Dylan Rhodes is finishing her last year of high school at St. Mary's, a notorious, private Christian school in the middle of nowhere. Previously having been expelled from her last 3 schools for misbehaviour, vandalism and misconduct, Dylan is prepar...
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"WHO TOLD YOU?" a pair of green eyes flicker to mine, artificial incredulity imbued in his expression. He knew I was here, at the cafe, and his facade is thinner than a gum wrapper. Tristan's lips tug into a smirk. I fleetingly examine his belongings. An open book, a pack of cigarettes, two missing, and an indistinguishable creased flyer. Literate, sharp-witted and allegedly smart, yet a smoker. A walking polarity. He effectively maintains his indiscernible aura of mystery.
"Told me what?" he leans back, arrogance radiating off his posture.
"Don't play dumb."
"It's the only way I could get you alone." I roll my eyes, unimpressed by his antics. My eyes trail to the flyer poking out from underneath the cover of the book. Without a second of thought, I reach for it. It's a poster for a band.
"What's this?"
Tristan leans forward. His posture seems to disclose his level of interest and attentiveness. Inclination translates to attention. "I'm in a band," he says slowly, "it's called Under." My eyes are lowered, fixated on the contents of flyer, yet I feel Tristan burning a hole into my forehead. I've somehow given him unreserved access to scrutiny by merely indulging in a conversation.
"Under what?" I ask. Tristan's smile widens.
"Under anything you want," he says, in a monotone. I snort. If this is the renowned charm that Sophie spoke of, I'm yet to be impressed. But I can identify with Pippa's infatuation. He's well-spoken, not completely un-appealing and gives the semblance of holding fragments of intellect. But he's far from a heart-breaker.
"Ah, the charm in ambiguity. I see." I make an implicit movement to withdraw from the conversation, but Tristan's voice halts me from doing so. He slightly turns in his seat, positioning his body towards mine. Again, displaying an uncharacteristic interest in our conversation.
"We're playing a gig at the Playhouse on Friday."
"Okay?" I say slowly. My answer is delayed. There's a lingering silence. Tristan's widened smirk validates his amusement towards my transparent confusion. I've noticed that he's not one to shy away from incessant eye-contact. A type of strange intimacy that would usually make me feel fifty shades of discomfort. But with Tristan, it's oddly familiar.
"Is there a reason why you still haven't worked out that I want you to come?" I laugh aloud, Pippa's anguished words ringing like alarm bells in the back of my head. If there's one thing I've learned about Tristan, is that rejection isn't in his vocabulary. But my strange, rooted sense of loyalty to the group of frigid St. Mary's girls has me scrambling for an excuse.
"I-"
Sam, the cafe's legal owner and my supervisor, who seems to foster an unwarranted grudge against me, hollers from behind the counter. "Table 12 is waiting." It's spoken against my back, but I know it's directed towards me. The embittered, irritable tone says enough.
