walls between us ↠ h.s

Chapter 3

Here's the thing about lockers- No matter how hard I try to get mine open every day, I never seem to be able to acquire the kind of skill the rest of my 3,000 school-mates seem to have had since the 6th grade. On a good day, I'll be able to open it twice out of the four times I schedule to go to it. On a bad day, (that day just so happens to be today) I won't be able to get it open at all, and end up having to carry my backpack and all the rest of my shit up until I see him again. He's my lifesaver, that kid. A pro at this stuff, come down from the heavens to help me open this stupid metal box we call lockers every morning.

Without thinking about it, I'm pulling my phone out of my overly-baggy, borrowed-from-curly best friend sweatpants pockets, and checking for messages from Harry that may possibly give me an explanation to his sudden disappearance. He's definitely here at school. I remember seeing him this morning before stopping off at my house to grab my school stuff. In my mind, I'm hoping and praying to see his familiar curls come bounding down the hallway, putting my stress to ease and magically getting this stupid locker open. I'd even allow him to throw me his usual blatant morning insult. I wouldn't get angry.

I'd try not to get angry.

Maybe if I throw in a few urgent, but very convincing, whispers of 'open sesame', I'll be cut a bit of slack. After all, I would say it nicely. Very gentle-like, so the lock wouldn't feel threatened by my angry tone. Guess who taught me that?

My mother.

I'm pretty sure by my fourth try, all signs of my recent gentle state of mind is completely vanished and I'm so pissed I may just leave school over a damn locker and pursue my non-existent dream of becoming a Broadway stage cleaner. Someone's gotta do it.

Just as I'm about to accept my fate and become a forever high school drop out and a show maid, a voice sounds behind me, low and teasing. The kind of voice Harry uses 70% of the time when he's around me. Except the voice wasn't Harry's. It wasn't as husky, but just as deep.

"It's right left right,"

I turn, instantly taken aback by the far blonde boy who stands in front of me. A backpack is slung lazily around his shoulders and his hand clings to the strap loosely, adding to his intimidating, yet somehow comforting, demeanor. A mediocre plain white t-shirt and dark skinny jeans that could possibly cut off all circulation in the lower half of his body cling to his skin, an outfit I've seen sported by too many times by the entire male population of this, also very mediocre, school.

"What?"

"Your locker," He waves a careless hand, gesturing behind me. "You're turning the dial left right left, not right left right."

I gape at him, wondering why the hell he knows this. He seems to read my mind before I can even conjure the thought myself. "I was watching you from over there," He nods his head in the general vicinity to my right. Throngs of people stream through the hallways and an image of him leaning against the wall, watching, observing me, flash through my mind. Imminent death by blonde and attractive stalker do too, but I decide not to think too much about that one.

Judging he saw the odd look on my face he speaks again. "Well, not watching you. I'm not weird, I was just-I was like waiting for a friend and I saw-" He pauses, looking for words to try to make up for what he just said. Any signs of the arrogance he portrayed just seconds ago has vanished and has turned into a strange in-between stage of panic and mortification. "Oh, fuck it. I'm not creepy, I swear. I just saw you struggling and I came over here to put you out of your misery." I raise my eyebrows at his word choice. I'm smiling.

"Oh shit, no! I didn't mean I came over here to, like, kill you." He stutters, ringing his hands and shoving them deep in his pocket, red embarrassment is spreading through his cheeks. "Wow, I'm really fucking this up, aren't I?" The boy says in defeat, running a free hand stressfully through this hair.