Hope

Chapter Three

The drawings in the sketch pad are more beautiful than any picture taken by camera. They hold meaning. Each picture represents something and once it tugs at you brain, it's hard to ignore. At least that was what my mother used to say.

I'd ask her what she meant and she would tell me she's afraid of the day I find out the meaning on my own.

I guess being complicated is genetic.

Out of all her the drawings I've seen today, one picture in particular caught my attention.

It was almost hard to ignore, it was as if it was screaming at me. Even I am beginning to find myself complicated.

The drawing was of a baby covered in a silver blanket; it looked like silk. One arm was holding the baby while the other one pointed a finger on it's chest, where the heart is. Under the finger were four circular shapes. Each shape had a unique color. The first one was reddish-yellow, very much like the color of the gem in the pendant around my neck. In the middle of the shape was what appeared to be fire, its flames so vivid I blinked twice to make sure they weren't real.

The second one was dark blue with lines in the middle. Around the shape was little droplets of water, drawn in a way to give the illusion of dripping water.

The third was green with a simple swirl in the middle.

The last was a grayish-blue color with three simple swirls forming a triangle in the middle.

The baby had green eyes and was clearly unhappy.

I furrowed my eyebrows as I tried to decipher the meaning of the drawing.

I eventually gave up and put the pink box, along with the sketch pad, under my box just as I heard a knock on the door.

The door opened and Jeff's head popped in.

“The reason you knock is so that the person can tell you if you're welcomed inside or not. Right now, the action has simply lost its meaning.” I say, dusting my pants.

I need to clean this room.

“Sorry. I was here to tell you dinner's ready.” He said opening the door wider.

“A simple call from the kitchen would have sufficed.”

He ignored that, much to my annoyance. “What were you doing?”

“Hiding a dead body and clearing the evidence, what about you?”

His face paled slightly and his eyes widened in shock, earning a laugh from me. “Calm down, Jeff.” I said, “I'm only sixteen.”

“You're almost seventeen.”

“That doesn't make much of a difference.” I say as I walked passed him.

He muttered something under his breath, it sounded like,”Maybe it does.”

“What?”

He shook his head and closed my bedroom door, following me to the kitchen.

Dinner was the same everyday; I take my dish and eat in my room, only returning to the kitchen to put the dish in the sink and take a bottle of water. I'll go back to my room only to lie awake on my bed, afraid of the nightmares that are sure haunt me as soon as I fall sleep.

Most of the time I get little or no sleep and I feel like a zombie the next morning. My appearance isn't far from one too, with dark circles around my tired eyes and bags under them too.

School wasn't different either; my heavy eyes scanned the classroom as I wondered why I didn't cut this class.

One girl, Charlotte I think her name is, was sleeping, her head rested on her hands. Something I should have been doing.

Mr Johnson walked past me and his eyes scan my blank notebook.

“Miss Roberts, why don't you have any notes?”

“Why don't you get a better job?”

Apparently, that was offensive, which is why I'm sitting outside of the gate with a suspension letter in my hand. I don't understand how that question was offensive. I was only indirectly telling him that there are better jobs out there that will pay him more than walking around trying to explain irrelevant things and telling teenagers what to do. I never understood teachers anyway.

The principal called Jeff and, according to them, he wasn't pleased at all, not that it mattered to me.

Suddenly two long feet kick into the air, they land with a loud thud next to me.

I jump backward, startled, landing in a crouch. “What the hell?” I shriek, trying to get a good look at the figure in front of me, my heart thudding loudly against my chest.

Light green eyes pierce into my dark ones and I lose my balance, falling backward.

“Hello,” He says, his voice calm. I notice he has a fading accent. British.

I clench my jaw, getting up and dusting myself off. “What are you doing here?” I look at the strange boy I met yesterday.

He ignores my question. “Shouldn't you be inside?” He asks.

Someone's nosy. “I got suspended.” I say after a long pause.

“But shouldn't you be inside?” He raises his eyebrow.

“Not in this school. As soon as a student is handed a suspension letter, he or she is not their responsibility anymore.” I roll my eyes. “You didn't answer my question.” I add.

He shrugged. “I told you you'll see me often.”

“You don't even know my name.” I fold my arms in front of my chest.

“Kathryn?” He grins.

I try ignoring how much I'm suppose to find that creepy by focusing on his smile.

“I'm Harry,” His grin expands.

He has dimples, I notice as an odd feeling rises beneath my chest. Not similar to the one I felt in the parking lot by Seuss's office. This one doesn't feel foreign.

He also has plump lips, his bottom lip is slightly larger than his top.

“Are you gonna sit here all day?” He asks and takes a step towards me. I step back, almost reluctantly.

“No, my uncle is suppose to pick me up.” Well, at least half an hour ago.

Maybe he got tired with me and thought it would be best for me to walk and think about what I've done. That's what normal parents do but they send their children to corners (I never understood why they did that). But he's not my parent, he shouldn't do that.

“When?” He asks.

I shake my head. “I don't think he's coming, why? Do you have something in mind?” Part of me wishes he does, but the other part of me is telling me I should back away; I hardly know him. In fact, I don't know him at all. That's the rational part of my brain. I don't usually listen to it.

“Why, yes.” His grin lowers to a smirk. “Follow me.” And I do.

Something about him draws me to him. Is it his features? Or his cunningness? Perhaps it's the way his mouth curves to form the words he uses to speak to me. I don't know.

All I know is that I might be falling into a dark pit that I'll never find my way out of.

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