leaked (l.h.)

2

I must have called Tyler a thousand times last night. Or at least tried to.

But he didn't answer any of them.

He left me alone, by myself to deal with the stress and the constant panic attacks that come with the knowledge that he kept the photo for his own twisted reasons.

"Have you seen Tyler?" I say when I approach Arzaylea. She smiles at something some dude says to her, but as I approach I watch their conversation come to a stop. I think he can tell that I'm too much of a mess to deal with this morning, and I'm glad he knows how to read a room.

"What?" She asks, raising her eyebrows as her eyes move from the boy who once tried gaining her attention to me. Of course, she'd much rather mess with boys than me. I usually don't let it bother me, but I know I'm not the best at covering up my feelings. There is no way she can't tell how distraught I am, with my red and bloodshot eyes paired with puffy eyes. I'm a mess. "Oh, yeah. He's um..." She begins, closing her locker as she stands in front of me. She turns to that she can get a better view of the shit-show named Grace. "He's late. He is always late, you know that."

"Dammit," I scoff. "Of course he is."

"Why?" She asks, crossing her arms as she leans on the red locker. "You're scared that he's showing around that photo of you?"

"Fuck, Arzaylea!" I groan. "He showed you?"

"No, but he told me about it." She chuckles. Reaching forward, I feel her hand as it rubs my bicep. "What are you so upset about?"

"I..." I say, clenching my jaw as my eyes look down to the ground. I clench my fists, wondering who else he told. But I'm pissed, and it doesn't matter how I explain it to her - she won't understand. She'll brush me off. "I'm just nervous, I guess."

"Oh, it's just a photo." She laughs. "It's not like you put your face in it or anything. Right?"

Wait, was that something you weren't supposed to do?

"...Right." I say, my eyes widening as I lie through my teeth. "Right."

"Good," she smiles, pulling her phone out of her pocket. "Well, I'm leaving now. Bye!"

And within a second or two, I am left in this hallway full of people. It's elbow to elbow with people I've spoken to only once or twice, but I have never felt so alone.

"You're late."

I hear this as I walk into my first class - art. I close the door slowly behind me, and as I feel the eyes as the move from the canvas in front of them and to me I can't help but pray that they don't see how terrible I look.

"Sorry," I mumble, moving to my seat in the back of the classroom. I sit down on the stool in front of the wooden easel, letting out a soft sigh as I rub my hands on my face. I cannot believe this is happening to me.

"Hey," I hear beside me. "Hey!"

I drop my hands to my thighs, and as I look at the boy beside me I raise my eyebrows. "What's up?" I respond, kicking my feet out from where they hang behind me.

Luke Hemmings, the sort of mysterious yet insanely attractive new guy. He transferred here in like, January, and since he doesn't speak to anyone first. So as I listen to his words, I can't help but wondered if this is the first time I heard his voice and the accent everyone claims he has. "Your sweatshirt is backwards."

And as I lean towards him, I'm taken aback by the accent he definitely does have. I mean, why wouldn't he? If he and his family moved here from Australia, he'd surely have some sort of accent.

"My what?" I respond, and as I realize what he says I can't help but close my eyes in frustration. "Of course it is."

"Miss March," the art teacher says across the room.