Bulletproof (#1) ✔

19: Franny

19. Franny

I sit in my last period class, staring at the clock and watching the seconds tick by. When the bell finally does ring, I'm out of my seat before everyone else and already making a bee-line to my locker.

    I shove my books inside and fill my bag up with the ones I need. I close my locker and shuffle away just as others reach their lockers. I walk down the hallway and stop by the far washrooms, which are vacant.

    Dropping my bag onto the floor, I lean back against the wall, my head against the glass of the trophy cabinet behind me. I don't bother to check my phone. I know there are no new messages. My dad hasn't made any attempt to contact me ever since I came home late that one night and snapped at him in the morning.

    A sad little part of me wishes that he did make an effort. A part of me hopes he's frantically worrying about me and is seconds away from calling the phone to make sure I'm okay. To make sure my day went well, that I'm happy and not failing classes.

    I wish for something normal.

    I turn around and stare at the many trophies in the cabinet. My eyes move over to one particular picture off to the side. There are two lines of boys standing side by side with their arms around each other's necks. I lock eyes onto one boy, standing with a large grin on his face, football uniform on.

    My dad stares back at me from the picture and the nagging in my chest returns. He's not like that now. The boy in front of me isn't the man I see today.

    Looking out of the large window beside me I notice that the weather isn't too bad. It's cold but with my coat I should be okay to just walk home. I see the yellow school buses begin to drive away, lined up one after the other.

    I push my bag further up my arm and turn around, sprinting up the few stairs to the back door. The chill of the air hits me immediately but I just zip up my coat further and tuck my hands into my pockets.

    But when I look up I stop.

    My foot slowly presses back down on the ground and I stare back at him with confusion. His own hands are shoved into his jacket pockets and he pushes off from his truck, walking a few steps forward.

    He's only a few feet away from me so I take a few steps closer.

    "What are you doing?"

    "I need your help," he says.

"My help?" I ask. "For what?"

    "I . . . do you trust me?" he asks.

    "No."

    "Liar." He gives me a little smile and I give him one back.

    "Okay, fine," I say. "I trust you. But that doesn't mean I'm going to jump at the chance to help you. Last time I helped you, I had blood all over my kitchen."

    "You still bringing that up?" he says, and I sigh.

    "What do you need?"

    "Eyes," he says. "I need someone to be my eyes."

    "Well there's already two on your head so I hardly think you're gonna need more."

    Tyler ignores my comment. "You just need you to look out for me. Be on watch."

    I walk closer to him. "What are you doing? Robbing a damn bank?"

    "I need someone I trust there," he says. "Someone I know won't stab me in the back when I turn away."