Between the Lines✔ [COMPLETED]

[41] We Don't Talk Anymore

Kyle

It's raining when I get to school and still pretty chilly with winter dying down. Heat is returning and it's less likely to find people as stuffed as toys with warm clothes walking around.

I pass through the corridor and when I pass Malory's classroom, I feel the urge to glance inside –just to see if she'd even arrived yet... just to see... her.

I stand by the door and lean against the frame, huffing out a breath and frowning. 

And then I see something that wasn't there before, and I squint in suspicion, walking into the classroom.

Nobody has arrived yet, the classroom is empty, and there is something big and black on Malory's desk.

The word 'WHORE' is written across her desk in black paint, the bucket of paint sitting on her chair and the paintbrush on the desk itself.

Who did this?

Could it be the inside eye?

Then, I make a mistake. I pick up the brush to inspect it. 

And a voice appears behind me, concentrated with horror.

"WHAT DID YOU DO!?"

___

Malory

Whore; in technical terms, it's used to identify a woman who is, well, frequently man-handled, I suppose, to put it politely. 

What I'm horrified to see is Kyle holding the brush, and the bucket of paint sitting on my seat when I walk into the classroom.

"Why did you do it?" I ask him, immediately. "Why? Is it because I said we were through? Is this because of fucking Adrien?"

Kyle stares at me bewildered for a moment, and then he looks at the brush. He twirls it in his fingers and squints. "Did you see me do it?" He asks.

"Kyle, you're holding the brush, there's the word 'Whore' slapped across my desk, and there is the bucket of paint. I'm not blind you son of a bitch, now tell me why you resorted to this!"

Kyle exhales sharply. He doesn't answer.

"Kyle!" I yell. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Is it because I missed your birthday? Are you that immature?"

His face goes grave. He looks me in the eyes.

"Clean it up," I say. "It's your mess and it's my desk. Clean it up."

"I'm not going to clean it up," he says. "I don't want to."

"Kyle, you better clean this up or I swear I'll-"

"-You'll... what?" He cuts me off, "You'll... beat me up? You'll... report me to the principal? To the teachers?"

"I'll wring your neck," I say. 

"I'm not cleaning it up," he says, relaxing his shoulders and shoving his stupid hand into his stupid pocket. "Do it yourself. Like you said, it's your desk."

He puts the paintbrush back on the desk and turns to walk away.

"Are you really doing this?" I ask him. "Are you really going to just throw away the fact that we were friends? You're going to resort to being a jackass again?"

"All I told you to do was clean up your desk," he says, shrugging. "Because if you don't," and he pauses, "I'll drop out of the play."

"You'll do what?" I ask, blinking in surprise.