the long way home [ h.s. ]

Two | 2

two | 2

☓

A day goes by.

I wear my nice pair of shoes, the pale blue sneakers with white laces. They're a bit too long so I have to wrap them around my ankle once before tying; making them extra secure.

And kind of constricting.

Today there aren't many people; they're all at the football game, which should have already started by now. There are banners and signs all over school, saying "crush the rams, bring home the pride!"

And let me just confess, that I hate football. I hate football, I hate soccer, I hate tennis; because we've played all of those in gym class, and I am always picked last.

I'm not sure why, because I'm fully capable of doing well. I can kick a ball and swing a racquet just as good as anybody else--

but I don't like talking to lots of people because they seem rude and obnoxious, and I think this is the reason.

It's not that I'm judgmental or think that I'm better than people, because I don't. But I am very observant, and from what I see, I am guilty of shunning.

Keeping quiet.

That might be considered bad; but if I'm bad, then Green Eyes is worse.

Whereas I can hold a conversation for a while, even if I really don't want to, he refuses. His brows knit together like he's angry.

Really, really angry.

Angry at others.

Angry at the world.

Angry at life.

It makes me kind of sad because I can tell that people admire him. They think that his eyes are more beautiful than the stars, that his smile could make the clouds disappear.

But he won't have it; he won't please anyone.

There was a new girl a few weeks back and she was beautiful. Her hair was blonde and really curly, like ribbon. And her cheeks were tinted pink, and her eyes were baby blanket blue, and her teeth could blind someone with their bleached shine.

We've all had dreams of handsome boys at one time or another. What it would be like to hold their hand or smell their cologne on their shirts.

Or maybe it's just me.

She took one glance at him hunched over in his seat and lit up like a Christmas tree, probably taking mental pictures of the way his face would look when he saw her.

The way he would grin like a kid and scoot to the window and pat the old leather seat.

Inviting her.

Heavens, was she wrong.

I watched in silent fear as she walked right up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. Her curls bounced as she hopped from foot to foot, waiting for him to gaze up at her and away from the trees outside.

He didn't.

So she tapped again.

He turned this time, but his expression wasn't what she expected. I observed the angular clench of his jaw, the cold and unforgiving glare that obviously stunned her composure.

He didn't want to be approached. He didn't want to feel her nice pink nails touch him, or hear the jangling of her bracelets.

All he desired was to be alone.

"What?" he asked, his voice raspy and low from not being used in a while.

Her smile fell faster than the flick of a light switch.

And she began to tremble.

"Oh," she began.

Her shoulders lost their square frame, and she began to deflate.

"My um, my name's Alice."

I began to bite my lip in order to surpass my anticipation. He, who twisted a silver ring around his thumb, looked right at beautiful Alice and ran a hand through his messy hair and told her that he didn't care.

And that's what did it.

Just those few little words, laced with bitterness and the desire to be left in solitude.

She sat a couple rows down from him and didn't look up from her lap until we got to her stop.

And now she doesn't ride the bus all that much anymore.

☓

I've never liked my hair.

I've always wished it was a little lighter than its natural brown color, but I don't mind it too much. It's long enough to put in braids or a ponytail or a bun, but other than that, it won't do anything.

It won't curl.

It won't straighten.

I think of all the times my mother would try; to make it curly, that is.

"Magdalene," she'd call me. "Girls who flatten their beautiful wavy hair look like they've strung it between two hot frying pans. Ugly, ugly, ugly." She would mumble several other comments along the same lines as she wrapped clumps of my hair onto an iron, counting to thirty and then releasing.

Nothing.

So then she'd count to forty five.

Nothing.

A minute.

Nothing.

Two.

That's when it would burn.

Eventually, and by that I mean following several failed attempts, she'd give up. But then she would kiss me on my forehead and say it didn't matter, that I was beautiful anyway and that she'd braid it in the morning before I went to school.

And that's what she did today.

It looks like a fine little rope, dangling off of my left shoulder and swinging back and forth when the bus rolls over bumps.

Green Eyes glances at me again from his place by the fire exit, and for a second I get excited.

But then I remember Beautiful Alice.

Alice, with curls that my mother would adore and nudge me and say "look at that, Magdalene."

I would silently correct her and say "Mary."

Mary.

At the small dirt road, he stands and grabs his bag and walks briskly to the front.

Hops off.

Runs.

I sit silently and poke my fingers through the holes of the braid, trapping them in its tight woven pattern, and watch him go.

☓☓☓

a/n

Hiiiiii.

Another chapter. Another exam to study for.

I had some last minute ideas so I thought I would update! The chapters in this story are all in Mary's POV, by the way. And yes, they will be pretty short. A page or two.

Hope y'all have a goodnight.

:)