Incinerate

Chapter 17 - The Bell Tower, Part 1

The rest of the weekend flies by. My fever finally dissipates, but I spend Sunday finishing my latest re-read of Good Omens by Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, a fun romp about the impending apocalypse. Cujo keeps a respectful distance, taking up his spot on Ole Petunia. Come Monday morning, I'm fit as a fiddle. I even get up a little early for a morning run. It's a quick one, and quiet, but I don't mind. After my rough weekend, it's good not to go full force on the first run after feeling better.

Stepping out the front door with my backpack slung over my shoulder, the image of Sera standing in the doorway Saturday evening brings a spring to my step. She really had been here. She had been worried about how I was feeling and wanted to make sure I hadn't gotten any worse. Hell, not even Elliot had done that through text. For a moment, I wonder if she told Timbo and/or Leah about Friday night. How far would that story go? Would she tell them about what happened in the car, or would she keep that to herself?

"See? Didn't I say you were going to survive?" Sera's cheery yet teasing voice comes from behind as I start down King.

"Much to the chagrin of your ghost friends, I imagine," I quip back as she catches up with me. She wears her hair down again; the subtle waves hanging past her shoulders are so damn pretty. Is that natural or does she do something to make them that way?

"I'll let them know you're heartbroken over it," she says. "They were really looking forward to meeting you."

"Thanks, I appreciate it. Maybe one day," I joke. "So do you normally go this way to get to school? Or is this a new route for you?"

"What do you think?" she arches a single eyebrow, digging into the pocket of her black leather jacket and pulling out a pack of gum. "Want some?"

"No, thanks," I decline. She shrugs, taking out only one stick and popping it into her mouth. "Well, I haven't seen you on my way before, so my guess is it's new."

"Or you just haven't seen me," she suggests.

"That's a possibility," I nod slow. "Didn't peg you as a stalker."

"Oh, and what did you peg me as?" she chuckles through her mastication.

"Wouldn't you like to know," I smirk at her as we turn onto the school's road.

"Don't steal my lines," she smacks my arm. "That's rude."

"My apologies, Princess," I feign regret with a hand over my heart. "Can you find the mercy to ever forgive me?"

"I'll think about how you can make it up to me," she contemplates the query. "Perhaps a tribute of some sort."

"And what kind of tribute would be fitting for one such as yourself?"

A few cars pass as she thinks it over. The school's parking lot is mostly full, by the looks of it. Of those who drive by, are any of them Elliot? None have been black sedans, and neither have there been any old baby blue trucks like Timbo's. Does Leah drive? Does she ride with Timbo? That's a cute thought. Maybe if I didn't live so close to the school, I could offer Elliot or Sera a ride. That would be nice.

"Just go with something you think I'll like," she finally answers as we approach the doors to the atrium. "If I don't like it, you'll know."

"The pressure's on," I joke, opening the door and letting her enter first.

"Aw, what a gentleman," she says, and I follow her inside. The bell sounds shortly after, and the congregation releases into the halls. "Have a good one, Ash. See ya round."

"You're not going to your locker first?" I ask, confused as she sets down the hall that leads to the cafeteria.

"I've got business elsewhere," she blows a bubble and pops it.

"What kind of business?" my curiosity refuses to rest. She returns, a little sway to her hips with each step.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she says soft and hot and with a wink.

My heart stops for a long moment. She disappears into a group of people down the hall without a look back. Is this what flirting is like? My only experience in such arts was with Peyton, and we had years of friendship and inside jokes at our disposal to translate into affectionate remarks. But now there's not that history to work off of. It's as if the veil between innocent jokes and intentional teases is thinner. The objective is more transparent. There remains an air of coyness; there must in order for the game to last. But a question remains: is this all just for the fun of chase, or does that gossamer mask hold truth?

Exhaling the longing, I press on toward my locker. The traffic flows well, and I'm able to spin my combination within only a minute or two. Getting my things for English, I'm through the doorway before most of the class trickles in. Not even Elliot has arrived yet as I take my regular seat, and it makes me wonder where she is. Normally, she gets to class before I do.

Minute by minute, more bodies enter and pass Mr. L'Amour's pop culture corkboard. The minute hand on the clock ticks closer to the six, but still no sight of Elliot. All seats but hers fill, and even Mr. L'Amour makes his way to his desk and looks over some paperwork. The one-minute warning bell rings, and the other classmates begin to settle. I can't deny the drop in my heart with every second that brings us closer to 8:30. It's like Sera and Art all over again, only this time I don't have the freedom of the weekend ahead of me.

A figure rushes through the doorway just before the bell rings. A sigh of relief escapes me at the sight of her short black hair. Elliot hurries to her seat next to me as the morning announcements begin over the intercom. I give her a smile, but her eyes do not meet mine. She catches her breath and organizes her desktop, stacking her notebook on the textbook and straightening her pencil alongside them. Though she seems put together on the outside, there's a subtle frenzy in the air around her.

"Hey, you okay?" I lean a little closer to her and ask with a quieted voice.

"Yeah," she nods once, a waiver in her tone giving me doubt.

"You sure?"

"Mhm," she sounds. She finally lets herself look over to me. Those dark eyes try too hard to convince me of the lie. She pleads with a small lift of her eyebrows to accept her word, or maybe to drop the subject altogether. "Family stuff. Nothing you did, promise. We can talk about it later."

I want to believe her. I want to believe that maybe her mom pressured or guilted her about that family trip thing Elliot had mentioned Friday night. I want to believe that she truly was not offended by my decision in her car. I want to believe that she'll trust me enough to tell me about what troubles her when it is a safer time and place to do so.

So I do. I give her a small reassuring smile, and it sparks one of her own. The sight eases my worry, and hopefully she feels even a pinch better than when she walked in the room.

After a lesson in the art of deciphering purple prose, the metallic songbird releases us from Mr. L'Amour's care. Elliot gathers her things in record time and beats most of the others out the door. That sinking feeling of her attitude being my fault returns, and it's hard for me to listen to myself telling me to just let it go. But by the end of third period in Ms. Greene's World History class, I've convinced myself that if there's a problem, then Elliot will be mature and communicate it with me so we can get back to a normal state of things.