Grayson Snaps

Chapter 3: Chatter

Chapter 3: Chatter

The chatter of our fellow peers lifts through the air, along with the sharp, distinct scent of tobacco smoke. People are scattered about: in the parking lot, sitting on the hill; it's after school. I look down at the bright white screen and continue typing. It's a little story I've been working on for Creative Writing. My hair's still a little wet, although my face is clean.

Grayson and I are sitting side by side outside on the rock wall. I'm on my laptop. Grayson's smoking again, looking down. The rock wall is a stretch of cemented rock that lays a few yards away from the dark, shiny glass of the side building.

The situation with the dead dog has dissipated almost completely, the anger having mostly evaporated, although as I sit there, typing, I have a feeling that it hasn't fully dissipated for Gray. Go figure.

I look up as I hear the familiar sound of barking. Beside me, I can feel him turning towards the direction too.

He let's out a small grumble that I can't help but smile at, "I hate dogs."

An idea forms in my head. I am watching Tristan across the way; he has his dog with him. He doesn't live that far from school and it's not uncommon for kids to bring their dogs on campus. His laughing with a couple people; Cheyenne is beside him.

"He has that dog."

Grayson glances at my face.

"Yeah, so?"

It's a rottweiler, all thick in the haunches and in the chest; it's a massive thing. It's a friendly kind of dog, though. Easy to get it to go with you.

I don't really think that much before I say it.

"We could kidnap it. Make it look like it got eaten by the beast of Bailey Downs."

Grayson's smiling at me. I smile back, turning towards him. He takes a long drag. It's a pretty good idea. I think it's even a better idea than the whole "kill Tristan Sinclair" thing.

"We've got all that blood and fake guts from the slideshow," I propose. Wouldn't that be fun?

"Yeah," he nods, "that's wicked. Let's do it."

The sound of a vehicle swerving sharply into the parking lot brings my eyes back to Tristian.

The van is a deep yellow. Not too bright, not too dull.

It's Sam's van.

Sam is this girl whose probably in her early twenties; in my opinion it's pretty screwed up that she can even get on campus, but security is basically none existent at this high school. I mean, if Grayson can get away with openly smoking right in front of the building, anyone can basically get away with practically anything. No cameras.

Than again, I guess maybe one reason they don't give a shit is because this is really an upper end high school; what could we possibly be doing wrong?

I'm looking over to where Sam has pulled in between two cars. Cheyenne is smiling and stepping off the sidewalk, her blond hair swirling up in the wind, blowing wildly. Tristan's dog pulls at his leash and I can see the condensation coming forth in pants from his wide mouth. His long, pink tongue rolls out from his pitch-black gums.

"Hey, Sam," I hear Tristan say, grinning, his hand still wrapped tightly around the end of the leash. He's making his way between the cars, leaning his back against a Kia to see through the driver's side window.

"He screws a drug dealer," Grayson comments sarcastically, "He's just begging for negative attention."

I can see Sam slipping a bag of what could only be marijuana into Cheyenne's hand. There's the glitter of a silver bracelet as she hands it over. Money is passed. Cheyenne is grinning, but trying to keep herself in check, her eyes darting about. She looks as giddy as a school girl on picture day.