The next day was Monday again—officially one week since I met Jake, not that it mattered much anyway. What made my mood sour, however, was the fact that I had to return to school again when what I really wanted—and, well, what I was sure everybody else wanted—was a more extended holiday, more time to myself and maybe actually finish the sketch I was working on. But not all of us could have what we wanted, now could we?
When I first stepped into school grounds, I couldn't help but glance over towards the direction of the parking lot and sighed a breath of relief when I saw the familiar blue pickup truck sitting idle in the corner of the lot.
After what happened last Friday, I found myself terrified that something worse might happen to him, especially after what he told me about the goings-on in his household.
Shaking the negative thoughts out of my head, I followed the rest of the students toward the main staircase to the main entrance of the building when all of a sudden, I felt somebody tapping my back. When I turned around to face them, something or someone suddenly shoved me to the side of the staircase, hidden behind a couple of shrubs and bushes, before finding myself face-to-face with an anxious-looking Jake with a light bruise around his left eye.
"Hey, what gives?" I exclaimed at first, glaring daggers at him when I soon noticed the bruise, his slightly twitching eye and the uneasy look on his face. "Jesus Christ, Jake, what happened to you?"
He frowned in confusion before his eyes lit up as he realized what I meant. "Oh, what—wait, is it really that bad?" I nodded sheepishly, unable to tear my eyes away from it. He sighed. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just don't worry about the bruise—the asshole thought that I messed with some of his stuff last night so he sort of punched me in the face. I swear I'm fine, really. And that's not why I dragged you in here."
I became even more surprised by this. "Oh?"
He then peeked his head over the bushes and glanced around a bit, as if he was afraid that someone unwanted might overhear our conversation. "Do you know a guy named Conrad around here?"
"Conrad Johnson, you mean?" I questioned, raising a curious eyebrow as he nodded once. "Yeah, I know him. We used to hang out together—as friends, that is, with Mel and a couple of insignificant others. Why?"
Well, not really 'used to' because he would still hang out with us if he wasn't busy wandering around taking sneaky photos of people while under the guise of working for the school's newspaper. He had always been a dedicated student journalist since the beginning of high school, though I didn't know if it was because he really did have an interest in journalism or if he just wanted to find an excuse to get close to Mel by interviewing her since she was part of Student Council.
Nevertheless, he was still a good kid all around, and one of the few who was actually concerned about my well-being after the incident, although he didn't exactly know all the details. All he knew was that something bad happened between Justin and me, and he gave me my space for the first few weeks until I was at least comfortable to be around other people again. He was always a little bit extra careful whenever I was around, which I both appreciated and didn't, but thankfully he had been keeping his mouth shut so far that I didn't mind him hanging out with us from time to time.
"Yeah, well, I kinda need your help with something here," said Jake as he scratched the back of his head hesitantly while glancing around as if to make sure that nobody would overhear him. "I don't know if you know this, but apparently he really likes Mel—'like' as in like 'like', if you know what I'm saying. And since the dance is coming up, he's been planning to ask her out to the dance and asked me to help him in doing so by writing a poem about her for him to recite."
I was shameful to admit that my brain shut off during mid-sentence, and I could tell that he noticed by the regretful look written all over his face.
"Please for the love of God do not freak out because I thought you wanted the best for your best friend—"
"Jake," I began, but he kept rambling on until I had to physically grab him by the shoulders and stop him from saying anything else. "Jake. I do know about them, all right? He's had hots for her since we were still in middle school. I'm just surprised that, a) he finally decides to man-up and find the courage to finally ask her out, and b) I didn't know you can write poems."
"Well technically, anybody can write poems, Hayley," he pointed out matter-of-factly, making me suddenly feel ashamed by my poor wording. "He just assumed I can write good ones because I can answer a Literature question correctly. Then again, I believe I have written a couple of good ones before—at least I think they're good ones. That's why I need an outside person to judge it, and someone who can help me finish the damn thing because all the vivid descriptions Conrad's been giving me to add to the poem isn't exactly... realistic."
