Seventeen

chapter one: ocean eyes

I was made up entirely of deep emotions and bad DNA, a constellation of flaws woven together into a tapestry of existence. My skin, pale as a ghost, mirrored the color of death, while my eyes, a sickening gray, seemed to reflect the weight of my burdens. Rarely washed black locks cascaded like a lonely waterfall over my shoulders, framing a face that wore a silver ring clinging to a cracked lip. This was the anatomy of me, Andy May Walker-just a fragment of the whole. Mostly, I felt like a series of puzzle pieces that refused to fit together, each one a reminder of my disjointed self.

I found myself seated at the back of the classroom during detention, drowning in thoughts of my seventeen terribly lived years. My earbuds cradled my ears, pumping the raw energy of punk music into my veins, a lifeline in that suffocating space. Sunlight filtered through the grimy windows, turning the air thick and stifling, yet I clung to my oversized brown sweater. It enveloped me like a protective cloak, hiding the vulnerabilities I refused to show the world.

My Dr. Marten-clad feet were carelessly propped on the old desk before me, and I could almost hear Mr. Roberts, the old, overweight teacher who endured my presence each day, gasping for breath. He adjusted his glasses with a weary sigh, the weight of his discontent palpable in the room.

"Feet off the desk, Ms. Walker," he rasped, his voice laced with the remnants of nicotine. His wrinkled eyes scrutinized me through thick frames, as if searching for some semblance of respectability.

"Whatever you say, Rick," I replied with a casual nod, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Won't do it again." I dragged my feet off the desk, letting them fall to the floor with a soft thud, then focused on a ketchup stain marring my faded jeans-a small reminder of the chaotic life I led.

"Don't you get tired of coming to detention every day?" Mr. Roberts asked, his fleshy fingers adjusting his glasses yet again, a habitual gesture that spoke volumes of his frustration.

"Nah, I'd never get tired of spending an hour every day with you, Rick. What, you getting sick of me already?" I flashed a fake smile, showcasing the crooked teeth my sister insisted were a testament to my need for a dentist.

"You hardly smiled," he observed. "You're one of those kids always mad at the world for no good reason, finding new ways to screw up your life."

Right, yet another judgment. Mr. Roberts effortlessly joined the long list of people who thought they knew me, who assumed I was a ticking time bomb. If only they bothered to look beyond the surface, they would have realized the complexities beneath.

"Nice observation, Rick," I retorted, half-closing my eyes, letting a drum solo from my music flirt with my ears. In an instant, the world faded away. Life always seemed to suck less with music-at least my life did.

"No sleeping in detention," he interrupted, tearing apart my fragile bubble of peace. "And give me that phone. You can collect it after detention."

I rolled my eyes, feigning exasperation. "And let me guess: no breathing, no blinking, no moving? Should I go on?"

"Feel free, Ms. Walker," he responded, a hint of amusement breaking through his stern facade.

Just as I was about to retort, the ancient classroom door screeched open, pulling my attention away from the monotony of detention. In strode Logan Wilson, the embodiment of rebellion at Skyview High, the one kid everyone feared might end up in jail before he turned eighteen. He wore dark, ripped jeans, a black T-shirt three sizes too big, and beat-up black Chuck Taylors, as if he was cloaked in shadows. Black seemed to be the only color he knew, perhaps a reflection of his soul. His long, unkempt blond curls tumbled wildly around his face, and a silver ring adorned the bridge of his nose, marking him as a creature of defiance.