Shattered Pieces

Chapter Three

And So The Mystery Continues

  I despised fate.
  Harris was watching me very very closely. If a lock of hair shifted, he'd notice. I didn't look at him, I was still trying to steady my pants and regulate my heartbeats. All I could think was how grateful I was to not have tears on cliff's edge at the corners of my eyes.
  Awkwardness eventually settled in the autumn air. Harris shuffled on his combat booted feet, rustling a cushion of dry leaves. The crisp air seeped through my turtleneck and stung my lungs.
  "Andra?" I heard Harris speak for the first time in years. "Alessandra? Are you-"
  "Fine, fine. I'm fine." I dusted myself off. I avoided looking into his eyes. "I don't need looking after anymore, Marsh." I flicked my eyes to him and away. "Not that you ever did, of course." I added.
  He winced, the slight narrowing of his eyes and the brief downward tug of his lips. "You do, el Ardor. You looked like you just had a panic attack."
  The use of that name stung more than 'Andra' had. He'd use that term to acknowledge me long before, it meant 'fire'. Back then, he told me it meant 'ugly' or 'monstrous'.
  Harris wasn't Mexican, or even part Mexican. He spoke English without flaw. He'd once told me he had spent a year and a half of his childhood in New Mexico. He was fluent in both languages as I remembered.
  I shrugged. "I haven't had one of those in years, el Diablo." My Spanish was not as good as his but I'd learned a few words through our time together. Diablo was a nickname I thought I had retired of him, thinking our time together was terminado.
  "Alessandra," a frown echoed in each syllable.
  I despised how he could turn his words into daggers to slice me thin. A pet peeve of mine when it came to him. He'd never called me anything but my full name, save for Andra or el Ardor. It was something more intimate about calling me by my full name. His Spanish accent was more pronounced when he spoke my name. It rolled thick and rich on his tongue. Something that use to captivate me before but no more. 
  I didn't wait for him to find his words. I shouldered him away and re-entered the canteen.
  Not many people still lingered. I didn't realise I was gone that long. Then again, time passes quickly when you're confronted by a ghost from your past.
  I found my backpack on the ground by the table my friends had been sitting at earlier. A quick glance at my watch told me that I had three minutes before the next class started.
  I didn't eat during recess usually, so I wasn't that hungry when I walked to class.
  The biology lab was almost empty. Most of my other classmates didn't bother to show up, possibly smoking cannabis behind the school and getting high with their friends. Mr Davies, our biology teacher, never minded the absence of the students. He fell asleep during class a lot anyway, so no one was really missing out on a lot.
  The A average students were clustered at the front of class, jotting down self-made notes from reference books and the textbook and exchanging information. The school play and theatre club members were at the back acting out what I guessed to be a new script.
  I sat alone in the corner, quietly flipping through my book. Head buried in imagined scenes from the book playing out in my head, eyes and consciousness swimming in the sea of words.
  Too deeply engrossed in my book, I didn't notice the person taking the seat next to me.
  "To Kill A Mockingbird? I thought you didn't like classics."
  I startled enough to slam down the book and annoy the theatre club members.
  A dazzling smile shone down at me, sapphire blue eyes glinted in sunlight.
  "Hey," he leaned in and planted a loving kiss to my lips.
  "Hi," I murmured in between kisses.
  Thomas Moreau was certainly the charmer and sweetheart when I first meet him. His tousled blonde hair always in disarray and dressed in crisp ironed t-shirts. Boyfriend of two years and my best friend, besides Danielle and Teresa, he was a solid rock I leaned on when times got rough. He made me feel safe, he was the perfect boyfriend anyone could ask for.
  We broke the kiss and smiled goofily at each other. He slid his arm around my waist, making me feel petite despite my 5' 7 frame in heels and kissed my forehead. I breathed in the scent of his cologne he always wore, my present to him on his past birthdays. It smelled sweet and earthly, like a forest after rainfall.
  "So where do want to go on our date tonight?" he asked casually.
  "I thought you were the one planning the date, love," I teased. "Lost our imagination, have we?"
  Tom pinched my nose and I squeaked. "Less off your cheek, love, 'else there won't be a date to go on."
  I poked my tongue out at him. Inside, I was in turmoil.

  He doesn't really want to go on a date with you. He's noticed it, he knows. You can't hide forever, he'll find out one day. He doesn't want to see a loser like you, you're mental if you think he would. Oh, wait, you are mental.

  I smiled through it.
  "How about that fancy new arcade on Fletcher Road? Game Fire, is it?" I told him. "We could go there, play a few games and then grab a bite at Rococo's."
  "Sounds great," he smiled down at me. "I couldn't have thought of a better agenda for our date. I told you your date ideas are better than mine." he praised and tugged on my braid.  
  Batting his hand away, I scanned the room again. Thomas' attention was soon drawn to his phone and his fingers flew across the screen.
  The room was still the same, though more people had filed in. Some had bloodshot, glassy eyes, from the cold, tire or cannabis or some other contraband I didn't know. There was one person that caught my eye.

  Harris Marshal was looking back and forth between me and Thomas with a cold, criticising light in his eyes. They caught me watching him. I narrowed my eyes and glared at him, he merely stared back.
  I wasn't comfortable with my position. Staring deep into his then dark brown eyes and the quivering feeling of dread and yearning to know what he was doing. But I wasn't going to back down. I'd rather suffer a few more moments of being under that scrutinising gaze than the days of self brought on shame of looking away first.
  Then Mr Davies hobbled in. Harris glanced away from her, back, then to the ground. He shifted to face the front of the room.
  "Alright, class. Please turn to page 14 of your books and copy the notes."
  I've never been so happy to have a teacher walk in. But then I saw Thomas looking suspiciously at me.
  Slightly nervous, I chuckled awkwardly. "What is it, Tom?"
  He didn't reply, but glanced across the room. Directly at Harris' slumped figure. "Do you know him? Seems like you were having a really intimate eye make out session." He looked back at me, not exactly as accusing as his words sounded. "He's the new bloke, right?"
  "Yeah, he is," I said nonchalantly. "Don't really know him. He's just seem a bit. . . off, y'know?"
  It didn't seem as if he bought my lie, but he just shrugged. "Okay," he whispered.
  Sighing, I turned the pages and let my mind wander off to a certain hazel-eyed boy.