ending to be tragic. It's almost a fantasy. Reality is tragic.

Tragic strikes people who cannot differentiate reality from daydream. They meet a person, think the person is their better halves, fall head over heels, get in a relationship or marriage, maybe. And then the couple has sex less frequently, talk less frequently, eventually meet each other less frequently, too. It's the usual way that things break. Sounds light as a feather but from what I've collected around, apparently it isn't nice.

I've never been through that usual way. Sure, I think I had some kind of teenager's heartbreak when I was sixteen, but it was anything but usual. Bad memories. It was uncool.

Something's buzzing.

My phone.

Andrew.

Calling to apologize, huh? Ha!
Filtering smugness from my voice, I press the "accept" button, spin the chair around and place my feet on the table.

"What?"

"Open the door." Drew's voice sounds congested. Then the line goes dead.
Well that's a mood killer.

I lean back on my chair and hit my forehead with the back of my hand. Fucking, fucking asshole. See, this is the problem with Drew. This is why he doesn't have friends. You can't call someone a hypocritical bitch then rudely ask them for a favor.

I won't open the door.

Another phone call comes in. From him again.
"Open the bleedin' door, Andy." I catch his sigh. "Please."

"That's so fake, man." I start speaking into the phone. "I mean, honestly, do-" But he's hung up.

This is what happens to generous people. Their generosity got used. Literally rolling off my chair (and land on my face), I crawl downstairs, grumbling crankily like a grizzly bear.

Drew is hiding himself in the shadow, pressed against the wall, his legs hugged closed, his face rested on his knees. He jumps at the click of the door then hastily stand up and pushes his way through me inside the house, where he stands with his back to the door, his hand touching the wood and his eyes searching the pitch black street. Only then does it occurs to me he might being followed.

"What took you so fucking long?" He spits as I lock the door. I turn to him so fast that something in my neck cracks. This time, Drew's made it out without anything on his face.

"Oh, I'm sorry?" I throw the keys on the table and walk on the stage where the piano used to be. Drew's eyes follow me, a second is spent on staring at my ass before they dart up again. "Am I supposed to open the door to my house and welcome someone, I don't know, a fucking asshole whose friends are fucking criminals, and who-" I place my hands on my hips and bend forward a little, "has just called me a fake plastic bitch seventeen hours ago?"

Surprise glides through Drew's face. "Oh, is that your problem?" He's moving away from the door, approaching me. My feet start walking again and I pace to the stairs. He changes his direction. Goddamnit. "The past's in the past? And you just let slide the event that I saved your neck fucking seventeen hours ago? Do you even know what'd have happened if you'd got caught?"

I stop on the second step of the stairs. The British shit is standing right in front of me, a mocking smile sitting on his lips. I fake a laugh. "Past's in the past? That's your problem, Andrew. You think that just because nothing's happened between us in the course of twelve hours, you can just march up to demand that the door be opened. I don't fucking know what's in your head, asshole, but that's not how human beings treat each other. You yourself excluded me from, what, every fucking thing in your life and denied all connections with me, and none of the things out of nothing you've done today really put on a big notion that I am included again. And no, bastard, I don't know what would have fucking happened if we'd got caught, because in your fucking opinion, I wasn't to know."

Then I storm up the stairs again. His footsteps pursue mine.

"From the fucking look of it, you got over it pretty fast, there should be no reason it's brought up now. You think running away from arguments is mature, Andy?"

"Oh, and you think ignoring the fucking elephant in the room is mature? Like the fact that you threw me a five-hundred-word essay about what a bitch I am just oh I'm not sure this morning?"

"People ignore it when it's the truth."

"People exit an argument when it's stupid!"

"Bullshit. You started the fucking argument."

I stop at the top of the stairs, one hand on the doorknob of my room.

"And you are the one who made it bullshit. And just for you know, I've opened a fucking lot more doors for you than I received help. And I didn't even need fucking help."

Drew's laugh is dry.

"Yeah, and where would you end up now if I let you got raped?"

My laugh is even drier.

"Here, without you. I am not fucking helpless, Andrew. It's you who wants to be act heroic when in poor fact, you're just a fucking male version of a bitch that keeps score. Who the fucks keep score anyways? Is that what you call 'mature'?"

"The definition of maturity gets you in a shit load of troubles. You're a fucking snobbish child, Hales."

I roll my eyes. "We've been through this." And I disappear into my room with a slam of the door. Seconds later, it open again and Drew walks in, obviously in the mood to fight.

