CHAPTER TWO
Detention sucks. The teacher assigned to supervise it today is Mr. Hawkin, an old dude who slept through his History classes. Unfortunately, I didn't bring anything. Not even like, a donut, or something to eat.
No one I recognize is in detention, either. They are all burnouts and stoners, people I had never associated with.
The boy next to me is reading The Catcher In The Rye, one of my all time favorite books, although I'd never admit that to anyone beside Liam. The boy also doesn't look like a stoner: he has a mop of dark curls and is wearing almost head to toe black, but he doesn't seem like he'd be apart of the gothic crowd. Also, tattoos. Lots of them.A sleeve covered one whole arm. And I can't stop looking at his fingers, pressing against the paperback cover of The Catcher In The Rye. They weren't anything special, really; they were long and his fingernails were normal length, but something about them.. He has a tattoo I keep returning to, between his thumb and pointer finger, a small cross. It seems to be mocking me, sending a sour feeling down my throat every time I glanced at it.
He also had piercings, two lip ones and asilver loop through his eyebrow.
Detention ends after a whole hour of staring at nothing. The boy bolts out the door, the book clasped in his hand. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I follow him down the hall, at a much slower pace. He's fast walking, almost jogging. I have to jog to keep up.
He pushes the door to the staircase open with a bang, startling me. Why is he in such a rush?
I open the door to the stairs quietly, tiptoeing in the staircase. I'm on the second step when I hear a voice behind me: "Why are you following me?"
I spin around to see him, leaning against the cinder block wall, his arms crossed. His eyebrows are drawn together, a frown covering his features. I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
Why am I following him? What good would have come out of that? I don't even like boys. Why was I intrigued enough to follow a random guy?
"I don't know," I finally spit out, crossing my arms. Who was he to question me? "Why do you care?"
He looks puzzled, pursing his lips. My eyes find his cross tattoo on his hand, my heart skipping a beat. I jump when he laughs; my eyes flicker up to his face. Two dimples carve his cheeks as his lips stretch across his face in a wide, amused smile. "The school slut is following me, but its not my business?"
His words sting. I blink a couple times, taking them in. The school slut? Is that what people call me? I shouldn't be surprised, not really. I fuck every girl I come into contact with. The name was eventually going to catch up with me. Still, it stung. And his amused expression, like he was better than me somehow. He didn't know me. He didn't know who I was. The word slut ran through my head. Someone's whispering it to me. Over and over and over. Not someone. He's whispering it.
"And what are you? Another nobody? I bet you could disappear and no one would notice." Its not my best insult, but semi-true. Liam was kind of popular - or well known, and since I was his best friend, I knew almost everyone that went here. Except this guy, who was calling me a slut. Asshole.
An unreadable expression ripples across his face for just a moment and then he turns into stone.
Not literally, but his smile diminishes and his eyes turn flat, cold. A bitter chuckle escapes his mouth. "So you're a slut for popularity? Isn't that worse?" He questions, and without another word passes me, his shoulder pushing against mine as he retreats down the stairs.