He suddenly glanced back at the entrance to the school building, which made me looked over my shoulder as well, and realized that most of the students were already inside and classes were probably going to start soon. He took this as an unspoken message as I suddenly felt his hand around my shoulder, slightly pushing me back towards the stairs as he began walking towards the entrance, presumably to class.
I tagged alongside him, with my pace matching his as we went inside the building to officially start the week. Although it was midway through the semester already, it felt as though it was just the second week of high school when it was just the second week I got to spend with Jake around. I used to think it was funny how time flow would change depending on our own perception because it felt as though I'd known Jake for months already when it was just the second goddamn week I knew him.
We didn't part ways this time because we were both heading to the same class that we first met each other exactly one week ago, and thankfully, too, because I wasn't ready to sweep the conversation under some figurative rug just because we had classes to attend.
"Anyway, about Conrad and Mel," he began again, slowing his pace down just a tiny bit. "Yeah, so I need you to help me write the damn poem itself by adding a few... let's say, a few 'flaws' about Mel, since as her best friend, you should know her best. We wouldn't want her to think it's too cheesy that she'll reject him."
"Actually, I don't think she'll mind it too much," I said, crossing my arms as I veered away slightly, narrowly missing the freshman who just rushed in between us in such a hurry that he most likely didn't care about who he knocked over. "She's a hopeless romantic; she swoons at the sight of a strong, handsome man rescuing a damsel-in-distress, dreams of her own romantic fantasies and would probably faint when hearing a poem written about her that was so cheesy it would stink an entire room. In a good way, of course, but I'm not gonna be the one there to catch her."
"You might have to because we don't want her to end up cracking her skull on the floor, then Conrad really has nobody to go with," Jake murmured. "I'm also probably going to need you to distract Mel while I go over the dance proposal plan with Conrad himself, but before we do anything else, can I get a confirmation that you agree to join in our conspiracy group?"
He broke into another one of his goofy smiles, although this one seemed more hopeful as he stared me intently in the eye, anxious to receive my response. I thought about it over and over again, and soon decided, why not? I would be glad to see my friends happy with one another, and it would feel a lot better to know that I had helped in setting the two up together. After all, Mel was always playing matchmaker with me, setting me up with people even when I didn't want to—I wouldn't be surprised if she was trying to set me up with Jake this whole time, too. Perhaps it would be fair for her to have a taste of her own medicine.
As soon as I nodded, a victorious grin appeared on his face as if we'd succeeded even when we hadn't gotten to the first part yet. "It's all settled then," he said. "Obviously, we can't talk about this even further since Mel literally sits in front of you, lest we'll spoil the entire plan. Maybe we shall continue during the break period? Meet you under the tree as always?"
I shook my head at his words. "Slow down there, cowboy. Since when are you enthusiastic to set two people up, one of which you've only known for an entire week and the other I've barely seen you talk with at all? Or is it just because we're conspiring together behind someone else's back, particularly Mel's?"
"To be honest, a little bit of both," he said, winking at me teasingly as we entered the half-filled classroom, to which I responded by rolling my eyes. Soon after we'd both settled down into our seats, Mel arrived and sat down in the seat in front of me before beginning to rant about all the preparations she had left.
Oh, if only she knew what was coming for her.
We didn't meet again until lunch break, however, since Mel insisted that I helped her in the preparations, although this time was for the floats for the Homecoming parade. Madison also stopped by, much to our dismay, but thankfully she didn't say much other than demanding that the float for her cheerleading squad should be added with more pink and more streamers. By the time the break ended, my hands were almost entirely covered in dried glue and glitter that I had to stop by the bathroom to wash them all off. Not only did it result in me arriving in the middle of the teacher's lecture, but also a pink detention slip for my tardiness which I was tempted to paste on Madison's float to add to the 'pink.'
I got to the tree ahead of him, however, and decided to continue the sketch for a little bit until I realized too late that he was approaching where I was with what seemed to be an open notebook in his hands. I barely had enough time to shove the sketchbook back in again, and he didn't seem to notice my franticness as he quickly sat down right next to me, dropped his backpack beside him and handed me the notebook.
