Picasso's Promise

Episode 3| Saved By the Bell

That very next day, Jeremiah was sitting outside of homeroom when I got to school. His nose was in a book, scanning the content inside with fast eyes. I didn't want to disturb him, being so absorbed in the literature, but the lack of students inside the classroom led me to confusion.

"Where is everyone?" I asked, still peaking inside. The teacher's desk was empty as well. I couldn't see Mr. Ramos, snoring in the corner. "We don't have class?"

"We do," he retorted, licking his finger to turn the page. "An admin came a moment ago, saying Mr. Ramos would be absent and that they were sending a substitute over. The second the students heard that, they bolted. I'm the only one who stayed."

I slid my back against the wall, meeting him on the floor. "What are you reading?"

He shut his book, facing the cover to me as he read out the title. "One Hundred Years of Solitude. It's got a Nobel Prize. But if you ask me, I would've renamed it One Hundred Years of Incest."

My brows raised. "Ew, I don't want to know."

"Too late. I'll tell you either way," he grinned. "The part I'm at now is really disturbing. His mother is a card reader who has birthed two sons by the two separate brothers."

"I'm already confused."

"Oh, trust me, so was I for a lot of this book." He huffed. "Anyway, one day, her son decides that he's going to have sex with her. He practically forces himself on his mom, and she agrees to meet up with him later--"

"I hate this book already."

"Wait for it," he assured me, going on despite my discomfort. "So, when he gets to the location she wants him to be, she walks in and it isn't until they're all over each other that he realizes that it's not his mom at all. She's a virgin she's paid to have sex with him. He ends up knocking her up and he's content with their illegitimate children. Oh, and did I mention he's a ruthless dictator all at the age of seventeen?"

"Sounds like a true romance." I refrain from making a sound in disgust. "Why are you reading such a vial book?"

"It's not vile. It's a classic."

"A classic can be vile. Case in point: Lolita." This statement, accurate and confidentially said, wasn't spoken by me or by Jeremiah. I trailed my eyes to who had replied, snaking up from a pair of all red Jordon's to Picasso's looming gaze.

"You read Lolita?" I scoffed. "That's debatable."

His face hardened. "Why do you say that?"

"Because this school's reading level is forty percent below average. You guys are probably still reading Of Mice and Men along with the junior high."

"Who said I read the book here?" He countered. "Clearly you're not aware of the idea of reading for leisure."

"You look like you tote blunts, not books."

He smirked. "I can manage both."

"Is that what your parole officer asked for you to do?"

He knocked his head back, but the laugh was hardly a true chuckle. "I don't know if you're forcing it or if you really are the dictionary definition of an asshole." 

"Which version? Oxford or Webster?" I inquired, standing up on to my feet. "I hope the Webster version since it's so fitting with my last name."

My size was dwarfed next to him this close. I regretted standing, craning my neck just to look at him. It was better this way, though, rather than continuing this argument with me on the floor.

He shook his head. "I thought after what I did yesterday, you wouldn't still have this same attitude with me like you're too good for everyone here."

"I'm sorry, did you expect me to suck your dick for getting my shoes back?" I snapped.

"A simple fucking thank you would do just fine. Damn, do they not teach you manners in Malibu?"

"You're the reason she got jumped in the first place," Jeremiah chirped, winning a glare from Picasso. Jeremiah shuttered from the stare, jamming his book in his backpack and looking down at a watch that wasn't there. "Oh, look, it's time for first period already."

The loud squeaking noise of his sneakers, racing down the hall, emphasized the deafening silence between Picasso and I. His arms were crossed and so were mine, mirroring his defensive stance with my brows low.

He sighed. "I didn't know she jumped you because of me."

"Martin says you were there, watching the whole time." I noted. "I'm sure you could've put two and two together."

"I wasn't watching the whole time. I was coming down the steps when Yenifer threw you into the dumpster. I caught up with Genesis on her way home and got the shoes back, then and there. If I would've seen them corner you, I wouldn't have stood there and watched." He paused, "Even though you haven't been the least bit nice to me, and I shouldn't give a shit about some pompous princess from the hills, I would've stepped in regardless. Because that's fucked up and one person against a crew of people ain't fair. Genesis was wrong for that, and I'm sorry if you think me talking to you at homeroom caused that."

"Think?" I echoed. "I know that's why she jumped me. She was waiting for me outside of homeroom, beaming daggers into my soul with her crazy eyes."

He chuckled. "Yeah, she can be like that sometimes. She's possessive."

"Of what's not hers anymore? That's terrifying. You shouldn't associate yourself with people who see you as a possession for them to have as their own."

"We got history, no matter if we're together now or not. I don't cut people off. I don't roll like that. If someone's in my life, they're in my life forever."

"I can't relate." I said, thinking of how fast I annexed Anton from my life. I didn't put much thought into it. It was as though one day I woke up and recognized the faults in our arrangement, knowing that keeping him around wouldn't end well for either of us.

"You could be able to relate if you had a life like mine. I was kicked out by my mom at fifteen because she said I looked too much like my father. Ever since then, all my friends are considered my family."

Fifteen? How could someone manage to pull themselves up by their bootstraps at fifteen? I was in shambles, figuring out how to deal with life at my age. I wondered the amount of stress and sadness he experienced in the years he should've been enjoying his youth. All at once, my body felt as if it was folding in to itself, aching for the young boy he was talking about.

Classroom doors flew open as the bell rang through the once still hallways, now flooding with bodies. I turned to Picasso, looking at him in a new light, and extended my hand to him. "I'm sorry."

"For what? For being the dictionary definition of an asshole or for not saying thank you?" He smirked, and I smiled.

"Both," I replied and he shook my hand. A jolt ran through me, growing giddy at the intensity of his penetrable gaze. "Thank you for getting my shoes back. It means a lot to me."

His fingers lingered in mine. A glimmer of hope sprouted behind his irises, gently squeezing my hand. "Anytime Webster Dictionary. Anytime."

"Don't call me that again." I warned. "I'll just might have to kick your ass."

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a/n: sorry for the late update. please vote and comment.