"You...ah, that is, right. I know you killed her." The detective fumbled for something intelligent to say, but it was in vain. His subject had already returned to his seat and was sitting quietly with a distant look in his eyes. In fact, he was remembering something from perhaps three, maybe four years prior.
Across the courtyard, yes, there. Loosely curled, superbly styled black hair glinting in the sunlight. Heavily made-up eyelashes batting, gaze nowhere near that of her secret admirer.
Shelly Sullivan. He knew her only as Michelle. He knew she was beautiful, and completely untouchable - a goddess on a pedestal. He was the loser, the loner, the one people were frantic to avoid in close hallways, the one who was always somehow at the top of the class and who was hated for it.
At once, the bell rang, grating nerves and spurring lackluster students into slouching, slumping, feet-dragging motion. The boy was immediately jostled by the indifferent crowd, pushed up against a wall for the barest of moments before being swept up in the torrent of teenagers glumly shuffling to their next classes. He sighed inwardly. He was headed to history, a class that, he felt, no student should have immediately after lunch. It was far too easy to doze off, listening to Mr. Shinski's dull monotone voice. It also meant he would have no more classes with the goddess, the idol, the perfection embodied known as Shelly Sullivan. He had seventh period math, meaning he was in the meager, 20-student honors class, while dearest Shelly took math early in the morning - second period, if he was remembering right, placing her in the most basic of geometry classes.
He raised his head, craning his neck and trying desperately to spot Shelly scuffling off to her physical education class as the hall cleared. But his search was fruitless; she was gone.
He turned left and practically ran down the hallway, realizing he was about to be late for Mr. Shinski's class. Monotone voice though he had, Mr. Albert Shinski had almost no sense of humor, and along with this fact came the reality that he also had no tolerance for latecomers. Carmine had just slammed the classroom door behind him and taken a seat at desk number twenty-three, far in the back of the room, when the bell rang. Meeting his teacher's annoyed glare, he smiled pleasantly in response. The rest of the students snickered, but only because of Carmine's near misfortune.
Laugh at him? Certainly.
Laugh with him? Never.
In the blink of an eye - and that's a very, very long blink, for reference - the school day was over. Against better judgment (and school rules), Carmine slipped out one of the school's side doors to avoid the large crowd of people pushing towards the main entrance, shoving every which way and not caring who they trampled.
Unlike some of his classmates, Carmine could not yet drive, and thus was still picked up by his housewife mother every afternoon, at 2:45 sharp or she started to get worried.
Maria Salvatore was quite used to her son being quiet, but today he seemed unusually dejected. He was slumped over in his seat, his black backpack resting across his denim-clad knees and his unusual green eyes unfocused, left hand pressed against the window.
"How was your day, dear?" She asked quietly, easing her old Ford station wagon out of her parking place.
"Ehnn." He responded, a noncommittal noise, trying to convey to his mother that he was not in the mood to converse.
"Do you have a lot of homework?" She asked doubtfully, trying once more to strike up a conversation with the practically mute boy.
"Not much." He responded absently. He then blinked, his forest-green eyes darting to her for the barest of moments. "What time's gym tonight?"
Maria paused, thought.
"Five to seven, I think. We'll pick up dinner on the way home, if you want. Daddy won't be home until later - he's working overtime today."
Carmine just nodded. This was the constant routine; these were the questions that were comfortable to ask because there was always an answer to them. In fact he had no homework; he had a habit of completing his calculus assignments in class, and his English teacher was always very skimpy with homework, preferring to talk at her students - not with them, mind you - for the entire forty-five minutes.
Across the courtyard, yes, there. Loosely curled, superbly styled black hair glinting in the sunlight. Heavily made-up eyelashes batting, gaze nowhere near that of her secret admirer.
Shelly Sullivan. He knew her only as Michelle. He knew she was beautiful, and completely untouchable - a goddess on a pedestal. He was the loser, the loner, the one people were frantic to avoid in close hallways, the one who was always somehow at the top of the class and who was hated for it.
At once, the bell rang, grating nerves and spurring lackluster students into slouching, slumping, feet-dragging motion. The boy was immediately jostled by the indifferent crowd, pushed up against a wall for the barest of moments before being swept up in the torrent of teenagers glumly shuffling to their next classes. He sighed inwardly. He was headed to history, a class that, he felt, no student should have immediately after lunch. It was far too easy to doze off, listening to Mr. Shinski's dull monotone voice. It also meant he would have no more classes with the goddess, the idol, the perfection embodied known as Shelly Sullivan. He had seventh period math, meaning he was in the meager, 20-student honors class, while dearest Shelly took math early in the morning - second period, if he was remembering right, placing her in the most basic of geometry classes.
He raised his head, craning his neck and trying desperately to spot Shelly scuffling off to her physical education class as the hall cleared. But his search was fruitless; she was gone.
He turned left and practically ran down the hallway, realizing he was about to be late for Mr. Shinski's class. Monotone voice though he had, Mr. Albert Shinski had almost no sense of humor, and along with this fact came the reality that he also had no tolerance for latecomers. Carmine had just slammed the classroom door behind him and taken a seat at desk number twenty-three, far in the back of the room, when the bell rang. Meeting his teacher's annoyed glare, he smiled pleasantly in response. The rest of the students snickered, but only because of Carmine's near misfortune.
Laugh at him? Certainly.
Laugh with him? Never.
In the blink of an eye - and that's a very, very long blink, for reference - the school day was over. Against better judgment (and school rules), Carmine slipped out one of the school's side doors to avoid the large crowd of people pushing towards the main entrance, shoving every which way and not caring who they trampled.
Unlike some of his classmates, Carmine could not yet drive, and thus was still picked up by his housewife mother every afternoon, at 2:45 sharp or she started to get worried.
Maria Salvatore was quite used to her son being quiet, but today he seemed unusually dejected. He was slumped over in his seat, his black backpack resting across his denim-clad knees and his unusual green eyes unfocused, left hand pressed against the window.
"How was your day, dear?" She asked quietly, easing her old Ford station wagon out of her parking place.
"Ehnn." He responded, a noncommittal noise, trying to convey to his mother that he was not in the mood to converse.
"Do you have a lot of homework?" She asked doubtfully, trying once more to strike up a conversation with the practically mute boy.
"Not much." He responded absently. He then blinked, his forest-green eyes darting to her for the barest of moments. "What time's gym tonight?"
Maria paused, thought.
"Five to seven, I think. We'll pick up dinner on the way home, if you want. Daddy won't be home until later - he's working overtime today."
Carmine just nodded. This was the constant routine; these were the questions that were comfortable to ask because there was always an answer to them. In fact he had no homework; he had a habit of completing his calculus assignments in class, and his English teacher was always very skimpy with homework, preferring to talk at her students - not with them, mind you - for the entire forty-five minutes.