walls between us ↠ h.s

Chapter 4

It had been two days since I had met Niall, along with his egotistical, yet somehow very intriguing attitude. Over these past two days, I've come to the inevitable conclusion that I am an over-thinker. A completely out of control over-thinker. So naturally, when I received that 'see you around' farewell, it deprived me of all chances of sleep, as I was up, staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks, wondering what the hell 'see you around' was supposed to mean. I wondered if he had intended me to believe that he would stop by my locker again, or maybe, 'see you around' was just a way of saying goodbye. I felt as if that 'see you around' would haunt me to the grave, until of course, he 'saw me around'. I never saw him around though, not ever. I've never seen, or heard of, a Niall Horan until the day I humiliated myself in front of him by not understanding how lockers work. According to Harry's later comments, he was a douche bag. A complete womanizer who got with a new girl every week, and could, quote, "very possibly" be the ringleader of a world-famous drug cult. Of course, I refused to believe these claims. Not until I really got to know Niall for myself, which may not even happen considering the fact that I never see him in school. Harry is like that, especially with guys that could result in liking me or having interest with me. He drives them away, telling them mild thing like 'she's not interested' or in a more severe case, back in sophomore year, 'you don't want to see what her dad did to the last boyfriend'.

I sit in the library, this time with the absence of Harry hanging on my shoulders. He had, according to him, "things to do" so I'm alone, sitting in our usual four-seated round table in the back of the library. Shelves of nonfiction shield me from the others in the room, secluding me from being bothered. I'm scribbling away on a crumpled piece of notebook paper with a black ballpoint pen, clicking the top of it ever so often out of mere habit. Today, I'm writing an essay for my language arts class. My teacher, Mr. Reever (We just call him The Mop because his hair greatly resembles one. He's fine with it, of course) sort of screwed up on his lesson plannings and ended up skipping an entire 2 lessons. So instead of going back and actually doing them as a normal teacher would, he's been assigning us creative essays all week. You'd think we'd be bummed about it, but it's actually really fun. To make it more interesting, he even wrote down a bunch of topics, ranging from movies that revolutionized our generation to the different ways different people deal with grief, and made us each pick one with our eyes closed out of a green bucket decorated elaborately with seahorses. The Mop has an obsession with seahorses.

When it came my turn to pick, I shut my eyes, dove my hand into the ridiculous-looking bucket, and grasped a single piece of folded printer paper.

I unfolded it.

'What is pain?' was scribbled on the paper in The Mop's accustomed loopy handwriting.

It was like fate or whatever was trying to stab me in the back. I was secretly hoping to get 'what our world would be like without bees', but obviously that wasn't going to happen. Pain was a really difficult thing to write about. And beside that, doing it right is equally, if not more, challenging.

So here I am, a halfway filled piece of paper laid on the library table before me and a pile of crinkled sticky notes stick to the wooden surface. I'm lost in my own world, my mind swirling with ideas for the next line of my essay. All of my thoughts circulate back to Darren.

I'm quickly snapped out of it.

My eyes stray to the boy who stands not 15 feet away. He's shifting through the section to my left, pulling out a thick book on what appears to be about nasopharyngitis before tucking in safely under his arm, shifting his position slightly to balance himself with the weight of the book. I find myself holding my breath, praying that he won't turn and see me sitting here alone, a perfect victim to his constant taunting.

He turns, despite my prayers, and I watch as a big grin erupts on his face.

"Delaney!" He strides over to me. "Long time no see my friend!"

Louis Tomlinson. Professional asshole and pompous bastard.

I push past greetings.

"I didn't know you could read. " I gesture to the book he carries. It's navy blue, the binding half falling off and several dog-eared pages peeking out from the cover.

I continue. "Tell me. How was it like being the only one who didn't pass 2nd grade?"

His eyes narrow dangerously. I can tell searches his brain for a fraction of a second to find the perfect riposte that is sure to set me on edge. 

He finds it.

"Where's your brother these days?"

Bulls-eye.

I don't take a second to react.

"Jail." My answer is short and calculated, my voice remotely monotone, a hint of edge making its way in involuntarily. I don't show my cards. They're concealed under the layers of pain that cake my face, acting as the most fitting mask. Inside, I'm breaking at the seams, exploding with blinding rage at such a question.

I stay calm, cards hidden.

"Still?" He's smiling, innocence beaming as he cocks his head to one side questioningly. My stomach feels like it's going to fail me, ready to hurl up the contents of this morning's breakfast. 

"Maybe if you take your chances, you'll end up in there too." Fake enthusiasm coats the statement and I begin to gear up to leave, picking up each pen hastily in my hand before zipping them up in the front pocket of my bag. I strive to keep my equanimity, wanting anything but for me to lose my temper, indicating that he has won.

"Don't worry, I don't think I'll be beating up any girls any time soon." It's like a punch in the gut.

I leave.