Honest || h.s.

Caravaggio

Harry.

It has been a day or two since I took Skylar to Manchester, and we haven't spoken very much since then aside from a few awkward texts messages. I know I'll see her in a few minutes. I've been thinking about her all weekend--which is really stupid, because I did loads of things that should have otherwise been occupying my brain space. I did homework, online English, I helped Mum make dinner for families from church, sifted through all my old books and sent them to the second-hand store... I even cleaned my room. Which was a mess.

I also binged season two of Stranger Things, but I have to act like I didn't, because I was supposed to wait for Gem to get back. It doesn't matter.

"She probably already finished it with her boyfriend at uni," I tell myself in the rear view mirror. My hair is wild and my cheeks are flushed. School is going to make me feel weird today, but I hope I don't act weird. I haven't seen anyone besides my mom for a full twenty four hours. This weekend was a casual one, for the most part.

But last night, I did something stupid.

I glance nervously at my backpack. Inside is tucked my sketchbook, and under about the twentieth leaf, a detailed sketch. My cheeks still burning, I look back at the road and continue onto the street my school is on. I should have left the stupid thing at home.

The wheels of the car lurch into their usual spot, and I climb out, dragging my things out and running a hand through my hair. A gust of cool wind makes me shiver; I would have worn a different shirt if I knew it was going to be chilly today.

With a sigh, I swing the car door shut and head inside. Not many people are here yet. I see Mara, speaking passionately to a younger girl about climate change and what we could all be doing about it. She glances up, her eyes heavy with feeling, and waves vaguely in my direction before returning her gaze to her interlocutor.

Surprised, I feel my arm lift to wave back, even though I'm aware that she's not watching.

Why am I like this.

If the red hasn't yet washed from my cheeks and ears, they're stained, now. I amble to my history class and find my seat, keeping a hand on my backpack where I can feel the spirals of the sketchbook.

A few people gradually fill the room. Among them are Mara, Michael, this kid with greasy hair to his shoulders, and Duce.

Duce runs a hand though his gelled hair and takes a seat two places in front of me, eyeing my things as if searching for something to poke at. I self-consciously pull the bag to my chest and try to look inconspicuous, as if I have no idea he's even watching me, but I can feel his smirk pulling up and into view.

"What's in your bag, eh?"

I don't look, gazing out the window at the trees moving in the wind.

"Hey." He throws something, and a chewed eraser hits my shoulder. I glance at him, my expression guarded.

Don't say anything stupid.

"What's in your bag?" Duce sneers quietly. "Is it drugs?"

"Fuck off," Mara rolls her eyes where she's seated on the other row.

"Oh, and who's going to make me?" Duce turns to face Mara, reaching for the pencil on her desk.

I frown. "Leave her alone."

"Not until you show me what's in your bag."

"It's nothing," I lie, but but my nerves are building. I shift uncomfortably. "Just school things. Lay off it, would you?"