"Hey, Norse," someone called on my way to school that Monday. Well okay, I was locking the apartment door so that I could start walking to school when I turned I saw Danny. He was coming out of the elevator using that cane again, just kind of dragging it with him when he walks. Every once and awhile he'd step with it and all, but you can tell it isn't real.
"Hey, Gregory," I greet. That's his last name. Daniel Gregory.
"Damn, what happened to your face this time kid?" He says, grimacing. "Another fight?"
"Yeah, some guys decided to mess around with me," I shrug, lying easily, "I didn't have any money to give them, so, yeah."
"One day you'll end up like me, kiddo," He taps the leg he pretends he's limping on. "I got in a fight with a 400 pound man over a woman twenty years ago and this is what it got me!"
"Yeah, I'll try to keep out of them," I nod.
He's sort of crazy, I think. He's always making up a bunch of different reasons for having that cane. Once, when I told him I broke two of my ribs falling down the stairs, he told me that's how he got that fake bum leg. When that old lady in apartment 333 died, the movers were talking about how heavy her ancient, wooden (probably Victorian or something) table was and Danny said he knew all about that since he'd dropped one on his leg and that's how it'd happened. Mental but he's pretty friendly I guess.
"I've got to go to school," I tell him, trying to cut the conversation short.
"Yeah, yeah, I only came here to remind you about your rent," He raised his eyebrows at my solemn expression, "Due last week, it was. Just thought I'd tell you before you get the letter warning ya about it."
"Yeah, right, sorry," I nod, "I'll get to it."
He narrows his eyes, "Ain't your job."
"Right, yeah. I know. I'll tell Al- er, my dad," I correct myself. Gosh, I'm talking a lot lately. I need to stop that. The more you talk, the higher chance you have of saying something wrong.
After leaving Danny, I go down the steps in my quick, hyper pace. A lot of people say I'm ADHD, but I really don't think so. When I'm alone, I can relax, but around other people I'm... well, I suppose I'm on my guard. Whatever, it's not like it matters anyway. I'm just –Oh crap!
"Move it, kid!" It's a gruff voice, and I look up and see it's a mover carrying a box. It must be for the new person moving into 333. Some other old lady who'll die of cancer too, no doubt. I look at the ground as I pass him.
"Sorry," I mutter and continue down the stairs.
Why are they working this early in the morning, anyway? It's like, 6:00 a.m. or something, and I've got to walk to my school, which is two miles away, but they're movers. Maybe for some rich, snobby condo they'd come out this early, but our neighborhood isn't exactly paradise.
It's not a big, dirty place with abandoned where houses and criminals on every corner either, but it's not exactly a vacation spot. I shrug. I don't really care anyway. It isn't my business, and I need to get to school.
-
"Where'd you get the shiner, Norse?" A jock named Michael Cogan asks me, not really caring about the answer. He's smirking and looking back at his coterie of football buddies. "You and your boyfriend into S&M?"
"No," I say shortly. I want to say, Yes, we're looking for a threesome and since you were so good last time, we thought you'd like to come with. But I don't.
I never do.
I continue to carry my lunch out of the cafeteria and out to the courtyard. I haven't been in that cafeteria for longer then it takes me to get my food and leave since I started this high school. I usually just go to the library during lunch but Alfred seems to be having a bad day –week –month –year –life – and so I don't know if he'll let me. Well, I might be too busy with chores and stuff to eat tonight. Hopefully not. I love food.
"Fag!" I hear one of Michael's pals shout after me.
They've been doing that for years, ever since the eighth grade. I'm slender and have a slight frame, and although I'm actually a normal height –5'8 – my posture and constantly downward cast eyes probably make me seem smaller. The jerks have christened me 'pretty', the fucking bastards. And there goes the colorful language again. You were missing it, weren't you? I digress. But seriously, I don't have time for relationships whether they're gay or straight.
I sit down on the ground, because it's much more comfortable them those holly benches that have more holes then red plastic-like metal. The cement is hot under me, but I've gotten used to the temperature here which is always sizzling in the day and freezing at night. As I mentioned before, for me freezing is not thirty-two fucking degrees. No. It's anything colder them I'm comfortable with at the time.
Damn, my face is aching.
-
"...Remember the paper should be on my desk no later then Friday and 2:15. A day later and it's half credit," Mr. Spencer said as everyone was filing out of his classroom. He's my chemistry teacher, and my last period. Chemistry is cool. I'm good at it mostly because of how well I do in math. I've got a D+ in Algebra 2 though because most of the grade is based off homework, which I almost never have the time to do.
