The Gang Leader's Shorty

Chapter 7

The best part about Tuesday morning is that it isn't Monday morning. Which is why, instead of hobbling out of bed after tossing my alarm clock carelessly across the room, I carefully step out of my bed and begin to get ready for the day. My only motivation for each morning of the week is that, in twenty-four hours, I will be one day closer to the weekend, until I get to Friday, then I'm one day closer to Monday. 

During the time in which I shower, wash, change and eat breakfast, I am still awaiting Cole's waking. I always thought it was just Luke that slept a lot but, comparing him to Cole, I think it's just 'lazy teenage boy' syndrome. I enter the living room to find Cole peacefully sprawled across the sofa, one leg languorously hanging off the edge, his wrist draped over his eyes like a melodramatic princess. Rolling my eyes, I nudge him awake and he rolls over in an attempt to ignore me, "Cole, we've got to get to school, get up," I insist, shaking him slightly more aggressively than the first time. 

Finally, he receives the message and leisurely swings his legs round to a seated position, muttering hushed profanities at me under his breath, "Charming," I reply sarcastically as he continues to sit there, staring blankly at the wall over my shoulder, "Why aren't you moving?" I demand, grabbing his wrist and yanking him up, "I'm ditching. Care to join?" He slurs, rubbing his eyes and plodding to the staircase, likely finding his way to the bathroom. 

Huffing, I block his path, "Perfect record, remember?" I point to myself, "Get your ass upstairs and get ready," I say stubbornly, raising one eyebrow, challenging him to rival me, "Don't be boring, ditch with me," He whines and I shake my head, "I'm counting to five and if your lazy ass isn't up them stairs then I'm leaving and going to school without you," I say, beginning the count in my head, arms crossed over my chest as a barricade the stairs, almost believing that I could actually stop Cole from going up them, "I'm warning you, I will do it."

"If you leave me alone, I'll go through your stuff," He fires back, pointing a finger at me and I roll my eyes, "...Five! I'm leaving," I say whilst walking out of the door, a smug smirk plastered on my face as I expect him to follow. Much to my dismay, he doesn't. Instead, I glance back to see his retreating rear flying up the stairs. Scoffing, I make my way to the car. 

As I messily swing off the drive, I question the responsibility of my decisions: What if he finds my diaries? I've been journalling since I was young enough to legibly write. I suppose the idea stemmed from the trauma I began to experience in my childhood, it was a sort of outlet for all the thoughts and feelings I couldn't say aloud without consequences. Only, I remember, he wouldn't invalidate my privacy and break my boundaries in that way. Finally, Cole and I are in a stable place, he wouldn't ruin that. 

***

In my professional opinion, lunchtime is the best time of the school day simply because I can put distance between myself and my fellow peers that please themselves by tormenting me. For the past few years I have separated myself from any kind of social encounter by taking my lunchbox out to my car and eating alone with my music playing. 

I discovered from an early age (also known as pre-car Lexi) that students are most irritable at lunchtime, meaning I am most likely to find myself in the wrong place at the wrong time. From experience, everybody is hungry and just about ready to go home. So, instead of placing myself in an unfortunate situation, I erase myself from the picture. At least for forty-five minutes, anyhow. 

In that delightful spirit, I trudge towards my locker, head down and practically scaling the lockers in an attempt to avoid any hangry teens, grab my lunchbox and rush out of the doors and to my car. Only, instead of being greeted by the warm arms of my trusty car and its stereo, I am welcomed by a great mess: tyres slashed and hundreds of shreds of paper scattered across my bonnet. Confused, I approach the car and examine the scene further. My stomach tumbles through thousands of somersaults when I grasp the remnants of the stack of photos I keep in my glovebox of my mother. To avoid damage being done to them (or confiscation way back when), I placed a handful of my favourites into my car for safe keeping. Now they lie, shredded, on the bonnet of my car.