All That Leads To You

Chapter 9 | Talking. A Lot of It.

Dedicated to THAT_NIRVANA_CHICK
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"you don't wanna be high like me; never really knowing why like me."

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The class is already pretty full by the time I get there, which is surprising because as far as I know, half of these people would do anything to be late to a Physics class. It's the first day after a break, I tell myself. Maybe they want to put on a good behaviour before causing amess later on. Or maybe they've already caused the mess and is paying for it right now. I feel like I'm back in primary school playing detective. The only difference is I'm not having any fun now.

     I sit at my usual spot on the side. For a while, I wait for Xander. And then the second bell rings, dictating the start of a lesson, and he's still nowhere in sight. Even after pages and pages of textbook content, and I claw my eyes out trying to finish the damn multiple-choice questions, Xander doesn't show up. I'd given up by mid class—on the worksheet and on Xander. This sounds like him to do whatever the hell he pleases. It also sounds like him to ditch the class he dreads the most. So, why am I even surprised? I should be angry. I should be pissed. Perhaps I am, but I just don't know how to show it. It's not Xander's fault to skip the lesson. I never mentioned about wanting to talk in the first place. I suppose, there's a part of me that hoped he would be here simply because we're friends.

     The bell rings before I know it. I've been drowning myself in trying to finish the work without saying a word to anyone or looking at any other directions the whole time that time moves by just a tad quicker. Sighing, I look at the questions and how I barely made it through the first couple pages. More homework for me! I say to myself while putting my books in my bag. The voice is my head attempts to say it enthusiastically and failed. Nope, I shake my head, throwing my bag over my shoulder and walking out of the class.

     "Ann!" a voice calls out as I turn the corner to go to my locker. I look behind me and search in between the sea of students going from one direction to the other. Xander.

     I keep walking. The sound of his footsteps become louder, but I shift my focus. He beats me to my locker. I give him a look.

     "Are you walking home today?" he asks, leaning against the metal door and trying to play it cool. He knows I'm pissed. And I know I have every right to be.

     "None of your business."

     "Oh, come on! Is this about me ditching you in Physics?"

     I don't say a word. He moves away from my locker and I insert my combination, opening the door and opening my bag to take out some books.

     "That was uncool, I know," he says. No apology, because Xander doesn't apologize. "Let me drive you home."

     "Why?" I ask, closing my locker a little too roughly that even I'm surprised. He doesn't jump, though; he's still there, calm as ever. You'd think he's got everything he's ever wanted just by looking at him.

     He doesn't answer. Instead he says, "Meet me out front after this last class," before walking away. Calm and collected. Not a care in the world. That's the Xander that everyone knows.

     I spend the next hour and forty-five minutes wondering what the hell he's up to.

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