I find myself doodling on my hand, never in a million years was I talking to Beckham. Well maybe that's a lie.
"Why are you drawing on your hand? You know you can get ink poisoning from that?" Beckham questions me, I turn to look at him. He's been looking straight at me, watching me.
"You can't get ink poisoning from drawing on your skin, dumbass." I reply. My dad always told me not to draw on my hands, because I would get ink poisoning. I believe him, until Dylan told me otherwise.
"You sure?"
"Yep."
It was my turn to ask the questions, but mine I blurt out. "Why did you move here from Westwood?" I ask him.
"Who told you?" His response is also a mediate, and the look on his face is priceless.
"Brooks." I tell him.
"Of course he told you," Beckham says, "didn't I warn you about him?"
"What are you my dad?" I sarcastically say.
"Maybe I am."
"Jesus Christ Beckham." I responded.
"Well at least my jokes are original."
I realise he's trailed of topic on purpose. He's good at that. Avoiding answering people. "You never answered my question." I turn to the front of the class, to avoid eye contact.
"How about you ask your boyfriend instead?" He fires at me. He's now pissed off, so I've decided to keep my mouth shut. After a few seconds of silence he speaks again. "Oh, so he is your boyfriend?"
"No!"
"You didn't deny it. Why are you even friends with him?" Why does he want to know?
"Why do you even care if we are friends or not? It's not like your bothered if he hurts me or not." I ask Beckham.
"I don't care about you, I care about my brother. He's an absolute asshole, that likes hurting people for fun." Beckham tells me.
"Aren't you as bad as him?"
He doesn't respond. I've used his words against him.
"You know, your self centred." He finally speaks, "you walk into this school like you own it, you here one thing about me and assume the worst. You find out stuff about me, and use it against me, you take every opportunity to insult me and act like my brother is amazing. Trust me please, Brooks is an asshole."
Beckham shuts me up. I am an asshole. I'm the new kid acting like I own the place, and I barely know Beckham and I hate him. "Sorry."
"Don't say sorry, I hate that." Beckham tells me. For the last twenty minutes we sit in silence. The tension grows, until the bell breaks it. I pack away quickly, and avoid Beckham while walking to the door.
A/n-sorry it's short and later then usual. Thank you for 30k+ reads.
