Supervillain Stalker

7 || again?!

I'd never suspected that I'd be a criminal one day. I suppose no one ever does; it's not the kind of thing you factor into your life plans. But here I am, on the run with Blade at the wheel and Skull splayed out on the back seat, wheezing every breath.

And all because of some stupid misunderstanding.

Half term ended one week after the MJ incident. Since that day, everything had been eerily quiet: Rally and I had managed to attend the circus without being accosted by the tightrope walker; I had succeeded in buying cigarettes from the local mart six times without accidentally picking up trackers; and all in all, the only idiot I'd had to put up with was Jupiter who had been visiting our house everyday to play FIFA with Cyril.

Walking into school today having stepped off the bus, I was ambushed for the first time in almost seven days.

"Daisy!" a voice squealed so gleefully that I felt my ears pop. Standing in the centre of the tacky school corridor, her neon pink hair a stark contrast to the dull white walls and cheap grey linoleum, was my best girl friend Maya.

I know. Finally someone with a name that isn't weird or cringey.

Maya's arm was flailing with only a fraction of the gazillion watts of energy that always pulsate through her tiny form. Eyes lit up like beams; she shone with delight.

"Daze, it's been too long," she wailed, scurrying towards me as the students split in two. "Why didn't you contact me?"

I thought back to the week's events. While my break from school was refreshing in some parts, it had been horrific and stressful in others. I'd barely had enough time to ease the tension in my muscles and hanging out with Mai wasn't exactly relaxing.

"Oh, you know," I hummed, combing a hand through my hair (I cringed at the clingy feeling of grease. When was the last time I showered?). "Work..."

Maya frowned ever so slightly, her ebony eyebrows nudging together over her eyes as she pushed her glasses up her nose. "I didn't know you had a job."

Maya is Indian. She's also a star pupil in our Latin class and a complete flop in maths. Her favourite words are "hooligan" and "watermelon" (but only when it's pronounced like "water-mel-ownnnn"). She's also annoyingly good at reading me.

Tucking my hands into the pockets of my big thick jacket, I shrugged and glanced away. "My Dad took me to the office." My hesitation in giving more information wasn't new – Maya knows I'm uncomfortable talking about what my father and I do in his big shiny laboratory – so I managed to avoid further questions.

"Okay," Maya said and then she looped our arms together and marched us towards our form room for registration. But we didn't get away fast enough for me not to notice the suspicious glances pupils gave me when I had strode by, their eyes flickering between their phone screens and my face.

I probably should've suspected something at that point.

"Hey Knifey," I call, chewing on an energy bar that tastes like plastic and chocolate flavoured, well, plastic. I shake my hand to draw his attention to it, my finger curled in and my index spearing through the air in the direction of a turn off.

"What? Is it this way?" Blade asks, indicating without pause. I shrug and shove another bite into my mouth in order to slow my response (I know he's going to be pissed).

"It's a services," I state, deliberately avoiding his antagonised gaze.

"Again?" he cries, sounding distressed.

The car slithers around the snaking curves of the road, gliding serpent-like towards the petrol station. I grimace. Ever since we started this ride, I've had to use the cramped cubicles inside these crappy places instead of the (minimum) three star bathrooms of proper service stations. You know, the ones that sell real food not pathetic substitutes?