Saving Laurel

2. Angel

Laurel Gilroy

I avoid locking eyes with myself in the mirror as I straighten out my clothes. Regarding the mauve skinny jeans, distressed and cuffed just above my ankles and my white low top converses that are immaculate of any stains, I'm pleased with the look. My strawberry blond hair cascading in perfect loose curls that have taken me longer than I want to confess to, make-up subtle but there. I snap a selfie, angles perfect with a cute filter.

He'd appreciate this effort.

I look more like the Laurel I was when we first started dating. The angel to his devil.  Posting the picture to Instagram because I know at some point one of his friends will show him, I try to shake his face from my mind.

Swinging my backpack onto my shoulder, I leave my room with one last glance in the mirror. Trotting down the steps I greet my parents, grabbing a perfectly ripe banana from the island.

"Good morning." I say as chipper as I can muster.

It's not that I'm not happy. I am. For the most part. But I miss my old home, with my old friends. I miss the familiarity of it all, the comfortableness of knowing where I stood among everyone. Here, I'm the new girl.

The new imperfect girl.

My thoughts get stuck on the dresser drawer in my room, visions replaying in my mind as I watch the metal meet my skin. I can almost feel it, it's so real.

"You're in a good mood." My mom comments, her blue eyes regarding me carefully but filled with love like mothers always are.

I smile, I'm trying to be happy for my mom. Not make her feel guilty about ripping me out of the only place I've ever lived during my senior year. "Woke up on the right side of bed I guess."

My dad hands me a paper bag with my lunch packed in it, a little scribbled note across the brown paper like he's done everyday of my educational career. Sure it's cheesy. But I love it.

"Thanks dad." Without taking my bag off my shoulder, I stuff it in. "Love you, see you after school!"

I'm out the door and heading for school moments later.

                          ————————

I've come to the conclusion that Eastwood doesn't get many new kids. People can't leave me alone, like I'm a shiny new car and everyone wants to try me out. But I'm not letting it deter me from my pleasant mood.

My books are folded against me, the point of my math book, digging into the sensitive fleshy skin of my inner bicep. And I focus on the blunt ache that forms from the pressure that builds at its impact.

I look up into a charming smile, full of white teeth, though one is slightly crooked. A sharp jawline that is more pronounced with the short cut of his brown hair. A pair of dark brown eyes, an eyebrow cocked as a smirk tugs at his thin lips.

"Damn they weren't kidding." He says, something akin to a predator stalking prey lingers in his eyes.

I drop my eyes to the ground and as they drop I take note of his letterman jacket, an array of baseball metals hanging from it. The name Sawyer in white script across the right breast. I think I've just stumbled upon the popular jock if I'm not mistaken.

Staying quiet, I continue my trek through the crowded halls, hoping that he'll lose interest in me.

Unfortunately I am not that fortunate and he falls into step beside me.

He's not the classic tall, too filled out to still be a high schooler, jock but his presence still feels suffocating. Like he's filling all the space around me forcing my shoulders to round a little more as I curl into myself.