The Cult of Romeo

XV. Something Wicked

"Why did you fight?"  

"It wasn't a fight," I said, "it was a falling out." 

It wasn't unreasonable for an outsider to think that the Monet's were a happy family. Having Julien and me become best friends was a mistake on my father's part but it turned out quite well for them considering that it gave the impression of a tight-knit bond between us all. Sometimes the lies drove me crazy but other times, I didn't notice the tidal wave of negative emotions that weighed down on my chest until I was retching.

From the corner of my eye, I watched as Mr Donahue walked into the classroom. He marched up to my photography teacher and spoke to her with a scowl painted on his thick lips. I'd seen the Latin teacher a lot more recently - or maybe it was that I noticed him more recently. Either way, I didn't like it. He put me on edge, especially from what I saw in his memories. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Francis asked over my thoughts. 

I shook my head no and continued copying in my notes. Soon, the bell rang loudly and the students were already up and out of the class before the noise had even silenced. I packed up my stuff slowly and Francis did the same. I felt a tinge of guilt for being so closed off today. Usually, we'd spend the time talking about what we'd listened to or watched or read but I wasn't feeling it this lesson. Through our bonding sessions, I'd come to know that Francis and I shared that obsessiveness within our personality that seemed well under control until we began a conversation on that thing. 

I loved how fast he talked, or how his eyes lit up, or how much he truly knew of a subject. My mind was on anything but all that today, though.

"Are you performing for Elijah's memorial?" I asked when he fell into step with me and we left the classroom without a second glance. "Beatrix told me a lot of scouts will be there." 

"Yes, I am. And she's right, it is stressful," he answered. "You're only playing the piano this time, though. Have you practised?" 

I'd only practised once. I didn't dare tell Francis that, though, scared he'd snitch and I'd have D'Angelo bite my ear off about it. So, I just ignored the question. In all honesty, I didn't want to go. I didn't want to play the piano for the interlude of Elijah's memorial as though he'd care about what Burton Abbey did as a homage to his time there. As though anyone who would attend gave a flying fuck about the boy who died up on that stage. As though anyone knew anything about Elijah at all. 

There was a time when Elijah Lawson and I were as thick as thieves. I would have watched the world fall apart with him by my side and not have been the least bit concerned. I latched onto his personality. I treasured the rare laugh he'd pulled from me and the hundreds of eye rolls he'd earned. I loved it all. And in a way, I loved him too. 

I loved Elijah the same way those astronomers loved the stars that they named after Shakespeare characters. He was always there, pretty to watch and interesting to think about, but too far to touch and already dead far before I ever knew him. 

Francis and I stopped beside the large open doorway to the outside and in silent agreement, we stood back and watched the other students brave the rain. It poured down almost viciously, like small pellets descending to the earth, rather than water. 

The wind was rough, too. It pulled at my uniform and flurried through my hair, attacking my face and turning my cheeks pink. Sneaking a glance at Francis, he leant against the stone doorway with a faraway expression trickled in his dark eyes. The light of the outside reflected onto his pale skin and accentuated all of the sharp lines in his face. 

I almost invited him to get tea in town with me but was momentarily silenced when his face turned to mine. His eyes slowly trailed down my body and he frowned. I felt self-conscious for a brief moment before his deep voice spoke up. 

"Your bag..?" 

And, he was right, I didn't have my bag. I'd forgotten it in my photography classroom. I never normally carried a bag with me on these days but as I was going straight to the cafe after school, I'd packed it with me. 

"I'll go get it now, thanks. I'll see you tomorrow, Francis." Then, I was gone. 

I rushed down the corridor, walking briskly and avoiding the shorter youth while on my way. I didn't want to leave Khaleel waiting for too long and I also didn't want to be in the school building longer than I had to be. 

Turning left into the open classroom where a few students still lingered, I rushed to my place at the back and breathed out a sigh of relief to see that my bag was still left on the floor. Thank goodness for that. 

Except, it wasn't only my bag I'd left behind, something else caught my eye. When I looked back to the table, my heart stopped to see the scribble of words etched into the wood, 

'SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES'.