"I just couldn't resist."
"Only sacred things deserve to be messed with."
It all ended with a dead kid near the train tracks.
Six years later, the story repeats itself and two long-forgotten friends might find out that when death tries to play match...
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Crystal's eyes widen because she knows it's never a good sign to be called out like that by a teacher and I bite my lower lip, wondering if Ms. Hayes figured out I wasn't listening at all to her class. I gesture to Crystal to go and not wait for me and face my English teacher. She is an old lady, severe, with a very sharp bowl cut and thick glasses. I approach her desk slowly, sliding my feet on the floor and my plaid skirt brushes over my legs.
"I need to talk to you about the book you chose for your next essay."
The class is now completely empty, and I swallow thickly, unnerved by this conversation.
"What about it?"
"Well I have some concerns about the... subject of the book."
I sigh. I was expecting this.
"It's too dark for you?" I ask innocently and she raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.
"It's certainly not too dark for me, and maybe not for you, but The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides is not an appropriate novel for a 12th grade project. You will have to talk about the plot in front of the whole class and I – I just don't want parents to hear about this..."
I grin. I like her and I know she likes me because I always answer her philosophical trick questions when absolutely no one dares to raise their hand. I have outstanding grades in her class, and she almost looks disappointed that she has to refuse my choice of book.
"I understand, what book do you think I should choose instead?" I ask, and she smiles at me mischievously.
"I noticed you have a certain fascination for gothic stories and philosophy, so I think The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde might suit you."
I nod. I trust her judgment and anyway I love to read, so whatever she throws at me, I know I'll be fine.
"Sure, seems perfect," I agree, smiling at her.
She then changes my choice of book in her big class notebook and I soon find myself walking down the corridor to go to the library. Everyone is at lunch now and the school feels deserted.
I walk through the long hallways and take the East stairs to reach the third floor, where the library is. My high school is ancient and castle-like, with cold stone walls, high ceilings and creaky wooden floors. It's a private institution, first created by a Christian teaching congregation. It used to be an all-boys boarding school and Brothers took care of teaching Math, English, Art, and Science. It has changed a lot since. The school now belongs to the government and not the Church, and the Brothers no longer teach, although some of them still live in the building.
Most of them are old and sick, and we can see them sometimes, shuffling through the corridors in their slippers; old religious men that watch TV all day and sometimes attend the band concerts.
