The Relationship Writer

The Relationship Writer - Chapter 22

Okay, when I typed in the title today (ya know, with the chapter number and errthang), I realized: Ohmygoodness, the chapter 25 ending that I estimated is so close! It's not that I'll restrict the plot to meet my guess, but seriously, it's closer than I expected .-.

Thanks for reading!

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Chapter 22

Screw Aaron Ross. Screw him.

Screw feelings, screw love, screw heartbreak. Screw it all.

I wanted nothing more than to have never met Aaron Ross. If he hadn't shown up out of the blue, I wouldn't have been put through hell in less than a year. I wouldn't have turned into the typical, emotional wreck of a teenage girl I was now. I wouldn't have been crying.

The first place I could find, I escaped to. Originally, my plan was to sprint all the way to the girl's bathroom and lock myself in the stall. No one--not even the creepy, old janitor lady--would be able to get me out.

But once I rounded a corner, I felt drawn to the journalism room. Mr. Wright never got to school early--he always showed up around second period, since third period was his first. I couldn't help myself as I wiped my tears with the back of my hand, tugging open the door and walking inside.

I ran my fingers along the white board, tracing invisible lines between all the notes. Each bullet point was followed by a long, elaborate sentence on some sort of topic in journalism. On the other side of the wall, the parts of an article were labeled in an upside-down pyramid.

This. This is what I was born to do.

I clenched my fists, forcing every last tear out of my eyes until they ran dry. I didn't want to cry anymore over someone like Aaron Ross. I would get over him, whether my heart wanted to or not. Truth be told, I really wished I could have just ripped my heart out of my chest, just so it would stop hurting.

Now my heart had turned to stone. Before, it was simply broken in two, almost unmendable. Almost.

What better way to mend a heart than to turn it to stone?

I'm not sure if I was hysterical, insane, or a combination of the two. But I laughed. It was a small, girlish giggle. Nothing more, nothing less.

Something was horribly wrong with me. I never giggled.

My eyes locked on the computers-on-wheels cart, where a single laptop sat on top, open. It was as if the glorious machine had been awaiting my arrival, calling me back to my dedication to journalism. I took a few steps towards it, contemplating my decision.

What do I want to do with my life?

~~~

"Ermm... Hello, Miss Evans." Mr. Wright's disbelieving voice reached my ears. I raised my eyebrows, not even looking up from the computer screen. My fingers flew over the keyboard, my ears thoroughly enjoying the clicking sound of each letter. Mr. Wright cleared his throat. I sighed slightly and looked up.

A few days had passed since my decision. I had decided on journalism. It helped me keep a tight grip on reality, and away from my feelings. Better yet, I didn't have to risk running into Aaron in the hallways for the first half of the school day, since I decided to spend the entire morning typing up brainstorms and articles. It was the first time Mr. Wright had caught me in the act.

"Hi there," I said. I had unconciously adopted an apathetic tone of voice, almost sounding impatient as I dragged out each word. Mr. Wright's gaze hardened as he flicked on the lights. I almost hissed at the sudden brightness.

"You should be in second period," Mr. Wright informed me. Rolling my eyes, I returned to my work.

"Second period is boring. Journalism is my life," I droned. The way I said it made me sound somewhat sarcastic. But I wasn't. I truly believed journalism was the best thing in my life.

"Don't say that," Mr. Wright scolded. "Psychology may not be the most exciting subject, but it is important. Get to class."

"I'm not going to be a psychologist, Mr. Wright."

"It appears as though you need one, however."

I inhaled sharply, glaring up at Mr. Wright. He raised an eyebrow at me, shaking his head in disapproval. Ohh, no. My journalism teacher did not just insult me. I opened my mouth to reply, but Mr. Wright cut me off.

"What I meant by that," he said slowly, "is that you seem to be very confused with yourself lately. You've been scatterbrained, and your articles haven't been as frequent as they used to be. Your writing has become less structured, as well as your attitude."

I was at a loss for words. Never has Mr. Wright criticized me, or my writing. Especially not my writing.

"Before you continue," he went on, "I want you to get everything in order. And I don't mean articles."

My shoulders slumped after he finished. The pathetic apathetic act was gone. The numbness I had adopted for the past several days was replaced with the pang of pain I had acquainted myself with over the last few weeks. My heart... it was almost normal again. I sniffed, looking up at Mr. Wright through my hair. He was giving me a hard look.

"Thank you," I mumbled. Mr. Wright nodded curtly. I shuffled over to the door miserably, pulling it open. Right before I left, Mr. Wright called my attention.

"Make sure you read this month's issue as well," Mr. Wright told me. He held up a copy of the school newspaper. "I think you'd find it interesting." He tossed the paper to me. I scrambled forwards, catching the paper with just my fingertips. Mr. Wright turned away and began to work. Huffing, I blew my bangs out of my face.

"See ya, Mr. Wright."

I left the classroom, still feeling horrible. My chest ached uncontrollably; the pain was like a poor, lost puppy--it would not go away. My hair was probably a mess, my eyes were probably bloodshot, and my clothes didn't match. I was 99 percent sure I looked like I belonged in a mental asylum. To top it all off, I was miserable.

But at least I felt something.

Sure, I was incredibly and utterly unhappy. Truth be told, I was losing faith in everything. But the way I see it, feelings are better than none at all. With emotions, I at least have a sense of reality. I didn't want to care, I really didn't, but that would have to come to me naturally. Suppressing emotions is probably one of the worst things anyone can do.

I sighed when I reached my locker, desperately trying to ignore Dana's minions hovering around and calling me names. Restraining myself from punching one of the bottle blondes in the face, I opened my locker door and stuffed all my things inside. Practically my entire bookbag was emptied out into the locker.

"Whore," someone coughed.

"Slut."

"Bitch."

I clenched my fists as I adjusted my bookbag over my shoulders. They're wrong, Riley. You're not any of those things, I told myself.

"Homewrecker."

Tears sprang into my eyes, but I swallowed and kept them back. I slammed my locker door shut and sped away as fast as I could without sprinting. I went all the way back to Mr. Wright's classroom--third period had just started. On the way, I had to avert my gaze completely when I passed by Dana. Why? It was no surprise. She had plastered herself to Aaron, once again. If I had dared to look, I would've broken down. But if I had looked, and stood up to her, it would've been a different story.

I needed to fix what I had messed up.

I stopped mid-step, twisting around with my foot still hovering over the ground. Dana didn't notice me, but Aaron's dark blue gaze locked on me. His eyes flickered down to the newspaper in my hands. I cleared my throat awkwardly, trying to look at everything else but Dana's body pressed against Aaron's. She was making these sounds that were probably supposed to be seductive, but she sounded more like a dying animal. I snorted. Dana's head whipped around, her curled blonde hair smacking Aaron in the face. He flinched.

"What do you want?" Dana spat.