alters

03

STYLES is smoking when he enters the cafeteria, a transparent cloud of smoke dancing around his lips. The irony is a little amusing, I admit, as I watch him wink at the cheerleader table. Half of them roll their eyes at the punk boy, the other fraction giggle and blush.

ʻʻIs he for real?ʼʼ Heather gawks with that snarky tone of herʼs.

ʻʻPlease donʼt lecture him.ʼʼ Alex begs and places her novel on the table. I realize she hasnʼt even touched her food.

We all return our attention to the new boy dressed in all black as the student council president, Macy, approaches him. Her flock of drones have gathered around her as she places her hands on her hips. The whole cafeteria has seemed to dull down the chatter.

Styles is the first to speak. ʻʻUm, can I help you?ʼʼ

ʻʻYou canʼt smoke in here.ʼʼ Macy starts, puckering up her lips like the annoying bitch she is.

ʻʻHuman rights,ʼʼ He says in between drags of smoke.

ʻʻItʼs insanitary.ʼʼ She defends with a high pitched voice.

ʻʻYeah, so is...ʼʼ he lowers his head next to her ear and whispers candidly to her. Macyʼs expression has shifted from raged to horrified as she pulls back in disgust. Her eyes are wide then narrowed in an instant as she raises her hand. Before she can accomplish smacking him, Styles grips her wrist. I can tell heʼs struggling to be gentle.

ʻʻHow did you...?!ʼʼ Macy gasps but is silenced when she feels his touch.

He glares at her and states ʻʻNo hitting allowed, Prez.ʼʼ then he removes his cigarette and blows the toxins onto her face. She pulls back coughing, swatting at the cloud of poison. Styles walks away as if nothing ever happened, cigarette secured between his lips, hands in his pockets.

ʻʻWhat just...happened?ʼʼ Alex gapes, eyes wide.

I trail my blue irises over the smoke rising out from his lips. He looks almost like a model with his casual attire so perfectly worn, his dramatic, unique hair, his long arms and legs.

Then he glances at me.

ʻʻAlice!ʼʼ

I jump back when Lucas abruptly appears, clasping my shoulders roughly for a brief second. Heʼs laughing rather passionately when he collapses into the chair beside me.

ʻʻHey, Luke.ʼʼ I half smile then return to gloomily staring at my food.

ʻʻYou should come to the football game Friday.ʼʼ He tells me and takes a bite of an apple.

ʻʻIʼm not really a fan of football...ʼʼ I mumble, stringing a thread of hair behind my ear. Luke curls his lip, pouting.

ʻʻCʼmon! Please...?ʼʼ He begs, grasping my hand with his. I politely pull it back and shake my head slowly.

ʻʻReally, Lucas.ʼʼ

ʻʻAlice, please.ʼʼ He smiles at me. ʻʻWho knows? Maybe youʼre my good luck charm?ʼʼ

I know that I freeze. I can feel my body still as his eyes puncture mine. I almost want to scream at the top of my lungs that I donʼt want to be anyone body elseʼs good luck. Not another Lucky.

ʻʻLuke. Iʼm really not a fan.ʼʼ I state more sternly.

Lucas pouts again. ʻʻPleaseーʼʼ

ʻʻShe said. Sheʼs not. A fan.ʼʼ A British accent drifts into our ears as a smoky cloud engulfs around Lucasʼs head. Styles bends down next to him, a large hand tightly gripping his shoulder. ʻʻShe said no. Drop it.ʼʼ He puffs out smoke.