"This is all I have right now," he said and used his index finger to point the two four-line stanzas on the top of the lined page. I was surprised to see there were more words furiously scribbled out in black ink than the ones that weren't, feeling as though I could feel his frustration just by staring at those unreadable words. His handwriting, while messy just like most boys' handwriting, was at least legible and not too much of chicken scratch as I'd expected. "I've hit rock bottom now, but I can give you what Conrad asked me to write about if you want to. I'm hoping you can help me be my muse here."
"Your muse," I repeated quietly to myself and scoffed before I began scanning my eyes over the page. He wasn't kidding about making it cheesy because the poem already started out in a way familiar to even people who didn't read poems:
Roses are red211Please respect copyright.PENANArXRbFvzEfJ
Violets are blue211Please respect copyright.PENANAE1NCaFARQX
They are all very beautiful211Please respect copyright.PENANAxkFoacge27
And so are you.
Violets aren't really blue though211Please respect copyright.PENANAbjMwLEgOvC
And not all roses are red, too211Please respect copyright.PENANA7TqUJH0Qy3
But I do hope you like them211Please respect copyright.PENANAbeXCVEzmcM
Because I've brought a few just for you
"That's... a pretty strong start," I said rather hesitantly as I returned the notebook to him only to see his cringing face. "I'm serious. I mean, if he's gonna bring a bouquet of roses for her, he at least has to explain what the roses are for, right?"
"It was his idea to bring a bouquet, though," he murmured quietly, sounding almost like he was grumbling to himself. "I told him it wouldn't be as obnoxious if he only brought one, but he insisted because he knew that she'll like them. And besides, flowers wither easily if you don't immediately put them in a vase or something."
"Better than a box of chocolates, at least," I stated, my tone mimicking his. "They expire easily."
"Which is why coffee is a better choice," he immediately retorted back, grinning like the idiot he was. "Did you know that coffee beans can last from half a year to even more than a year, without putting them in a freezer?"
"I never even mentioned anything about coffee; your unhealthy addiction for it spoke for both of us." He attempted to mask the amusement he found from my statement but failed when he started snickering, which I ignored once again as I stared back at the half-blank page. "I've noticed that you haven't actually added anything specific about Mel, when you're obviously writing a poem for her—well, to be recited to her, though it won't be you reciting it otherwise she'd get the wrong idea."
"What—you expect me to write about how her brown eyes look like honey under the sunlight like the way Conrad sees them, or how her fiery red hair looks like the burning fire of passion she has in her heart? And for the record, all of that was from Conrad which is why his descriptions of her make me too uncomfortable to continue writing the goddamn poem because it'll seem as though I'm the one hitting on her."
"Wow, I knew he had a liking for her, but I didn't know it was that bad," I muttered half in shock. Even as her best friend, I could never say such nice words about her because not only was it not typical for me to compliment or flatter people on a daily basis, but both of us would always casually insult each other but never really taking it seriously because, you know, we were friends and we were both cool with that.
"Well, you can add those to the poem since he wants to," I said as casually as I could while taking out a pen from my bag. "Or would you like me to write them for you instead to spare you from throwing up all over the grass and possibly this beautifully written poem?"
"Nah, it's okay," he said while clenching his jaw. "I'm just gonna pretend that I'm writing this poem for you instead since it's easier for me that way."
I feigned an offended look on my face as I held a hand over my chest. "I'm surprised you haven't even written one about me yet. And there I thought, after all the time we've spent talking about the meaning of life and shit about other people under this very tree, you would've considered me as a friend you would write a poem for."
"I do consider you a friend, but I told you; I'm not a poet, Hayley. Sure I can find things that rhyme with other things and be dramatic about life and stuff, but I'm not Robert Frost or Edgar Allan Poe, for fuck's sake."
As he snatched both the notebook and the pen away from my grasp and began to continue writing the poem, it finally registered to me that he thought it was easier for him if he was writing the damn thing for me. As selfish as I might seem to be, I felt somewhat flattered—but also alarmed—by this fact. A sense of happiness flooded me when I realized that our friendship had gotten far enough that he felt writing a poem was easier if he was writing it for me. It was quickly overwhelmed, however, by the feeling of dread as it dawned upon me that his very words might've been suggesting that he might be thinking of me as more than just 'friends.'
