And chapter 9! This is the beginning of "part two". The rest of the story is planned out-I just need to actually write it :p Thanks once again to all the amazing reviewers and readers-you always improve my day :)
Changes
I sat at my desk in nervous anticipation, waiting for Derek to walk into the door. I wanted to look at him objectively and see if I could reconcile the Derek I knew and the picture of him Aunt Lauren had tried to paint for me.
After she had dropped the bomb—and I had been stunned into immobility for a few minutes—I willed myself up to the safety of my room where I could organize my scattered thoughts and reign in the emotion. Sitting on my bed, I slowly went over what she had told me, repeating her words carefully over and over in my mind until I knew it so well it could have been a story I'd known since birth.
After recovering from the initial shock, panic took over. I couldn't believe Derek had done something like that. When did he? And why? It was ten long minutes—which at the time felt like hours—of emotional upheaval as I thought of Derek, Derek, doing something like that. And as the images looped through my mind, the more surreal it seemed. For while I could picture it happening, I could never actually picture Derek playing any part in such a horrible accident. Yes, he was big. Broad, solid, muscular and dark, he screamed danger. But I simply couldn't believe that something like that would happen without explanation, that he would be involved in such an accident without having reason to. And as that resoluteness set in, so did rationality.
Aunt Lauren had said that she couldn't remember the details, and I wasn't about to jump to conclusions. If anything, I just needed to talk to Derek, to clear up any ambiguity. However, even I wasn't that optimistic as to believe I would be able to broach the topic without any consequences. At the same time though, there was no way I wasn't not going to find out.
As I mulled over how to go about gathering the information I needed, fragments of random instances started to thread themselves together, suddenly making sense. The cold, suspicious glares Derek always got from the librarian; the way Mrs. Cameron's—our English teacher—eyes would always skip over him, barely acknowledging his presence; and finally, the way Aunt Lauren spoke of him, like he was someone condemned, undeserving of forgiveness for something that was—in my mind—undoubtedly a mistake.
These people believed that Derek was defined by the accident and they were constantly wary of him, on guard as if at any given moment, Derek would do it again, as if he were unremorseful or uncaring. They felt that because of what had happened, he was a lesser person, unworthy of fair judgment or sympathy.
And, in a stroke of bittersweet clarity, Derek made a little more sense to me. It was no wonder he wasn't social; he stuck with his family—declaring they were all he needed—because they were the only ones who weren't always looking at him through the corner of their eyes, wondering what damage he would do next. The ever-present scowl—or at least frown—was also easier to understand. Judged not by who you are but by what you've done for who knows how long can only have negative effects after too long.
I didn't feel bad for Derek.
It was more of an aching sadness. Sad that this was what he had to carry around.
Now, I was anxiously awaiting his arrival, desperate to see him—the person I knew—and to see if my night of reflection would make him seem any different to me. Watching the door like a hawk, I still wasn't completely prepared for his entrance. His hulking frame filled the door and my breath caught in my throat—not in fear or in nervousness, but in the way it always did when his eyes met mine, as they did now. I could see conflict in their depths, as if he were waging an internal battle. They remained hesitant for a few moments longer before his jaw set in a way I began to recognize as the strengthening of his resolve. He made his way over to me and slid into the seat next to mine. In any other case, this move wouldn't be monumental, not even worth mentioning. But this was Derek. And that itself is enough of an explanation.
"Morning," I murmured.
"Morning," he replied, clearing his throat.
My eyes scanned over his face, immediately noticing the circles under his eyes and the almost natural way his mouth was slightly downturned. My heart leapt at that, the sadness from last night returning. Besides that, I didn't feel any differently than I had before I'd known. Derek was still Derek, if anything just less of a mystery. My conviction that what had happened had been an accident and nothing else increased while looking him over. I knew—simply, certainly knew—that Derek would never do something like that purposefully. Imagining the guilt he must carry around—undoubtedly blaming himself after who knows how long of others doing so—my grief only increased and introspectively, I felt like snorting. This was such a classic storyline: the heroine who desperately tries to heal the broken boy—her broken boy. My cheeks flamed and I quickly reminded myself that Derek was in no way, shape or form, mine. But that didn't stop me from finally being able to understand a plot I had previously scoffed at. My fingers ached to smooth out the frown lines, especially around his surprisingly soft mouth… and that was enough of that, I thought hurriedly, sliding a peek at him to make sure he wasn't looking—sure he'd be able to read my thoughts on my face if he were. He was watching me and in an attempt to save face, I asked quickly, "Tired," pointedly looking at the bags under his eyes and his hair, which was in endearing disarray.
