I watched as a pink convertible pulled into the lot.
"Adagio," I mumbled as a blond head emerged from the car. People joked that, if you slap her in the face, a cloud of make-up will be left behind like smoke billowing from a fire.
She didn't look mean. She looked evil. I sighed as she pushed a freshman down, and then checked her manicured nails to see if they had been damaged.
Crimson just laughed. Angry, I shot him a glare.
That was me, a year ago. Adagio had stopped bullying me when I slapped her across the face and drove my pencil into her hand, earning me an in-school-suspension. I had also spat in her face and claimed it was a muscle spasm, (what was a girl to do?) but Crimson had come to my rescue and had coaxed Principal Celeste into letting me off with an ISS. He was, as some say, a kiss-up, when he wanted to be.
"What?" he questioned, but he was still smirking.
We saw another car pull up, an electric blue one with a checkered flag plastered on the side. We both looked at each other and shook our heads accusingly. A boy, with bright sun-bleached hair, stepped out, his eyes scanning our older-than-old school in disgust.
Conner Freida. I used to like him, and Crimson knew it. He stared at me while I watched Connor swagger into the school, a group of girls already at his heels.
Crimson laughed, again, a laugh that I knew well. I turned to look at him, my best friend.
Ironically because of his name, his shock of red hair was cut down to the scalp, except for the five or so inches in the middle that were suspended in the air. His mowhawk was his trademark, I guessed, because our school allowed it. His bright blue eyes were often mistaken for colored contacts, but they didn't faze me. He had a black earring in his left ear, and a few freckles that framed his ears.
Somewhat of a mysterious boy, I was at first scared of him. But, in third grade, he punched a kid that was bullying me, and completely took the blame for it. That was the sort of thing that made people friends, I supposed.
People were always ridiculing him about his appearance. Most days he would wear light colored shirts that had skulls on them, and black skinny jeans that made him look, in my opinion, even more attractive. I loved his style, considering it was more creative than my oversized-sweatshirts-and-tight-jeans get-up that I wore.
He had worn his hair mowkawk-style ever since he was twelve. I was ecstatic when he had started wearing his hair like that, mainly because it had made him so much more unique.
Crimson had noticed I was staring at him. He smiled and brought his lean muscled arms behind his head and said, "Sorry, Em. But you can't handle this."
That made me laugh. "Let's just get inside, Chill," I said, using his nickname I came up with in eighth grade. A faint smile was playing on his pale lips as we walked toward our school.
Our school was the sort of educational institution that was regarded with distaste. It's pale red roof tiles were faded and porous, causing leaks during spring rains. The tan bricks that made the facade of the building were aged and cracking, and had green ivy that strung from the sides of the edifice.
As we walked through the weathered front doors, three faces appeared in front of us.
JH, the school's most accomplished athlete, and his friends, Slater, a senior with hair like midnight and eyes just as dark, and, Zylan, a muscular senior with choppy brown hair, were standing in our way.
We walked past them down the hallway to our lockers. The three boys followed. I was thinking that it was wrong to jump to any conclusions, but when JH said something to us, my heart sped up with panic.
"Hey, Ginger," JH finally said to Crimson, stepping up to him. "Got yourself that lady friend, I see," he glanced at me and sneered.
"Don't talk to her," Crimson said, his voice steady. His hands were curling into fists, and he looked somewhat dangerous. "Look, whatever it is, you can talk to me-"
"What's this?" Zylan asked, pointing to the note in my pocket, the white tip of the paper barely sticking out.
"Nothing that concerns you," I said. I grabbed onto Crimson's forearm and started to walk past the older boys.
"Now where do you think you're going?" Slater asked, plucking the note from my pocket. I tried to snatch it back from him, but my arms were suddenly held back by a stronger pair. JH.
This isn't going to turn out well, I thought.
Crimson's look was deadly. "Let go of her, man," he said in a low and sincere voice.
Slater looked up at me. "2nd Shack behind the Restaurant, huh? Where do you think you're going with this? I've been to this street, sugar, and there ain't nothing behind the Restaurant."
I had the feeling that he was right, odd as it may seem. After all, who's house is titled 'Second Shack behind the Restaurant'?
Crimson suddenly sent his fist sailing through the air, connecting with JH's. The older boy turned on Crimson and tackled him to the ground, pinning him by the arms.
I yelled, hoping to get someone's attention. I did.
Principal Celeste was just rounding the corner when JH tackled Crimson. We all called her "Madame Celery" because she basically looked like a stalk of celery. Tall and thin, with an eighty's hairstyle that was big and poofy.
She came down the corridor in a half-jog (her heels didn't provide much support) and was yelling at the boys. JH immediately got off of Crimson, panting. Crimson lay sprawled on the cold tiles of the hallway, his eyes wide with terror.
Slater had let go of me the minute I started yelling, and had slipped the note into my back pocket (rather harshly, I might add). I went over to help my best friend up, and Principal Celeste was herding the boys into her office.
Crimson looked at me. "What was their problem?"
I smiled faintly and shook my head. "Oh, I don't know. Gotta establish a pecking order somehow I guess."
We started walking towards our first class. English. Time to think.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The day drug on, and I was seriously considering pretending to be sick when the school bell rang. I got up and sprinted to Crimson. He was by his locker, where the three Seniors had ambushed us not eight hours ago. I grinned up at him.
"I know that look," he said, "it's that I'm-up-to-no-good look. Let me tell you some-"
"Hush," I quieted him. "We are going to 1935 Em Street. And you're taking me."
"Only because I care so much about you," he said quietly, more to himself than to me.
The drive there was, in one word, horrendous. The streets seemed to get worse the farther we went Downtown, the potholes in the road making me bounce in my seat when we drove over them.
1935 Em Street was one that had many businesses on it. Dry Cleaning, a Mini Mart, and, on the end of the street, a restaurant by the name of Faz's Family Diner. We pulled into the small parking lot, and went inside.
The facade didn't work wonders for advertisement, but the inside was surprisingly capacious and comforting. Behind the silver counter, the cook was standing over a grandiose stove, grease stains smothering his white cook's apron. His expression was benign as he waved at the two of us, his bearded face parting into a smile.
He wiped his hands on a towel and came over to them. "What can I do for y'all today?" he asked, in a lilting English accent.
"I was given this note that said to come to this address," I explained, holding the note up.
His grin disappeared. "Oh, right," he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "He told me y'all were coming."
"He?" this came from Crimson, who had been walking around the vacant restaurant.
"Just follow me," the man replied. He flipped the sign on the door to read Closed. He walked to a back door, and opened it gently. We walked through two musty hallways, both having no windows and pale light fixtures.
He stopped before a door. "In here, you will find the man who sent you the note. You have to believe everything he says. It is the only way." His sincere voice was enough to set me off-kilter.
Taking a deep breath, I pushed the door open, slightly, making the hinges creak.
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Okay, I just want to say THANK Y'ALL SO MUCH FOR ALL THE READS. Well, like 35 of them but thank you anyway! It probably isn't much to other people, but it makes a HUGE difference to me. This story is probably going to take a while to develop, so just hang in there!
As always, thank you for the support.