For possibly the thirtieth time since the past three days, I found myself regretting on agreeing to go to the dance with him.
He might not be, I thought to myself as I couldn't resist but stared back at him, though this time, he didn't seem to notice me as he gritted his teeth and almost punching a hole into the paper. He wanted to go as friends. A lot of people go to Homecoming as friends. So why not?
As much as I contemplated on reaffirming the status of our relationship, I decided against it because not only did I have no courage to ask him about it, but I was terrified that it would ruin the friendship we already had. After all, I couldn't lose another friend after I'd lost so many, not because Mel wouldn't want me to, but I didn't want to either.
My grumbling stomach soon reminded me that the lunch break was generally used by other students and several members of the teaching staff as the time to eat food. Strangely enough, I'd gotten used to eating once a day and had done so many times—I even once at a granola bar for an entire day and didn't eat until lunchtime the following day. I didn't deliberately want to keep my already-skinny figure, I just lost my appetite somewhere along my life and eating one meal a day became a habit for me.
But now, I found myself hungry again even though I already ate a bagel and drank a glass of milk earlier this morning, and was utterly thankful to see that Mom had snuck a ham sandwich in a paper bag into my bag earlier this morning when I was getting the milk carton out of the fridge. I grabbed the bag, took the sandwich halfway out and began biting into it, all the while peering over Jake's shoulder to see what else he had come up with.
"Would you believe me if I told you that I actually forgot to bring my lunch today?" he said as he began chuckling lowly to himself when he glanced toward the sandwich in my hands. "I was actually planning to bring some sandwiches myself since it's the easiest things to make and I can't really cook or prepare food. But, well, you know what happened... With the bruise and all..."
I widened my eyes. "He didn't hit you just because you were trying to make a fucking sandwich, right?"
"What? No, of course not!" He then gave me back the notebook. "By the way, you haven't told me what else you want to add into the poem. It needs a little touch of your sarcastic flair."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment?" I absent-mindedly replied as I took the notebook from him and read what else he'd written so far.
When you're around211Please respect copyright.PENANAHB3uPROChF
My days are always bright and sunny211Please respect copyright.PENANAa5JSWllL9w
Staring into those brown orbs of yours211Please respect copyright.PENANASjYmmfN1Nk
Sweet and warm just like honey
Your heart beats like no other211Please respect copyright.PENANAU1NkWgkpT8
Burning with relentless passion
"Whether for gender equality or shelter animals," I quickly added upon seeing the missing last two lines for that paragraph, handing the notebook back to him. "Or even for your questionable fashion."
He immediately cracked up laughing—a quiet, subtle but lively laugh—and I couldn't resist but laughed along with him after providing more evidence why I would be the worst poet ever. All I did was insult people, intentionally or not.
"That's good, actually," he said, catching me by complete surprise as his laughter was replaced with a genuine smile, seemingly impressed by my remarks when I'd intended it to be nothing more than just a joke. "I mean, we can't really let it be too sappy and romantic, now can we?"
"I don't know," I said truthfully, shaking my head despite the smile on my face. "Conrad won't see it coming, which makes me feel like a bad person because he'll never ask help from either of us ever again."
"Well technically, he only asked me to help. I don't even know if he approves you helping me writing the damn thing."
"Which is exactly why I feel like a terrible person right now," I groaned, leaning my head back until I just felt it touching the tree bark. "If I'd been the one reciting that part to her, then she'll be fine with it because that's just who I am. Problem is, I don't want others to think that she's a weird dork like the way I do. Especially when it's someone she trusts a lot and enjoys spending time with, like Conrad."
"Then say something nice about her," he then said. "Something that someone like Conrad may not think of but not overlook. That's why I hired you to be my assistant, Hayley. You know Mel better than him, in a way that you point out her imperfections more than her perfections, unlike the way he does. I'm not saying that he's not good for her, but I'd rather have both sides balanced."
"And my cynical, sarcastic side is the perfect balance to Conrad's happy, preppy, friendly side?"
