⋆ l o c k e r s u r p r i s e s & l a t e n i g h t m e e t i n g s ⋆
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
eleutheromania (n.) an intense and irresistible desire for freedom
▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬
THE DAY STARTS out normally, a whirlwind of gazing out the window and jotting down halfhearted notes. Before lunch, I walk down the hall, ignoring the buzz of surprised remarks and rumors flying faster than light, an occurrence that is common at this school. So when I see Jordan leaning up against my locker, brushing his hair away from his face, a surge of surprise and a flash ofy curiosity are my immediate reactions.
I try to conceal my emotions and block out the flood of whispers that threaten to break down my sanity, like a river over-flooding a dam. I approach him, my expression asking the obvious question.
"I need your help, Bumble," he says, his deep green eyes, two sharp emerald shards, searching my face.
"With what?"
"Well, I need a partner for the chemistry project," he shrugs and casually leans against the locker, his muscled arms flexing to hold him up.
"Why me?", I ask after a few seconds, face deep in my locker, pretending to search for my books, but I'm really trying to get rid of my fiery blush. No one ever wants my help. I'm just the girl with the camera and the plain face, the one who always blends into the background.
"You seem like the only sane person in this school. The only person who doesn't treat me like an alien," he says tiredly, dragging a hand through his silky black hair. His voice is casual, but it has an undertone that leads me to think he's more affected than he's letting on.
His viridian eyes swirl with storms of emotion that tell a thousand stories, and his actions become clear, silencing all of my questions. I never saw him as any different, but with a ninety-eight white majority at our school, I can see how some would.
I don't say a word about my realization, because he knows that I know. Instead I crack a smile and say, "Sure, but I'm busy today until around 7, which is when the sun goes down. If your mom's okay with you driving in the dark, I'll give you my address and you can meet me after sunset." His grateful expression is all I need to know that it's a deal.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
The basketball game finally ends with a double overtime, and I drag my tired body out to the car, camera still dangling around my neck. When I see the clock on the dashboard, I'm jolted awake, like a bucket of ice cold water was just thrown over me.
7:05. Shit.
I was stupid enough not to get his number, so I drive as quickly as possible to my house. As I roll up the driveway, I can make out a figure sitting, hunched over and leaning on the wall of the porch.
The last rays of the sun are fading below the horizon, a pale hue of dark orange mixing into a sky filled with lilacs and grays, casting a glow over his face. He looks ethereal, his dark lashes painting shadowed pictures onto his cheeks, his jawline a canvas of amber, rust, and mauve, a battlefield of color. His midnight hair falls over his forehead, broad shoulders moving up and down in a rhythm of steady breathing. His body is all thick, black brushstrokes and angled contours. He looks devastatingly handsome and all consuming as he sleeps, as if he shouldn't be confined to a porch, but laid in a field of amaryllis, the soft grasses his pillows.
I snap out of my trance, glad he isn't awake to catch me staring. He looks too peaceful to awaken, so I slip inside and grab a soft blanket, lightly draping it over his shoulders. I sit down next to him on the porch with a sketch pad. I haven't drawn in a while, I had just lost the desire to convey my emotions in something other than words and photos. I let them free now, and they bleed through the pencil, sketching something blurred by my wandering mind.
"You should have woken me up." His husky voice stained with sleep startles me, and I drop the pencil. It's now pitch black outside, the only light coming from the one on the porch. I scramble to put away my art, grabbing my pencil, and beckoning him inside. A chill had crept from its slumber and wrapped itself around my body without me realizing. I put the sketch away after we both enter, making note to take a closer look at it later.
"Do you want coffee or something?", I ask after he places the blanket on the couch. His hair is messily ruffled, and his chartreuse eyes are still half-covered by the veil of sleep. He murmurs a tired yes, dropping onto a stool by the counter.
"Hey, if you're too tired, we can do this another night," I say, the soft gurgle of the coffee machine behind me filling the quiet.
He looks ready to retort, but I can see it in his weary eyes. He looks weighed down, as if he has the world on his shoulders and isn't sure he can hold it up anymore. The coffee finally finishes, and I pour it into it into a disposable paper cup, handing it to him.
"For the drive," I say, and gently prod him so he stands, "get some sleep." When we reach the door, he turns and faces me with questions in his eyes, but I just smile and shut the door behind him.
"Drive safe," I say, and turn away, my grin never fading because of the simple fact that my night was a little less lonely. And, somehow, we have naturally fallen into a sort of comfort with each other without me realizing. Not quite friends, but not strangers either.
⋆ ⋆ ⋆
thoughts? (sorry that this chapter was so short)
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
