The Savage Brothers | ✓

CHAPTER 15: Blame Anyone But A Savage

CHAPTER 15: Blame Anyone But A Savage

B R A N D O N

I'm not on a great start. First off, I was late. And Bryan is never late. So I practically ran to the entrance of the school right after I parked my newly-painted bike on their parking lot.

There was a fat guard on the entrance and he does not look friendly. He was going to greet the student with his infamous late-slip when he notices that it was I who was getting near him. And instantly his gloomy and intimidating face turned into a bright—but nervous—smile.

"G-Good morning, Mr. Savage!" he beamed, hiding the late-slip behind him as if he is making a fatal mistake if he showed me. I can see him shaking, sweat dripping down his forehead.

I saw him flinch when I smile back. His eyes were now bulging, as if shocked that I have smiled at him for the first time in years—as if smiling at him was the best thing he ever got from me.

That is absolutely weird—which leads to my second reason—in fact, everyone is weird today.

Because I was in a hurry—and also due to clumsiness—I accidentally ran into this girl in the halls causing her to drop all her books and papers, scattering it all over the bleached white-tiled floors. She kept on chanting her apologies to me as if I'm some god that will punish her if she doesn't. I squatted down to help her of course, muttering my fair share of apologies. But what made me uncomfortable in doing so was the fact that students were staring at us as if it is uncommon to see anyone helping another fellow human being all their life—no, more like gaping at me; as if it was so rare to see me like this.

As if it's like seeing a bar of gold when I help someone.

When I looked up at them, every one quickly looked at any other direction, as long as they don't make direct eye contact with me; some even fled away in a hurry.

What the hell?

Oh right! I almost face-palmed myself because I just remembered that I'm in Bryan's School (PAM, if I'm not mistaken) and that I'm supposedly Bryan for today—or just as planned: for the whole week. Maybe it's because tardiness busied my mind making me forget this simple plan of ours.

And now, out of nowhere, I was being dragged by this . . . blonde . . . into the doors of the auditorium. "Where have you, like, been, Bryan? We were, like, so worried!" she blabbered with a thick, familiar accent, almost without pausing for a breath. "Vi was like 'O-M-F-G! Where T-F is he?' and Javier was shookt, like, really SHOOKT because you weren't here and we were, like, texting you! You didn't even respond an LOL at us or made a TTYL! So we were all, like, forced to start the callbacks! Like, hellooooo?"

As we entered the double-doors, a soothing voice of a British man boomed: ". . . and the song lists were posted there. Again, congratulations for making it to—OH! My mate's here! Since Bryan finally arrived, I give the stage to him for the 6th Day of this Hell Week! Best of luck! Bryan, mate, it's your call."

I was literally pushed up the stage and a mic was suddenly in my hands. My knees were shaking; I'm not used standing in front of everyone, with the spotlight blinding me, darkening the audience ahead. This reminds me of the time wherein I always humiliate myself whenever I join Literary Contests because I easily forget the lines of the poem or even the declamation piece I am trying to recite due to my internal breakdowns. Only Bryan is the master of this kind. And now I am about to make a—wait, what exactly am I here standing here for? I only stare dumbly at them, the apple of my throat bubbling in anticipation. I started sweating.