Page 9 of Composed
In that garage, with the rhythm pounding under my ribs and everyone laughing between riffs, I knew this was what I wanted my life to be.
A harsh bell sounds out in the hallway, pulling me away from my rampant thoughts.
I throw my notebook into my bag and pocket my pen. Saint grunts when I haul him off the floor. He might not care about school, but I care enough for both of us. I don’t need my best friend kicked out while I’m stuck here slumming.
I drag him to our form room.
We shuffle past an unimpressed Mr Prescott, who glances at his watch before hiking a brow at us. Holding back my eye roll, I move for the empty table at the back. It’s not as if we really need to be in form. It’s only attendance ticking.
Saint pulls out his MP3 player and slides a headphone my way. I pop it in, opening my notebook as he plays the track I’ve been working on the last couple of weeks.
Tuning out the chatter of the classroom, I zero in on the scribbled lyrics. They’re a mess of thoughts and feelings, none of it coming together to form a cohesive story.
Saint is right. We’ve got a real chance of getting out of this town and making a name for ourselves. But only if I can figure this shit out.
Pen tapping in time with the rhythm, I’m in a world of my own when Saint shoves my shoulder.
“The fuck?” I shoot him a scowl, arm reaching out to shove him back. I catch air as he kicks his chair back across the floor.
He presses a hand to his lips and tips his chin towards the door.
I flip him my middle finger.
He only grins.
I rub my aching skin, turning to see what’s got him acting like a giddy kid in a sweet shop.
I’m not sure what I expect. But it’s not the pale skinned, rosy cheeked girl poking her head into the classroom.
Mr Prescott clocks her and gestures her inside. She tucks mousy brown hair behind one ear, showing off the array of sparkling studs dotting her earlobe as she slinks over to him.
She hands him a piece of paper. He scans over it with his eyes before nodding and swapping it out for a yellow slip.
A double hooped ring in her nose glints under the sunlight when she turns. She tugs the strap of her leather backpack tighter to her chest, her tongue playing with the stud in the centre of her bottom lip.
I trace the piercings. If I dared to walk in the door with piercings at this age, my mum would have a coronary. Hell, I’ve been begging her to let me get my nose pierced for two years since Saint got his at thirteen, but she’s steadfast in her refusal.
I rip my head away so I don’t look like a damn creeper.
My knee bounces as Saint stands, his arms going wide in a show of chivalry.
“Hey, new girl,” he shouts. Prescott pins him with a piercing stare, but he isn’t deterred. “Come sit with us. There’s plenty of space.”
Way to play it cool, dude.
I shuffle down in my seat, twisting my cap on my head. Girls are into that kind of thing, right? Backwards caps and nonchalance.
The seat beside me slides out, and a sweet, husky voice cuts past the music filling my ear. “Hi.”
“Hey.” I crane my neck, swallowing as our gazes collide.
My heart hammers.
Freckles dot pale skin, plump pink lips glitter under the bright lights, and kohl-lined, gold speckled green eyes linger on mine a beat too long.
Fuck me. She’s pretty.
My mouth drops open. I rack my brain searching for anything cool to say, but Saint beats me to the punch. He squeezes his head between us, stretching his arms over the backs of our chairs. “’Sup new girl. I’m Saint.”
