innocent - malik [a.u.]

2: i hate drummers now

 a/n from 9 sunday, november (months after the chapter was posted):

i had completely edited chapter one, so it's less shit, and i am going to edit the rest of the story tomorrow afternoon.

alex.
“C'mon, Chase. He’s your boyfriend. Of course he’ll ask you to homecoming. Besides,” I pointed to the large, dark banner above the science lab. “It isn't even close yet. It’s still a month away.” I explained. With a glance to her face, I noticed her cheeks darken in colour and a grin form on her lips as she pushed her hair behind her ear and clutched her books to her chest. And after, Daniel had nodded his head once to her and waved.

"Anyways," she turned to smile brightly in my direction, leaning against Zayn's locker as she searched her folder frantically for something. "Who are you asking?"

I chuckled, shaking my head slightly. Opening the door, I looked inside for my Science History book, preparing to leave perfume-stained hallway.

"Chasie, it's guys choice. And, I'm not going. I've got a lot of work to do." I sighed, a little upset. She understood, and nodded her head a few times. I never went to social events. And not because I was afraid of popular kids, or anything like that. In fact, in our school, there were no popular kids. There were no jocks, no fighting. Not a lot of bullying. Kingston Day was what other students from different schools called the 'reject school'. Our school was made up of kids with issues. That was honestly the only way you could get in. Me and Dylan, for example, suffer mediocre depression and have lost our mum and dad. Chasie has cancer. Zayn and Ashton don't have the richest family, and they suffer bad-boy/delinquent personalities. Most of these kids suffered problems that most kids wouldn't understand, so they would pick on them for being different.

Anyways, I don't go to social events because I have social anxiety. I don't do well around other people, and that was one of the reasons that I absolutely hated family dinners and/or social events, like proms or dances.

"Alright. Well, I'm going to be late for English if I don't leave now. I'll see you at lunch." she faked a smile up at me, and I returned it, nodding a few times before she walked off.

The bell was about to ring, and if I didn't find my SH book soon, I would be late. And that, now that would be an unwanted first. I grumbled to myself, searching everywhere in the surprisingly large locker for the book. That is until I heard familiar footsteps.

Zayn Malik, the boy I completely despise, walked over to his locker. Which was right next to mine. So cli-fucking-che. I rolled my eyes and continued my search.

Zayn leaned against his locker, a sly smirk cursed unto his pink lips as he crossed his arms over his chest. His jean jacket covered his inked arms loosely, and he chuckled softly, taking the side of his bottom lip in between his pearly white teeth.

Just ignore him, Alex. You can do it.

But his honey-eyed stare was getting to me, especially when we were inches apart from each other and I could easily punch him right now. As childish as it sounds, after yesterday's events (the grinding, Breaking Bad pickup line, etc.), I had every right to punch him square in his gorgeously chiesled jaw.

"Can I help you?" I rolled my eyes, turning to look at him. His honey-coloured orbs slowly moved from my feet, all the way to my eyes, his own eyes pausing on my waist, stomach, and breasts for a short second as he did so.

"No need, babe. Maybe later." He released his lips slowly, keeping a serious face before stuffing his hands into his pockets as he walked towards the class we shared. 

A sketchpad stuck out of his backpack, which barely hung on his shoulder. As I kept my eyes locked onto the sketchpad, I also managed to pull out the book from under a pile of papers. There was writing across the top, which was hard to see. I simply sighed deeply and shook my head quickly, takinng fast steps as I raced towards the classroom.

But, instead of turning into our class, Zayn laughed softly as he quickly spun back, darting into the band room. Where was he going? I mean, no, that was obvious. What was he doing?

Shaking my head, my feet lead me into the classroom and I in my graffiti covered seat, towards the back of the classroom. The teacher began his lesson on the history of xenon, and class became quite boring without the Bradford bad-boy pissing him off.

--

About 10 minutes later, while the teacher was talking something about how Breaking Bad doesn't relate to science history, Zayn shuffled inside and sat in his usual seat. Also, right next to me.

"So no drugs, yeah? I could use a little psychoactivity." Zayn blurted out loud, doodling in his sketchpad. I rolled my eyes again as the class giggled. He wasn't funny, nor was he cute. Zayn, he was just a wannabe. Zayn only cared about getting into girls pants (Fucking. Let's just be honest, Zayn likes to fuck), making sure his hair looked good, and maintaining an A in art. Which, I didn't even think he cared about, but that seemed to be the only class he really showed up and paid attention to. In fact, Zayn did his own thing in art. He went off into the side room, and drew or painted for an hour and forty five minutes. And that was something I never knew about, or why he liked doing it.

"Mr. Malik, psychoactivity is not something worth joking about. Do you even know the definition of psychoactive?" Mr. W asked, folding his scrawny arms as he raised his wrinkly eyebrow.

"Something that affects the mind. Normally, the cheif affect of a drug." He replied in a hushed tone, keeping his eyes glued to his drawing.

A sneer formed upon the teacher's face, and he narrowed his eyes in anger towards Zayn before turning back around. And as soon as he did, Zayn quickly stood up, snatching a set of drumsticks from the side of his backpack.

He began banging on the desks with a ton of power and screaming nonsense that I couldn't make out. It was like listening to a Pierce the Veil song. His banging grew more zealous, and he stopped in front of my desk but continued to slam. A smirk appeared on his face as he began to drum to the beat of a Green Day song, in which I loved, but had always kept a secret.

"I'm the son of rage and love!" he sang, his voice intense, but great, and slammed the sticks harder to the beat. "The Jesus of Suburbia!"

The class' laughter filled up the room, as some pointed to us, and some doubled over in hard entertainment. His shirt was tight over his upper body, and his abs had been clearly visable. I managed to keep my eyes off, but it was hard. I also knew that my cheeks were darkening in colour deeply at each hit he placed on my desk, leaving intricate marks on the wooden surface.

The teacher groaned loud enough for most of us to hear, and stormed right over to Zayn, who was still at my desk. Feeling as if I was in trouble, for some reason unknown, my fists tightened and a hard gulp slid down my throat as fear took over my body. The teacher then gripped Zayn's arm tightly, and Zayn automatically stopped drumming. Mr. W stomped his way over to the door, leaving Zayn standing there as he ferociously scribbled up a yellow slip that read the word, in all capitals, 'principal' in thick marker on the back.

A low chuckle escaped his lips as he snatched the pass out of the teacher's hand.

"I'll be back, babe!!" Zayn moved his hand to blow a kiss at me, and I simply looked away from him. He left the room with a huff, laughing as he darted down the hallway.

Well, that was different.