I'm always the last one out the door because five minutes before class ends, everyone else starts packing up. But I just keep listening and doing the work so that I'm left packing after everyone's gone. Mr. Spencer's actually pretty good-looking for an older guy. He's got dark brown hair, specked with gray, deep blue eyes, and a manly, strong chin like Brad Pitt or someone else like that. But his face is slightly aged, wrinkled at the corners of his mouth and crows feet beside his vibrant eyes. He's strict, but fair in class and warm and kind outside of it.
"Ah, Mr. Norse, my lethargic prodigy," He sighs, putting his palm on the desk, locking his elbow and leaning on it. He's smiling at me. It feels kind of nice.
"Yes, sir. I'm mean no, sir," I can't believe I have two main lines and mixed them up. I'm such an idiot. "I'm no prodigy, sir."
"Oh please, Jayden, we both know your brilliant," He raises both neatly trimmed eyebrows. I look at my books as I finish shoving them in my threadbare backpack. "And always so modest too."
"Uhm, yes, sir?" I say as I pull on the zipper. It makes that small little buzzing sound as I bring it to the other side, enclosing my books.
"Well, I wanted to talk to you about to things before you leave," He says, the never-ending smile ever-gracing his features. I wonder, why he's so nice to me? "First, I wanted to see if you and I could get together during a couple lunch periods this week to finish up this paper I've assigned, since you don't seem to get it done at home. I've got third period free, what lunch do you have?"
"Erm –Second, sir," I reply, swinging the bag over my shoulder. Seriously? He wants to get together with me so I can finish an assignment? No one else has ever done that for me before.
"Great, would you like to work on it in the Library?" He asked. I can't say no to him, I know this. This is the perfect chance. I've got a B- in this class, only because he assigns almost no homework thank God.
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent!" He beams at me, and I find myself unable to not smile weakly back. His cheerfulness is contagious. But after a minute, his face sobers, "The second thing, is I'm like to ask how'd you get that horrible bruise?"
I don't freeze. I'm used to teachers asking these sorts of questions. I've got a million reasons, and since it's only the second semester, I haven't used barely any. "Oh, yeah. My dad called me and I spun but – heh – I totally left the door open and smacked my face into it."
"I see," He nods, "Hurt much?"
"No, sir," I lie again. I start out the door and when I'm out in the hall, he shouts to me.
"See you at lunch tomorrow!"
"Uh, yeah. Yes, sir!" I call back to him as I shut the door. I walk the long halls left and right, and then left again until I'm finally out of the asylum - er, school. Then, I start walking home, sighing and kicking a pebble all the way to our apartment.
I've got a headache.
Definitely too much talking for one day.
-
There are a couple of boxes that are outside apartment 333, not many, which is sort of strange for an old woman. Usually they have a lifetime of collected junk. I peek into a box, you know, just curious, and I see boxers. Boxers. Men Boxers. Unless this old lady that I've already predicted will probably die of cancer has a husband (which wasn't part of the whole image I'd had) them this wasn't some old lady.
Apparently, I was wrong. Not unusual.
"Get the fuck away from my shit, brat," snarls a voice. I jump a mile in the air, leaving my stomach and skin behind. I look behind me and see a man, to whom the boxers appear to belong. He is so not an old lady.
He's tall. Not like 'Holy-Mother-Of-Hell-It's-A-Giant!' tall, but that menacing, towering kind of tall that makes you shiver. Or maybe that's just me. He's got black hair that hangs just above his eyebrows and brushes his ears, and brown eyes that are so dark they're nearly black. He'd got a cigarette hanging out of pale, thin lips. He's lithe and lined with muscles, and he's glaring a freaking hole in my head. Did I mention he's effing scary?
I jump away from the box, flushing and looking at the ground, "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
"Better be," He grunted, his eyes not loosing their malice.
I nod and reach in my pocket for my key and shove it in the lock, almost happy to be inside the apartment. Almost.
"You're late, you little shit."
I sigh, and repeat for the umpteenth time.
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
~~
Well there goes chapter two... Wow, this isn't too hard.
How do you feel about Jayden's new neighbor? Do you think a new neighbor could make his life worse?
So I was just wondering, what are your favorite hobbies to do? I've been wanting to try out some new activities but I just don't really know where to start and some recommendations would be great!
Until next time~