o8 | wishes (part two)

THE WORDS ARE STILL ETCHED into my locker, but there's another addition beneath. He wishes, in black permanent marker, in a handwriting so unseen it sets another round of gossip spinning in the works.

Except for me. Because while everyone receives their letters typed up in Times New Roman size twelve and single-spaced, mine are handwritten from the confines of a dark room by lamplight, and sent more personally than infrequent emails shoved in student inboxes for them to check at the end of each day.

Mine are addressed with my name at the top, each one beckoning me back to his office; each one clamouring for another interaction where he is the predator and I am the prey.

Mr Rose has written this, and no one knows except for me.

"Archer," I call his name, and somehow, he's right beside me. There's no time to think about how this can be when I'm stabbing my finger against the metal of my locker. My voice when I speak is steeped in fear, and Archer seems to register this as he puts a hand on my shoulder. "Mr Rose wrote this."

"Ivory―," he interjects, but I shake my head.

"I know you're going to say I'm imagining it, but I know his handwriting." I know every sharp peak, every slope and every curve; the size of every space between every word, and the overall scrawl that burns my name, acidic and demeaning, like every thought he has of me in his head. "He's definitely the one who wrote this."

"It's just a threat." His words are cool; his breath flurrying across my cheek. "Ebony's going to be with you through every meeting. He wouldn't try anything with him there."

"But―," I protest, silenced by the intensity of his gaze.

"Ivory." His other hand takes mine, and his skin burns. "You know I'm right. I wouldn't say it unless I was certain."

Transfixed by his stare, I nod, but the tightness of my stomach remains immobile, as if actively defying my sanity.

"Okay," I say, I accept, because it's not fair to him if I don't. "Let's just go to lessons, I don't even want to look at this anymore."

"Sure." Archer's hand falls from my arm, nudging me in the direction of our Maths class.

Having him beside me has my footsteps fall in an easy rhythm, parallel to the pounding of my heart. I don't know if we're friends or acquaintances, but regardless of everything, I know he has my back.

The thought eases my sickness, just a bit.

I like the thought that he's next to me, especially when the footsteps that interfere with the rhythm of ours belong to Rebel. Her eyes are on mine like daggers; even when I tilt my face away, she refuses to melt back into the background.

Archer notices this, and our pace imperceptibly quickens.

"I don't understand that girl." His voice is low. "How did you guys even become friends?"

I shrug my shoulders, rendered helpless by the question. I've heard it a few times, usually directed at Rebel and about me, but between us, the answer remains unclear. "I'm not really sure anymore. We've been friends for so long that I don't remember not being her friend. Well, up until recently, of course"―it still feels strange to admit that the girl I've known all my life is no more than a poisonous stranger to me now―"but yeah. I guess it's just been a really long time."

The hard lines of Archer's unflinching gaze begin to blur, smudging into some semblance of concern. "I guess...it's okay for you to miss her."

"I do miss her. I miss her in a way that makes me hate that I didn't even miss my brother when we started drifting. I don't even remember that―it's like one moment, we were so close, and the next, he couldn't even look at me anymore." I bite my lip. "It's really weird that there are some things that you just can't remember."

"Yeah." Archer's hand is back on my shoulder, steering me carefully. "We're here now, Ivory, don't walk into the door."

"You'd love to see that, wouldn't you?" I say, slipping in front of him. My hand stays on the doorframe for a moment; the rest of my body pausing in thought. Half-suspended, while a million thoughts crash in my head, then clear, as if they were never there to begin with. "Ivory Blue with a massive head injury and you laughing your arse off in the corner."

He smirks. "It'd be the highlight of my life."

I scoff in mock-offence, pushing the door wide open.

What feels like a hundred pairs of eyes snap up to stare at me all at once, and I feel as though I'm shrinking into myself as I stalk across the room to my desk. Every sound seems amplified: the scrape of my chair against the carpeted floor, the crash of my bag as it collides with the table leg, the soft shushing of my book as I flip through the pages, trying to find the right one.

With Archer coming to sit beside me, the eyes on me become piercing; gazes like knives carving their judgement on my skin. I duck my head, but still, they press into my skin, and the curls framing my face aren't enough of a shield from the stares.

Part of me wants to disappear right back into Rebel's shadow―for every part of me to dissipate into an extension of her―just so the unwavering stares melt back into her authority; so their eyes are frightened and wandering, vulnerable to the thought that I could make or break them.

Too many stares―too much tension. The thoughts in their heads are hot and thick and circulating, and I prickle under their intensity.

Laughter ripples through the air. I'm not sure if it's directed at me or not, but the nauseating reminder that he wishes is still stapled to my mind.

I can't stay here. I have to get out.

So, I put my hand up and do something I haven't done since I stopped going with Rebel went she went for a smoke break during lessons.

I walk out.