"In this case, yes." He picked the pen back up and clicked it twice. "Although your so-called 'cynical, sarcastic side' is good enough for me, this is Mel we're talking about, not me. I'm not as selfish as you think I am, all right?"
He added the two extra lines to the paragraph before moving on to a new one. Before we could discuss any of this even further, however, we were soon called back to class by the bright red bell that screamed louder than Madison finding a dead cockroach in her locker. We hurriedly gathered our things and made our way back to the main building, where neither of us gave a thought for the poem for the next hour until I was the one who decided to write my own few stanzas after Mel decided to bail the last hour of school. This time, she went home early rather than using the time to finish preparations for the rest of Homecoming Week.
Maybe all those hours stressing over something her job description didn't really entail but her responsibilities did take too much of a toll on her after all.
I only gave her a look of pity and whispered best wishes for her before she tightened the strap of her bag on her shoulder and turned to leave through the front doors with the leave slip in her hand. As she disappeared out the double doors, I went back into the classroom and spent the entire last period in silence, somehow wishing that Jake was in this class so I at least had someone to talk to for once.
To both my relief and dismay, it turned out that I still had detention to attend, which was good news for me because I could work on the poem a little bit more but bad news because I forgot to tell Jake that he didn't have to take me home today because I didn't want him to wait for an entire hour just for me.
I turned out that he was willing to do so anyway, even when I insisted for him to just go home and that I would be fine on my own and on my trusty old bike.
Thankfully, the teacher-in-charge was nice enough that he allowed me to text with Jake during the period. He must've thought I was asking a friend for help with the 'homework' I was doing instead of asking advice on how to write proper poems for my friend to recite to another friend for their Homecoming proposal. I didn't have a problem with that assumption, so I didn't go against it.
By the end of the detention period, the teacher gruffly shooed me out of his sight, which I quickly did without hesitation since I was unable to let Jake wait any longer for me. When I finally got a breath of fresh air again, most of the parking lot was already empty again and only his truck remained in the first row, with him leaning casually on the hood of the truck, one hand in his pocket and the other holding a lit cigarette.
"For the love of God, do not tell me that you've spent the entire hour doing nothing but finishing your pack of cigarettes," I said to him as soon as I approached him. Seeing me marching over, however, he immediately dropped the cigarette to the ground and stomped the lit end with the tip of his shoes.
"Maybe I was, maybe I wasn't," he said as he was about to circle around the car to open the door for me again, but this time, I got to it before he did, which left him with a displeased small frown on his face. "I had nothing to do, really. And I told you, smoking does help to relieve stress. I needed stress-relieving, all right?"
"Yeah, and eventually, smoking will completely relieve you of any stress—by killing you in your sleep." I slammed the door shut beside me. "Anyway, unlike you, I didn't waste my time by killing myself for once in a while, but rather finish that stupid poem that Conrad refuses to make himself. Although, I guess he would entrust such a duty to a talented individual such as you."
He glared at me, although it was a rather playful glare with the hint of mischief in his eyes. "I can sense bullshit and sarcasm; which one of those notorious weapons of yours did you use this time, Hayley?"
"Neither," I stated simply as I brought my bag around to settle it on top of my lap while he started the engine. "Even if you're not confident in writing poems, you're at least talented in something. Dancing is one of them, right?"
"Not really, either," he said, laughing slightly. "I would show you the rest of my colorful array of talents, but only if they can serve as things that will make you hate me less and prove to you that I'm not a deranged serial killer as you've thought I was."
I couldn't help but laugh as well. "That sounds like a good deal to me. Oh, and also—the poem. I figured you may want to see it as soon as I mentioned it."
"All right, let's see what crazy ideas you've got."
I grabbed the piece of scrap paper I was writing on earlier from my bag and handed it to him. I watched him intently as his eyes expertly scanned over all that I'd written earlier while his lips moved ever so slightly as though he was mouthing each word out to himself one by one. By the time I saw his eyes reaching the last line I wrote on the paper, the corner of his lips ever so slowly quirked up and became an impressed smile.
"Wow, you really are something, aren't you?" he said to me as he handed the sheet of paper back to me and shifted the gears. "It's perfect. It's nothing but complete and utter perfection."
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