He studied me for a moment before shrugging. I may have made a sound meant to be empathetic, but I was too busy mentally berating myself to be sure. Shooting him a quick smile, I turned to the front of the class, trying in vain to pay attention for the hour.
"What's he doing here," Amber wondered aloud as we huddled together conspiratorially on the stage.
"I don't know. The only thing I'm certain about is that he's almost as yummy as his brother," Mila replied, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
She was referring to Simon, who—for reasons yet to be announced—had joined our drama class for the hour.
"Speaking of," Mila said, turning her devilish grin on me, "how is our favorite math tutor?"
"Fine," I murmured, just as Mrs. Evans called the class to order and I gratefully turned my attention to her.
"This is Simon Bae," she said, motioning to his smiling form beside her. "He's been gracious enough to renounce his study period for the time being to help with set design. He's very talented and I'm sure you'll all be very grateful for him once we get started."
All the girls looked very happy about the unexpected addition; and while some boys looked unimpressed, others had developed that territorial pout that indicated someone was intruding on their turf.
"Chloe," she said, turning her eyes on me. "As you and Nate have written the script, you'll be directors of set design, instructing on what needs to be done. Simon will be under your wing so you can properly explain your vision. Got it?"
I nodded my head, blushing for everyone was looking at me—some enviously—as Simon directed his gaze my way, smile turning charming.
"Lucky beotch," Mila muttered good-naturedly beside me.
I tried for a smile, but I was distracted by Simon—who was walking slowly toward me.
I was packing up my bag and putting the script away, drama coming to an end and my hour with Derek minutes away. After the first five minutes, I quickly felt at ease with Simon, who had the ability to joke while still remaining serious. Mrs. Evans was right; he truly was talented. He understood my vision and even in the quick sketches he had done to accompany my verbal commentary, I could tell that the sets would be beautiful.
"Hi," said a voice to my right.
Jumping, I looked up to see Simon standing over me, laughing.
"Skittish as a kitten," he said, shaking his head.
"Yeah, yeah. Whatever," I muttered, but I couldn't keep a straight face, his smile was so infectious.
Suddenly turning serious, he asked, "You're going to meet up with Derek now, right?"
"Yeah, why," I asked, confused by the sudden change of subject.
"Just wondering," he said casually. But his eyes said something else, something I couldn't understand, and I continued to look at him dubiously until he looked away.
Sighing, he looked back carefully and I wanted to ask if that was a family trait or an odd coincidence, but I kept my mouth shut.
"It's nothing. I've just noticed that Derek seems to be in a better mood since you've been hanging out. But yesterday…. I don't know. He was just off. He seemed upset, so I was wondering if you too had gotten into a fight."
"N-no, nothing happened. I-I don't know what was wrong," I said, alarm overcoming the sense of shock that came with the revelation that he thought I had something to do with Derek's improvement in temperament.
"I don't know. Sometimes Derek's like that. Like I said, I was just wondering," he said, shrugging. Throwing me one last smile, he turned and walked away. Completely disregarding final bell, I walked out of the auditorium and hurried to the library, anxious and determined to get this cleared up.
Walking into the library, I saw Derek at out usual table and headed over. Looking surprised, he said, "You're here ea-"
"Are you mad," I interrupted.
"At you? Why would I be mad at you?" he seemed thoroughly confused and I realized that I should have better orchestrated this in my mind.
"I was talking to Simon and he told me that when you got home yesterday, you seemed upset and-and I was j-just wondering if I had done something…" I trailed off, voice going quiet. I sounded absurd, but the emotions that were quickly flitting across his face distracted me and I didn't have the capacity to care. Finally, he composed himself and pulled on an emotionless mask.
"You were talking to Simon about me? Since when do you talk to Simon?" While his voice was controlled—low, but nevertheless controlled—his eyes conveyed slight anger and betrayal and I was suddenly intensely aware of how this could be misinterpreted.
"I don't talk to Simon," I said quickly, wondering why I cared that he wasn't under that impression.
He looked at me questioningly before saying, "Really," his voice thick with sarcasm.
"I wasn't talking about you to Simon," I snapped. Did he really think so little of me? His eyes widened marginally in surprise—probably from my tone—and I blew out a breath of frustration and plowed on, "Simon was in my drama class today—which was the first time we've ever really spoken," I added, eyes narrowing. "He was helping with set design. When class ended, he came up to me asking if we had gotten into a fight because he said that when you got home yesterday, you seemed upset. He was concerned and wondered if I had an explanation since we had been together. I didn't—don't—so…" I trailed off, dropping my hands heavily at my side.
"I'm not mad at you," he said lowly.
All that and I get a five word reply. It was maddening.
