A Bird in Flight | ✔︎

Chapter two: His green eyes are too cliché

Ensley

"BYE, ENSLEY!" MY three little sisters say in unison as I drop them off at the local primary school. Rhianna is ten; Tate, seven; Diana, the youngest and most innocent, six. My sisters, my soul mates, the only light to my world.

They smile and hug me. My heart breaks at the thought of ever losing one of them.

"Be good, girlies," I wave them goodbye, my smile slipping from my lips as I vision what the next six hours of school would bring me. I could answer that question: Hell.

My high-school is two blocks away from my sisters' primary school. Normally I take the backstreets to avoid meeting people who take an intense, sadistic interest in tormenting me—but today I'm running late.

Just as I'm rushing into the front gates, I see him.

Callan Beckett.

Tousled blonde hair falls in waves over his forehead, emphasizing his striking green eyes that can tear down any girl's defenses and lure them into his bed. Everything about his appearance screams trouble from his sly grin, to his prominent jawline and the swagger in his hips as he saunters the hallways of the school.

But what really intrigues me is the jagged scar that stretches all the way from the top of his left eye across to the corner of his mouth. I remember him missing out of a month of school before arriving back with half his face sliced open. Apparently someone jumped on him in a parking lot with a knife.

I've been crushing on him since fifth-grade but early this morning was the very first conversation I've ever had with him. And I completely blew it. I yelled, I swore, I even slapped him. I knew he was an arrogant prick but surely, I thought, he must have the slightest compassion for nearly running my sisters and I over with his damn Harley Davidson.

I'd never acted like that before, besides when I'm in front of my mother. Normally I bottle up all my anger and emotion, keep my eyes lowered, my head bowed, my shoulders hunched forward. Always try to seem as small and invisible as possible, always hoping to fade into the background and disappear forever. Running is better than letting yourself get hurt. Numbing reality is always better than facing it.

"Dude, nice face," another footballer, Maddox Hollingsworth, says, shoving Callan playfully.

The group of boys are all standing huddled together, blocking off the sidewalk as though they own it, so people have to swerve around them to avoid accidentally colliding with them.

"Footy was pretty intense. Do you know that asshole who tackled me? We got into a bit of a brawl after the game," Callan says with a snigger. "The other guy looks worse than me." His cheek is all puffy and red, ringed by purple bruises; his eye black and swollen and he has a cut on his lip.

"Yeah? He looked fine to me."

"Shut up, man. I was drunk."

"Excuses, excuses," Maddox tuts.

I lean crooked against the wire fence, pretending to be intensely immersed in my phone, but really just listening to their conversation.

They talk about girls, sex, football and shit they've done when they're drunk. Mindless conversations chipped in with handfuls of swearing.

I'm staring at him. Fine, gawking. Muscles push the seams of his tight, black shirt, framing his muscular, tall figure. Lord, do I have my mouth open? His so sexy though...so hot in those jeans riding low on his hips.

His eyes catch mine and an evil grin crosses his face. He walks over to me, the rest of his group lingering behind, those startling emerald eyes burning into mine. "Hey, sweetheart."