Rejects // Punk Luke Hemmings

>Chapter Two<

The first two weeks or so went by without more than a few words with anyone other than the teachers. I drifted through the school day, surrounded by people who all seemed more attractive than I was. People who seemed to have no interest in me whatsoever, other than negative interest.

I sat alone at lunch, music loud in my headphones. I stayed in the back corners as much as possible in the classes without assigned seats. In those that had assigned seats, I looked only at the teacher, and the people near me carried on as if I wasn't even there.

Every day, I woke up early, dragged myself out of bed, and tried to make myself look as presentable as possible, though whom I did that for I wasn't sure. I went to school, walking through halls and sitting in classes by myself, my head stuck in my own world.

But one Thursday, that cycle of monotony was broken.

I was sitting at my lunch table near the window as always, Daughter playing from my headphones, a charcoal pencil flying over thick paper, when I felt the table jostle slightly. At first, I didn't pay the person any attention, but then a finger appeared, tapping on the edge of my paper.

I decided to glance up, curious as to who would have the audacity of touching my paper.

I was greeted by a boy about my age, with bright green hair and two or three bands tattooed around his arm, as well as an eyebrow piercing and a wide smile.

I saw him mouth something and realized my headphones were still in. "Pardon me?" I asked politely, removing one and turning the music down a bit.

"I just said hi. I'm Michael," the boy repeated himself patiently. "You must be the new girl. I've seen you around."

"Yeah. I am," I said bluntly. I wasn't really in the mood to talk much.

"What're you drawing?" Michael indicated to the paper.

I'd drawn a blown-up view of a rose, focusing on a single drop of water on the edge of a petal. Within the dome of the droplet, there were upside-down clouds. "Nothing," I said self-consciously. I wasn't used to people asking about my work. I wasn't much for explaining my pieces, even to my mom.

"Sure doesn't look like nothing," he gazed at it intently. "It's beautiful. It looks so real... like I could just reach out and touch it..." he reached out slowly toward the drawing.

I swatted his hand away. "Don't you know the first thing about art?! You don't touch someone else's work, especially not a charcoal piece!" I said, a bit over-protective of my art.

"Sorry, sorry," he looked at me, taken aback. "I didn't know."

I took a deep breath. "Did you need something?" I asked. Surely he didn't just come over here to socialize.

"Nope. Just thought you looked lonely over here, all by yourself."

I looked at him, unsure of whether to feel annoyed that he'd interrupted my art or happy that I didn't have to be alone again. "Uh, thanks, I think..." I said awkwardly. "I'm not really used to talking to other people, so please excuse my weirdness..." I said seriously.

Michael laughed. "Your weirdness? I don't think I've ever heard that before!"

Why was he laughing at me? Did I really say something funny? Before I could respond, the bell rang to go to our next class.

"Do you know where you're headed?" Michael asked as I slipped a plastic cover over the page I'd been drawing on. I closed the sketchpad, gathered my things, and stood up.

"Yeah. I'm off to Advanced Art."

"Really? I just got switched to that class! Would you mind if I, uh, sat with you?" he asked hesitantly as we started walking out. The crowd of people was thick, and we were pushed close to each other. "If you don't want to that's totally alright."

"No, I'd lov-" I was cut off as I tripped over something, falling hard to the ground. My things billowed around me, but thankfully I caught my sketchpad before it got trampled.

I heard a few laughs and whispers around me as I tried to get all of my books and journals off the floor. A figure bent down and helped, and I figured it was just Michael. But when I saw the green-haired boy's shoes quickly turning and coming back toward me, I looked up and froze.

There, kneeling to help me with my books, was what had to be an angel. The boy had tan skin, honey-colored hair that was swept up into a quiff, and a lip ring. But those weren't the things that caught my attention. What did that were his eyes, clear as glass and blue as the sky, his cheeks, tinged with faint pink, his jawline, strong and angled, the dimple he had on one side, showing with the slight smile that played on his mouth. Oh, how I wish I could draw his face. His features were perfect, just begging to be drawn.

There were tattoos peeking out from under the sleeves of his jacket, as well as the neckline of his shirt. They twisted together, the black lines bold against his skin, which was splashed with a bit of color here and there. I wished I could see the rest of them, but I didn't want to be weird.

"Here you are," he said, his voice resonating in the air between the two of us. "I must apologize about my friend. He was the one who tripped you. But I'll make sure it doesn't happen again," he smiled and stood, offering a hand to help me up.

Taking it slowly, I got to my feet and looked down quickly. "You must be Kara, the new girl from the States?" he asked in his lilting accent. I could only nod. "Nice to meet you. I'm Luke. I'm sorry about that, again."

"I-It's alright. Thanks for helping me," I looked up at him again, noticing that he was much taller than I was.

"No problem. You should probably get to class, Kara. Don't wanna be late," he winked. I nodded and turned, looking at Michael.

What just happened? Had someone like that really talked to me? Did he really just smile, even wink at me? Since when did that happen?

Walking with Michael to Art class, I kept my eyes on the floor in front of me, my mind still on what just happened. All through art class I idly drew on a blank piece of paper, not paying attention to what I was doing.

I ended up making patterns for tattoos that I would never get, but I kept them anyway. I wasn't sure why, but I felt like they'd be useful in the future. That and the fact that they were beautiful, of course.

My favorite was a Phoenix rising from ashes, the flames licking its feathers. There was also a flower that had delicate petals and stamen protruding from the center. The third was simply a doodle of patterns, twisting and twirling into something unearthly and gorgeous, but strange.

At the end of art class, Michael and I exchanged phone numbers and went our separate ways. I trudged through the day, alone as per the norm, and drove home at the end of the day. But I felt different, as if something was blooming in the pit of my stomach. Did Luke do this? Why was I thinking about him so much? He'd only talked to me once, and that was to apologize! I really needed to get my head straight.

[Edited]