Criminal VS. Criminal || мαℓιк

4. Brownies

4. Brownies

   "No need to fear, Hipster Zayn is here!"

   From my position on the grand piano, I twirl around to face the door. The one and only Zayn Malik stands there wearing black framed glasses, hands on his hips, looking off into the distance. He places one arm before him, pretending to fly through the air. As he makes his way over here, Zayn makes annoying 'whoosh' noises.

   "What are you doing?" I say. I walk over to the doorway he entered through, peeking outside.  The hallways are empty. A tumbleweed rolls past me. Thank God. Hopefully, no one saw Zayn do that. Is he always this embarrassing?

   "Saving you from murdering yourself." Zayn points out as I enter the room again. I close the door behind me to prohibit any intruders from entering. Zayn slides onto the top of the shiny, black piano. I take a seat on the bench, letting my fingers rest on the keys. The last time I played the piano was when my mother was still alive. I might be a little rusty.

   "Do you even know how to play?" Zayn said, his tone annoying and rude. Okay, seriously, dude. Who's supposed to be the sassy queen bee here? Me or you? I dismiss his comment, letting my fingers move over the keys. I start up the tune to Surfin' Safari by the Beach Boys. Yes, I am into the 60's songs. Well, 60's-80's.

   Trying my best to switch songs, I morphed the notes a bit. I furrowed my eyebrows as I started playing the tune of Buddy Holly's, That'll Be The Day. It was a little hard to mix the two songs but I somehow managed. My fingers gracefully moved over the keys. "Nope, it's an sharp note. You're playing flats."

   I came to a sudden halt as Zayn plopped his arse on the bench next to me. I sighed in frustration as Zayn gleefully smiled. He took my hands in his, guiding them over the keys. I felt annoyed and frustrated. Wait, aren't those the same thing? I finally snatched my hands away from Zayn's, eyeing him angrily. I see my reflection in his hazel-ish eyes. The side of my face is swollen with a hand mark adorning it. He actually made me this hideous. 

   "Do it yourself, Zayn!" I say, standing up, The bench falls back behind us. I fling the papers that were on the piano at him.  Zayn flinches, raising his arms in surrender. "Do you think I actually care about how to play a darn piano? The last time I played it was before my mother died! I hate this stupid instrument because it reminds me of my mother! Piss off!" I shout, storming off. I fling open the door to one of the booths in the music room, slamming it behind me. I slide down the cold wall.

   I just gave myself away to him. Now Zayn is probably going to black mail me in some way. Or embarrass me. And I think I know what he has in mind. . .

   Pouring hot chili down my pants.

   No, there's worse things Zayn can do to humiliate me. Like, dressing up as me. Or maybe telling me my shoes untied. Or the worst one yet, following me around school. Wait, he already does that. That little creeper.

   "Max? Can I come in?" Zayn knocks on the door three times.

   "Sure."

   "Really?"

   "Of course not!"

   "Please? I'll write most of the song!" Zayn begs from the other side.

   "I was gonna make you do that either way."

   "I'll make brownies," He adds.

   Hold the brownies up! He'll make brownies? This guy might be able to gain my trust. Just thinking about the delicious food makes my mouth water. Brownies, covered in chocolate fudge, with chocolate powder sprinkled here and there. Oh, God. Someone make brownies! For the love of brownies, someone make some NOW!