"Well, were you upset? Did something happen?"
He looked down for a second before meeting my gaze again, something in his eyes shifting, hardening.
"I was tired when he saw me," he said definitely.
"The tired excuse, Derek? Really?" Did he think I was that blonde?
He narrowed his eyes at me and I jutted my chin out defiantly. Letting out a frustrated sigh, he said, "Yes, tired. After I dropped you off, I needed to pick something up for my dad. Coming home, I hit really bad traffic and I hate being in cars."
"You hate being in cars," I asked, mind wandering to yesterday.
His thoughts must have taken him in the same direction for he said, "Not in them. I just hate long car rides. And I really hate traffic." He looked at me and then added, "They make me restless."
His explanation was flawless, perfectly sound, but for some reason I still didn't believe him. I couldn't push the subject, though, because I had no proof—just a feeling. Instead, I nodded. "Okay. Glad we got that cleared up," I said unnecessarily. His lips quirked up and I bit my lip. Reaching down to get my books, he asked, "Are you coming tomorrow night?"
I looked up at him, not having one iota of an idea of what he was talking about. My confusion must have been clear on my face for he rolled his eyes and said, "You are probably the least spirited person at this school."
"Besides you?" I said teasingly, getting a look for that.
Sighing, I asked, "Your point?"
"There's a football game tomorrow night. Are you coming?"
And, as it always seems to around Derek, my answer came without thought. "Yes."
I walked onto the field and scanned the rapidly filling bleachers, looking for Mila and Amber, who I had agreed to meet here. I saw Amber and waved, and as I was making my way towards them, Derek appeared, blocking my path. I snuck a peek at Mila—who's bugged out eyes I could see from where I stood—before turning my gaze upwards. He was rubbing the back of his neck and looked slightly uncomfortable.
"What's up," I asked, wondering about his sudden need to stop me in my tracks. He wasn't in uniform yet; he was wearing dark jeans and a black sweater that looked astoundingly soft and really brought out the green in his eyes—I'm a moviemaker wannabe, we notice these things.
Pushing his hair away from his face, he asked, "Are you planning on walking home alone again tonight?"
"Yeah, why," I asked, puzzled.
His eyes flared up in anger, but it was gone just as fast as it had come.
"Wait for me when the game's over. I'm walking you home."
"It's fi—"
"No, it's not fine. It's indisputable. I'm walking you home," he said, voice holding a note of finality.
"I can look after myself, thank you very much," I replied indignantly. I didn't know why I was being difficult. I thought it was sweet that Derek wanted to walk me home—more surprisingly, I realized that I wanted him to walk me home. But I also didn't want him to think that I was in need of constant saving, that I was the inexhaustible damsel in distress.
"I never said you couldn't."
"It was implicit."
"No, Chloe. It was you putting words in my mouth. Why are you being difficult," he asked, irritation becoming evident.
"The only reason you want to walk me home is because you're afraid that what happened last time might happen again."
He looked incredulous. "Is that a bad thing?"
"You think I haven't learned my lesson. That I still wouldn't know what to do if it came down to that."
"You wouldn't. You would be exponentially safer with me around. That's undeniable, but it's also beside the point. I'm not saying you're defenseless. I'm saying that I'd much rather walk you home and know you're safe than sit at home and wonder," he said, frustration and intensity seeping into his tone. His eyes widened fractionally and I thought that maybe, he hadn't meant to tell me that much.
But it didn't matter.
The effect of his words was immediate; I softened and my heart thumped oddly, unevenly, in my chest for a moment. He cared and that spoke volumes.
"Okay," I said quietly, resignedly, all the while attempting not to swoon.
"God, Chloe. Talk about being dramatic. I thought you were a 'behind the scenes kind of girl,'" he said, using my own words against me.
I rolled my eyes and stuck my tongue out at him, receiving a laugh, which brought on a smile on my part.
"See you after the game then," I said.
He nodded and just as he was turning to walk away, he paused and I thought for a brief moment that he was going to say something more. But his jaw set and he continued on his way.
"Derek!" I called, surprising myself.
He stopped and turned around, looking at me questioningly.
"Good luck."
He made a face, one I hadn't seen before and I was enraptured. It was a mix of his usual quirk of the lips and a smirk—a sexy, mysterious smirk that pushed me over the edge and made me realize just how crazy—just how deep in—I was.
Walking towards Mila and Amber in a daze, I was surprised that I saw Liam, the quarterback, watching me. But I did. And the look in his eyes forced chills down my spine and made me quicken my pace, wanting to distance myself as much and as quickly as possible.
Hehe... another cliffy. R&R :)
