Grayson Snaps

Chapter 13: Disparities

Chapter 13: Disparities

The following week Grayson isn't at school; it felt uncanny at the start because, you know, he's always been with me, especially at school. It's been a kind of balancing act. We've faked up a voice and told the school that Grayson is home sick and at home, he's been able to hide out because both Mom and Dad work during the day. It just feels weird to be at school without him. There have been times he's faked being ill, so he could stay home with me when I was sick.

Another thing that's also pretty weird is that, although Tristan Sinclair is buried three feet under in our backyard shed, I see his face everywhere. Meaning, they have missing signs plastered all over town, particularly in the hallways of the high school.

I can't say that Grayson has gone mental yet from staying at home, although I think that's in part because in the afternoon and even up late into the night, we talk. About anything and everything. It's not like we didn't hang out before, but I've tried to compensate for him not being at school by talking even more. I don't think he's really catching onto what I am doing, though.

I'm at my locker when I hear the announcement over the intercom.

"May I have your attention, please. Certain students will be paged to the office to offer certain assistance to the police regarding the disappearance of Tristan Sinclair."

"He's dead, I bet." I hear someone say a few lockers down. I turn my head and see Emma and Meredith chatting, seldom expressions on their faces. For once, Meredith is right about something.

At least Grayson's lucky enough to not have an hour-by-hour reminder that Tristan is never going to be found-alive. Than again, knowing how he is right now, he'd probably like that.

Fuck.

I close my locker securely, slipping the lock back in.

The hallways are clearing with students shuffling into classrooms. I'm making my way to class, about to hit the staircase to go up to the second floor, when I feel a hand on my arm. It's secure. It's almost too secure. Painfully so.

I jerk my head back, turning to see who has grabbed me when I am met with a raving, super fucked up Cheyenne.

Her pupils are dilated, her normally perfect long blond hair is tied in a haphazard bun (I think I can even see a few dried leaves stuck in between the strands), and I can see the start of a pair of lengthen canines as she curls her full lips back into a sneer. She's wearing a baggy black hoodie and a pair of purple athletic shorts that, by the wrinkles imbedded in the material, doesn't look like she's washed in a hot minute. It only takes me a split second to realize that her fingernails are sharpened, as though in small, underdeveloped claws. They don't bite into my skin, though. But her grip on my arm is excruciatingly tight.

The moment that I fully grasp how deep in shit I am, she is already pulling me. Now, I don't think I am the strongest guy alive by far, but I'd say that, right now, Cheyenne is strong. Freakishly so. I don't even get to say anything before she lets go of my arm and grabs me by the waist, practically jerking me into the nearest custodial closet.

The moment we're in there, she lets me go, slamming the lights on and the door closed.

I get into the farthest place away from her as quickly as possible, my back slamming into a rack of disinfectant and clear cleaner.

Cheyenne is huffing, her chest rising in quick, sporadic intervals. Before I can say anything like "What the fuck, Cheyenne?" or you know, piss myself, she's already talking, getting way too close to me, probably six inches away, looking up at me with eyes like two swollen circles, the black of her pupils nearly drowning out her normally clear blue eyes.