When There's No One Else But You and Me (𝖹𝖠𝖱𝖱𝖸)

Chapter III

That was. Until that Harry kid had caught him staring through his window.

☮

"Zain!"

Today was a huge day unbeknown to Zain because if he knew then he would've at least tried to get a bit more shuteye than an hour and a half of dozing in and out of consciousness.

"Zain, please! Your sisters are awake and ready for their first day!" His Mom sighed out, rushing this way and that just to get her three kids situated. Zain, being the only one who was still head deep under his covers snoring like the bus wasn't a block away. "Zain come on. The bus'll be here soon. I paid good money to get you into this school." She leaned on his doorframe and stared, almost spellbound by her son at how unbeknownst to the world he is when he slept.

"Zain?" The widow whispered.

"Hmmm?" His cowlick―the little hair that he had tried his very hardest for years to flatten down with gel―stuck up first from below the knitted cover. "Yeah?" He croaked, sleep pretty much engulfing his voice.

"Baby," she stepped into his room fully and feebly sauntered over to her son, and once there, pressing a cracked, nimble finger to his warm cheek. "You know that school starts today, right?"

"Hmmm? What?" He rasped and peeked an eye out from his cover and gave a glance to his Mom. "School?"

"Yeah, school," she had asserted in a matter of fact tone that copied Zain's croaky words. "I told you about this at dinner yesterday but you seemed like you had other things on your mind."

Zain seized up at that. His breath falling short and his heart vibrated against his ribs at a pace that really started to scare Zain. He'd totally forgotten. Forgotten about the peeking and the staring and the arguing and the seeking and the no sleeping. And Zain was unsure of what he was expecting, honestly. To just forget? That wasn't an option. With Harry being just a street away there would be no forgetting.

"Z?" His Mom petted his hair, soothing it down as if knowing the thought process he was going through. "Just get dressed for me, ok? The bus is nearly here and you walking would take ages." She stopped petting him suddenly and lent down to kiss his hairline―since his forehead was still buried deep under the covers. Zain watched her (with only one half eye open) leave his room and drag the door behind her.

He wished he were like his sisters sometimes. As annoying as they are, they knew how to wake up early even when they stayed up for hours on end playing Goldfish. Zain applauded them for that. Mentally at least.

He lazily kicked his blanket off of himself and found the strength to plant his feet sturdily on the carpeted floor, bunching his toes around the rough, dirty, basil green synthetic fiber. He was tired. Too tired to go off to this posh school his mother supposedly spoken to him about. But either way had gotten dressed. His sleeve snagging on his thumb and ripping a piece of his nail off. "Shit." He placed his injured finger on the flat of his tongue and paced around his room before taking his thumb out of his mouth and opening his room door.

Zain looked like a damn fool. He really did. With his short khakis that only―barely―covered his knees and his stupid shiny shoes that for sure crunched his pinky toe against the sides, and his stupid color coordinated blue blazer with its clip on tie because Zain knew better than anyone that he could not, for the life of him, tie up a fucking tie no matter how many times he has tried in his mirror. Maybe if he had a Dad he'd be able to teach him-

"Come on, come on, come on." His Mom shoved at his back, urging him to go outside. "The bus is right outside the house. Come on."

The sun burned his eyes and nearly blinded him with how bright it was once they stepped out. Zain's hand self-consciously grasping for the familiar feeling of rough, sandpaper-like hands that once felt nothing like that when he was young. She took his hand almost as if she were searching for his hands in the process of him feeling around for hers. She squeezed his hand, hard. Like she didn't want him to go.

"Ok, listen baby," she turned him around and knelt down in front of him. The school bus honked. "No matter what, yeah, I want you to be better than each and every person, boy or girl, in that school, ok?" Her grip tightened around his wrists and from where Zain stood it looked like she was on the brinks of crying. "Ok?" His Mom repeats.

He nods, but turns his head abruptly to side-glance at the school bus. Kids were staring at them from the windows and he feels like an ant under a magnifying glass. Withering away until he's nothing left.

"Hey don't worry about them." She shakes him until his attention is now on his Mom again. "Don't worry, ok? They can stare all they want." Her eyes searched for something in his but he wasn't sure what so he stared down at his trashy shoes nervously. Her hands moves up to his ear and placed her palm on them, fondling with the side of his hair delicately before standing.

"Here," she dips down, grabbing something to the side of her and plunges a brown paper bag into his clammy hands. "You'll need this for lunch." His Mom bends down a final time and kisses the spot where his forehead meets his hairline. "Now go. I don't want you to be late." She whispered and tapped his shoulder almost playfully.

The bus honks twice and Zain faintly hears the agitated bus driver shout something along the lines of: We don't have all day! Hurry it up!

The widowed Mother puts her hands on his shoulder and turns her son around so he faces the bus and the kids on it. She heard his breath stutter. She pushed him towards the steps as the bus's door hissed open. Patting his back she lets go of her son and stands back and waits for him to go on the bus.

Once he's made it past the steps he stands in the aisle. Frozen. One hand's fisted around his lunch and the other quivering behind his back. They're all just... staring at him. Eyes seemingly glued to him like he's some entertaining television program that's just too good to shut off.

"Come on, move it kid! We need to start up the bus and anyone standing gets kicked off." Zain feels him turn around and stare at him. "Is that what you want, kid?"

"No," he says feebly and basically sprints to an open seat, eyes adverting over his every move until he's sufficiently seated in the back. And even so, there are wide, bugeyed kids just gawking at him which makes his breathing go jagged. They won't stop staring. Why won't they stop staring?

☮

"Hey loser!" Someone says above him and he really, really doesn't want to look up. But he does. Why? He doesn't even know.

A boy, around his age, with blond hair in a gelled side part, glares down at him.

"Here. I don't want my milk anymore and I can't throw it out the window. Sooo..." He tips his hand and just then did Zain see the small milk carton in his hands. But it was too late. The milk spattered around as it hit his hair, wilting his quiff even more and running down his temples, seeping into his blue blazer. "Oops, sorry. My finger slipped." He gave him a tight lipped smile before dropping to his seat, giggling to whoever sat next to him.

A/N: Thanks for reading! 📺

Please tell me this isn't getting boring. I hope it's not.

(P.S. This story is no walk in the park. It only gets worse from here.)