Silver Stilettos

1 | bad boys and bullets

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⚠ A / N ⚠

non-graphic sexual themes

violence, swearing, abduction

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The first time I saw Reed Norcross, I thought he was smiling at me, so I smiled back.

Then a girl with willowy legs and shampoo-commercial hair rammed into my back with enough force to send me reeling. The books in my arms spilled to the ground and me with them. No one helped me up and the girl didn't turn around. She ran to Reed and tucked her waif-like body into his side like she belonged there. He whispered something in her ear and she tilted her neck back and laughed, but he took it as an invitation to kiss her pulse and the hallways sighed with an echoing aww as the jealous girls of Hammerfeld High looked on with naked, yearning envy.

I'd watch him in the quiet hours between homeroom and lunch. I knew Reed felt cold in homeroom because he always wore a gray hoodie. It was ratty and nondescript, the hood pulled low over his face. He would fold his arms over the desk and put his head down like he was sleeping, but I always got the impression he just wanted people to leave him alone.

He remained in his sleepy state long after we got out of homeroom. In English and American Government he would remain in hibernation, his wide-set eyes fixated on his textbook like he was hoping to learn the material by osmosis. He'd perk up in Calculus, but he would never raise his hand. He'd shrug his shoulders if asked a direct question but the correct answer would always be written into his Five-Star notebook in his sharp, slanting scrawl.

It had been a month since my first day at Hammerfeld. A month since I'd first seen Reed and fallen in love, face first, unfortunately. That same first day, I'd been given the seat next to Emily Vargas. "So, Mayuri," she'd said as she tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear, "what are you?"

There was no misunderstanding the question or the shark-stares of my fellow classmates as they looked on, bored. I was the only Indian in Hammerfeld High. I wished I could writhe away from her question, tuck tail and run, but her expectant face kept me rooted to my hard seat.

"Tamilian," I said finally, wanting to wrest the word back into my mouth.

"Brazilian?" Emily's face brightened. "That's so cool."

"She said Tamilian."

We all turned to look at Reed Norcross. He had a wooden pencil balanced on his knuckles. Mesmerized, I watched as he rolled it up and down his fingers.

"What?" Emily glanced from Reed to me like she suspected a lie.

"Mayuri sounds Japanese," said another boy, Fenris North. His straight black hair fell into his eyes. He twisted his neck sharply, swooping his bangs to the side. His almond-shaped eyes pierced into me like a laser pointer.

"It's not Japanese," I said quickly, but Emily had already turned away, looking disappointed.

"You're not wearing the"—Fenris touched the place between his eyebrows—"red dot."

"That's because I'm not that type of Indian."

"Native American?" Emily perked up, but when I shook my head, she returned her attention to the row of texting girls behind her.

"No, I'm American, I live here, I just moved from—," I tried to say, but it was too late. I had lost their attention. Only Fenris offered me a sympathetic smile.