"And now I'm getting it through your head again, 'cause you obviously don't get it."

"No, it's you who doesn't get a fucking thing. You said I had no rights to interfere with your shit, like it's so interesting. So now I'm telling you that you have to rights, either, to blab about your shit definitions, or to tell me what to do, or barge in to my fucking bedroom, when in mere a day before you've done a shit load of insults because I won't accept it, Archer. This is why no one wants to be friends with you, 'cause you are a freak who has this delusion that you are too good for everyone when in fact, no one gives a whit about you. Also the reason why I want to you fucking leave my house and never show your face again." My heart is beating fast and adrenaline is thundering in my vein.

Of course the fucker doesn't leave. Of course he doesn't feel humiliated or ashamed. I don't think he's even human.

Drew takes a step forward, his head facing the ground but his eyes are glancing up at me. It's not hard since he's much taller.

"And if I don't leave, love? What 'cha gonna do?" He moves closer. Involuntarily I move backward until my back hit the bookshelf. The fucker steps until he's about twelve inches again, then slams his hands against the shelf and grips it, caging me.

"Anything fucking thing to get rid of you, that's it." I lift my chin, but then reconsider it since his face is too close.

Drew bends lower and I freak out. This is the most inappropriate time to shag ever. And I don't want to shag him. But my hands numb and useless on my sides, unable to move to my will.

But the kissing never happened. Drew's mouth stops when it's right next to my ear.

"The thing is, Andy." His voice is seductive. Why is it seductive? I find myself gasping for air. No, no, no, gasping is not in the plan. See, now he's smirking. I can feel it. "You can never resist me fiercely enough to kick me out."

Not fierce enough, huh? Humiliation slaps me in the face and pride flared up. So I push him by the shoulders. Drew mustn't have seen it coming, because he stumbles backward.

Geez, I'm stronger than I thought.

"You." My voice is shaking, so I cough. "Leave my fucking house. Just fucking leave."

Gaining his balance again, Drew stands straight with the old smirk still on. His eyes move from my face to something behind me and his smirk is gone.

And all the blood drains from his face.

Almost running to the shelf, he sticks his hand and grabs something just above my head the holds it in front of my face.

It's the blue dye.

"Where did you get this?" His voice is no longer low and sexy. It's low and serious and fearful.

"It's hair dye. From a department store, of course." I state the fact and give him the fucking-idiot look.

Drew shakes his head frantically. "This isn't sold in store. Did you yourself see it on the shelves?"

"Why would you need to know?"

"Just fucking tell me already!" He snaps.

"Fine." I pull a face. "I didn't. A man gave it to me."

Drew mutters something sound like a swearword, his hands turning white clutching the plastic jar. The whole thing seems ridiculous to me.

"I don't see why you're fussing over this. It's only hair dye."

To my surprise, Drew wraps his fingers around my wrist and pull me down so we're sitting on the bed. Then, with trembling tone, the words fall out slowly.

"This isn't hair dye, Andy." His finger presses my lips when I open my mouth to protest. Then it slides down and his hands touch my arms. "You need to stay calm. This may be a little shocking, but this fucking thing is not hair dye. You can't trust its label." He halts and squints his eyes before fixing them in me again. "You remember the man that we were running from this early morning?"

I nod. "Well, he's a bad guy. I'll keep things simple. He's a bad guy. He and his friends sell things like this to people. But I have never seen them selling things to people who doesn't ask for it. And maybe he took the product's code or whatever it is from other things and stuck on this jar so it can pass the checkout counter." He seems more like talking to himself more than to me. "But this isn't hair dye, Andy."

"Then wha-"

"I don't really know. It's a kind of acid, maybe, that only react with organic matter. I don't know, I sucks at Chemistry." He leans in a little bit. "Now, Andy, you would have known if you have touched it, so I'll conclude that you haven't."

Oh, shit.

Shit shit shit.

"But have anyone else used this thing?"

Shit shit shit shit shit! I meant to humiliate the redhead bitch, not to kill her.

Slowly, with burning cheeks, I nod. A string of curses immediately escapes Drew's lips. But before he can ask any further, my phone rings on the table. I check the time: 8.20, and lunge for the phone.

It's Peter.

"HiPetewhassup?" I breathe, minimizing the panic in my voice. However, Peter completely fails in doing that.

"Andrea, I need you." It sounds like he has been running. "I'm at the hospital. Can you come? I'll text the address." I hear him panting. "Scarlett's here. Acid burn."