The Diary of the Devil

The Diary of the Devil [13]

Here is part 13! I hope you guys like it. And if you guys want another part soon, you'll have to VOTE, COMMENT, LIKE, TWEET, FAN, AND EVERYTHING!!!!! You guys are awesome. XD

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After the last bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, I made my way to the auditorium, where detention was being held. I tentatively pushed the heavy door open and made my way inside. I stumbled down the steep aisles and up the stage. I heard Miss Larson's voice as I neared the backstage area. Miss Larson was the drama teacher. She was a plump, middle-aged woman with an annoyingly high-pitched voice and very strict teaching method. She had cat's eye glasses and a sharp, pinched expression.

I pulled back the curtain and just narrowly missed a flying paint palette. I ducked at the last minute and it flew out into the audience seats. Paint splashed on the carpet. When I turned back around I saw a young boy with dark hair screaming his lungs off at Larson.

"I don't fucking need this shitty stress!" he shouted, splashing red paint all across the backdrop. "I quit!" He stomped around the piano to get his things as Miss Larson gaped at him, looking outraged.

"How dare you!" she spluttered, her chubby cheeks burning bright red.

"You're a bitch!" the boy hissed. "Burn in hell, you old hag." A few seconds after he stormed off the stage we heard the doors slam shut. A few minutes of silent, stunned shock passed, and the stage crew started bustling again, going back to their work. 

Then Larson spotted me. 

"Oh, you," she said, snapping her fingers to beckon me to her. 

"Greyson," I interjected.

"Clean this mess," she ordered like she didn't even hear me or care at all what my name was. My jaw dropped, and I stared at her incredulously as she sauntered past to go ruin some other teenager's dream of working on a play. She held her head up high, trying to salvage the last remains of her confidence.

"Fucking-" I began. "God, what a son of a bitch."

"I know, right?" I turned to see Max. She had an over-sized, paint-splattered shirt on that fell an inch or two past her denim, cut-off short shorts. Her hair was piled on the top of her head, pinned in place by a chopstick. A line of blue paint was streaked across her cheekbone and she held a paintbrush in her hand. "She shoved a brush into my hand and made me comb her hair one hundred and forty-five times. I mean, really, who does that?"

I narrowed my eyes at her suspiciously. "Why aren't you shoving a scorpion down my pants or twisting my nipples, or something like that? Why are you being nice?"

She laughed. "I never shoved a scorpion down your pants, Skinuth. And I figured, we're both already in hell, why make it worse?"

I took a moment to scrutinize her with my eyes, looking her up and down a few times. I crossed my arms defiantly. "I don't believe you, Max. That is so not like you."

She shrugged, her face turning pink. "I don't know."

"Get to work, you hooligans!" Miss Larson bellowed out.

"Guess I have to clean up this mess that kid left behind." I dropped my bag off to the side where the steps led up the stage and pulled my over shirt off. 

"Do you need some help?" Max offered, kind of awkwardly, I might add.

For the second time in two minutes, my jaw fell off its hinges. She was offering me help? What has the world come to? Max Callers was... being helpful. Last time I checked, she was the one who liked to make my life a living hell-hole, not trying to make it better. Maybe she was sick. I felt her forehead with the back of my hand. She wasn't warm. I grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her a little.