1o | wine-drunk (part two)
MY BROTHER AND ARCHER CONTINUE to encourage me as Archer's black car prowls along the streets of Elmsbury, fresh winds skimming the half-lidded windows and grazing the sides of the car.
My half-up hair dances in the breeze, trickling against my shoulders and neck, flurrying against my skin. The sensation is calming, the abstract, transient touch something to hold onto even in the paradox of palpability, of tangibility, of being able to feel something slipping through your fingers like water.
Spillages of people still stain the school grounds as Archer pulls into the car park, gliding smoothly between the two white lines marking his spot. Small murmurs of chatter kiss my ears as I step out of the car, but with the two of them beside me, the paranoia that they could be talking about me eases slightly.
I know my brother, and I think I know Archer, and I trust that if they think my moment in the spotlight has passed, they're telling the truth. They wouldn't make me do this―with the bile rising in my throat and my hands curling inside my pockets and my hair obscuring my face from sight―unless they were sure I could come back without being ostracised.
We walk into the school building without event, and while Ebony bids us farewell to arrive at his first period Advanced Maths class, Archer and I turn off into the staircase leading to Specials, where an hour of silence and art awaits.
The room is deserted apart from the two of us, an occurrence that sends shudders of both confusion and relief coursing through my veins.
"I guess it's just the two of us," I say, a haunted murmur, taking my seat in the column across from Archer. He nods, a paintbrush already in his hands; bristles slashed with black paint.
His silence is a realisation: he's already engrossed, wedded to his work in the most unwavering, unflinching of ways. His dedication brings a smile to touch my lips as I slip in my earphones and turn to one of my own pieces.
It's only the first hour but the light begins to die, a menagerie of colours―gold to burnt umber, before a rich orangey red melts into copper; waning in life and light until silver washes the horizon, a dull grey light. Without the sun, comes darkness; comes shadow, and by the time the hour is up, the room is steeped in black.
Everything is obfuscated except for JJ's song in my ear, and though Archer chooses to stay, I know I need to go.
The Vocals club meets up on Wednesdays after Christmas, and auditions begin within the next couple of months. I want this, and I can have it, and I don't want to let this chance slide like water out of my grasp.
He glances up as I leave―I offer a small wave before I'm gone, and the door falls chaotically shut behind me.
In the hallways, the atmosphere is filled to bursting point. The silence of my Specials class is non-existent in the bustle of the between-lesson discord, and for each person my eyes skim over, there is another bumping into my arms and crushing me into the walls.
Though my locker is raw, marred and imperfect, just the thought of it being clean is consoling, as I store my art equipment inside and take out my books for English. To Kill A Mockingbird is still clutched in my arms when I hear my name sound behind me, but when I turn around, everyone is avoiding my gaze.
Discreet but indiscreet.
Though I swallow, I force myself to shake off the avoidance of their stares. A coincidence, I tell myself, hugging the novel tighter to my chest as I start to manoeuver my way to Literature.
There are too many lurking gazes, too many eyes, and by the time I collapse into my chair, I've heard my name so many times it feels alien on my own tongue when I answer my name to the cover teacher.
Ivory looks like exactly the kind of girl that would screw Mr Rose.
My head snaps to the sound, but I can't identify the culprit. Everyone is laughing now, their echoing, menacing laughter intermingling into a sound that won't leave my ears. Instead it digs in, engraving itself into my ears, to the point where I couldn't forget them, even if I bleached my mind of all its self-destructing thoughts.
Someone else replies, I mean, without Rebel, he's the only cock she'll ever get.
The implication that Rebel defines my worth shatters me. Like Archer, these people think I'm nothing more her ghost. Her shadow. I'll never escape her; I'll always be whittled down to her traits and her flaws.
As a dancer, the spotlight in our lives will always be hers. Somewhere along the line, I got pushed into the shadows with Mr Rose and all my worst fears, and now, that's where I belong.
Even with their blood-filled words ever filling the silence, I try to lose myself in the book in front of me. Each word is bland and meaningless to my eyes, each letter blurring into the next.
There is no engrossing myself in another world when my own is filled with paranoia and regret.
The lesson ends and thirty books slam shut at once. As I'm packing up my things and following the stream of people floating through the double doors―swinging and fluttering with each few―another girl turns up beside me. She isn't in my block, but seems to slot into this class with ease, falling into step beside me with a sly smirk on her features.
"You know, Ivory," she drawls, flipping her hair over her shoulder. I recognise her now―Angel Williams, a B-Rank IP―and am put on edge by her appearance beside me. "You wouldn't be getting so much grief if you'd just stayed a Witch. You'd probably be getting a congratulations."
There it is again. A mention of Rebel, and my nothingness without her. The reminder makes me sick to my stomach, but I nod despite that fact, toying with the cuffs of my sleeves.
At my silent response, she grins. "Food for thought, eh? See you, bottom-feeder."
And somehow, that hurts worse than lap-dog.
☆☆☆