Strings Attached

Chapter Two

Ezra hasn't changed at all over the summer, or the summer before that, for that matter—it's as if someone has frozen him in time, forcing him to look the same way for the rest of time. His feathery blonde hair falls across his forehead and his hazel eyes are slightly magnified by his large, rectangular thick rimmed glasses. Despite being a senior in high school, his body and face are composed of slightly awkward and gawky angles and is still thin and gangly. If you looked at him, Ezra is so skinny that you would think he doesn't eat much, but I know from personal experience that he can eat a whole pizza by himself.

He offers me a small, reassuring smile when he sees my wide-eyed expression. It's simple and sweet but is exactly what anyone need when they're hurting. For whatever reason, call it a weird thought process or spending too many hours reading comic books with Elliott and Austin, Ezra has always reminded me of Peter Parker: unassuming and sometimes overlooked but always saves you when you need someone.

It's that smile of his that gets me. It says so much more than all those kind, concerned words I've been hearing for months do. Tears begin to burn at the back of my eyes, and I blink rapidly, refusing to cry here and now.

Standing up, I truly meet Isabel's and Ezra's eyes for the first time. "Thank you, both of you, so much for everything," I murmur softly before grabbing my bag and bolting. My friends are left with an apple I was slowly picking away at and confusion, their eyes burning questions and concern into my back as I hurry away.

My feet have a mind of their own, taking me to a destination unknown to me, but I don't really care. I'm too much of a mess to really pay attention to where I'm walking even though I know I should. As long as I don't cry, I could end up running smack into a wall for all I care. I'm tired of crying and it solves absolutely nothing.

I'm not sure if the universe is trying to please or mess with me because I actually do run into something. Or should I say somebody. Right now, running into a wall seems like a much more attractive option as opposed to this. When I stumble a step or two away, I find myself looking at the boy who was staring at me during Mr. Graves' class, and irritation sparks inside of me. Out of all the people I could run into, it had to him. I know many people don't enjoy AP American History, but I doubt I'm any more interesting—so I don't understand why he was looking at me.

I am about to mutter a quick apology and make a fast getaway his eyes lock onto my face, his mouth twisting into a shape that is somewhere between a grin and a smirk. "Hello there, Cody," he says as if we've been best friends for years.

"You remember my name?" He had his ear buds in the whole class.

"Yes," he answers lazily. "It's not every day that you run across a girl named Cody, so it stuck in my head."

I hate it when people make comments like that. It makes me feel as if I'm some kind of naming abomination or mishap. Like, well, Cody is really a boy's name, but unfortunately for you, your parents decided to try to be cool and unique by giving it to you. You know, Chelsea used to be a predominantly male name, yet if someone runs into a girl with that name, no one blinks an eye.

Folding my arms across my chest, I resist the urge to right out glare at him. "You have great observational skills, Rocker boy. I am glad that you are able to identify that I am in fact female and am named Cody. Congrats," I tell him drily.

"Rocker boy?"

"Washed up tween heartthrob boy was too much of a mouth full."

He looks at me incredulously, raising an eyebrow as he takes in my serious expression. Then he begins to laugh. It isn't a chuckle or the scoff someone makes when they believe that another person as something slightly humorous and very dumb—it was a full out laugh.

Once he regains his composure, he consents, "I guess you're right about that." He pauses, studying me thoughtfully. "What about me makes you think, 'This guy must be a washed up tween heartthrob?'"

"Your hair. It just reminds me of something a former Disney star would do in order to prove they're mature. They'd rebel and do something weird with their hair, outfits or behavior in order to create a new image for themselves," I explain with a shrug.

Watching him warily, I try to figure out why he even cares what I think and why he's talking to me. The real question is what does he want? People always want something when they talk to you. Sometimes it's harmless like the desire for companionship or they want to share something cool, but it can also because they want to mess with your head or hurt you. He hasn't done anything besides bother me, like how a mosquito does when you go outside during the summer, which isn't exactly a reason not to trust him, but he hasn't given me any real reason to place trust in him, either. The sooner I can get out of this conversation, the better.

He plays with the ends of his curling hair like, frowning slightly. "I hadn't really thought about that. I guess I skipped the child star part and went straight into the rebellious and weird stage," the boy muses.

Rocker boy looks like he's going to say something else, but the bell indicating the end of lunch prevents him. "I should go," I speak up before he can try to start up another conversation.

"My name is Leo, by the way," he calls out after me.

I spin around to face him, now standing a couple feet away. Other people have begun pouring out into the halls. They swarm and weave around Leo like wasps but he doesn't seem to notice or care—he just watches me intently with those disconcerting blue-green eyes of his. I give him a bland look. "I didn't ask for your name."

"Well, Leo is less of a mouthful than Rocker boy."