As I had once predicted the ninth year in school was going to be far from the blissful change we had anticipated. The amount of homework and assignments grew at an alarming rate each week. I barely understood half of what Mrs. Diaz said in our Chemistry class these days. My best subject, however, was English. Only because of my fascination towards writing.
The very first time I had written something was a journal. There wasn't anything special about it. It was a record of my day to day life from sixth to eighth grade. Finally, as a freshman, I realized it was too childish to carry a notepad with me at all times which was when I wrote the first short story in my career. It was about a quiet mousy-haired boy, James Martin who had come from a wealthy background. Even after having all the cool things, he lacked something called friends. It wasn't until he had come across a book in the local library one day. James was disappointed, of course, because of the white empty pages. For a while, he considered giving it back just then and there. But, something happened. As though, the book itself was telling him to keep it. No one in the library wanted it back when he tried to get rid of it. Horrors happened before his eyes after that day and the library never claimed it.
It was a good short story. I was so proud of it that I wanted to go on and write about it more. The short story got published in our monthly school magazine under the name 'anonymous'.
I had gone through the corridors hearing praises of my own work, yet unable to take credit for it. In a rainy day, I sat in my Advanced English class, scribbling another mishap of James Martin's life. I would hide it under my English copy and survey the teacher for a scope to write.
Thunder boomed loudly outside and I turned to see the water splashing over the misty glasses of the windows.
"What have I said about coming late to my class?" Mr. Costello's voice wavered, sharp and annoyed.
I stared at the running-back who towered at the threshold, his brown curls wet over his forehead, his green eyes glowing from the light overhead.
"The practice was canceled today, sir. I wasn't informed," he bit back, although politely.
"I won't listen to any excuse, Dale. Come on in and get started with your work," Costello frowned, his brown eyes narrowing at the boy.
"Thank you, sir," the boy marched in, beads of water trailing behind him as he went further, scanning the room for an empty seat. There was one, just behind me. He slid behind the desk, his long legs not fitting under the table, causing the front of his shoes to touch the back of mine. I moved them away almost immediately, gasping at the contact, my chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Why here?" I muttered to myself as I bit my lip.
"Diana, isn't it?" A whisper came from behind me, tickling the back of my neck. I craned my neck carefully, sighing at how green his eyes were.
"Can I borrow a pen, Diana?" He smiled, his thick eyebrows knitting together, eyes crinkling. It was a torture and I almost wanted to press my fingers over those eyebrows to smooth them out.
Instead, I reached for my pencil pouch.
"Is that 'Martin's Dilemma' you're reading?" Now his voice had changed, holding some sort of interest. I felt his breath on my shoulder, realizing he was slouching forward to see.
"It's not that one." His tone was evident of his scowl. "Wait... are you the one writing these stories?"
Panic-stricken, I handed him the pen I was holding and straightened myself, not wanting to hear anything else.
YOU ARE READING
Here's to Us (Blood Money #2)
Romance"What we had is over, Dawn. You don't have to do this anymore. You're free to go." I traced the glass separating us with my fingers, looking into his green eyes and whispered to the phone, "So you want to know why I'm still here?" He just stare...
