Rules

by Doe, Anna B.

  The silence stretches between us, her words hanging in the air. I’m not sure how we went from quoting a poet to… whatever this is. I swallow hard, trying to think of words to say, but apparently, she’s okay with my silence. Giving me another soft smile, she takes a step back, her hands falling by her sides.

  “I’ll go and get ready for class. You don’t stay too long.”

  Nodding, I watch her walk away, and only when I’m sure she’s gone do I return my gaze to the canvas.

  When I first started, I didn’t have a so-called art form. I just drew what came to me, mostly with pencil and paper. It’s not like I had extra money to spend on fancy art supplies, but since coming here, Mrs. Brown challenged me to try different techniques, use different media.

  I tried it all—coal, tempera, oil, watercolors. But when Mrs. Brown showed us the work of Australian pop artist Loui Jover, I knew what I wanted to do. His ink washed paintings on antique book pages were stunning. Colors mixed with ink on those pages seem like they bring words to life.

  Giving them face.

  Giving them emotions.

  It took me a while to get the hang of it. You’d think something so basic would be simple; you’d be wrong. But all the effort was worth it.

  I register the muttered chatter from the other side of the slightly ajar door. Sighing, I remove the canvas from the easel and take it to the back room so it can dry properly. Back in the classroom, I clean my station and pick up my things. I still have to return a book to the library before homeroom starts.

  Students are mingling in the hallway. There are more of them than I expected, but when I check my phone—the dinosaur of a flip phone—I realize it’s pretty late. Not like it’s the first time, or last for the matter, I stayed in the art room way longer than expected.

  Sighing, I hurry through the mass of people, head bowed, hands tucked into the pockets of my leather jacket as I hurry down the hallway.

  When I get to the library, the thick door closes behind me and the smell of books assaults my senses. I stop in my tracks and inhale the familiar scent, letting it wash over me.

  The library has always been my safe haven. From an early age, I would sneak in, hiding between the shelves and trying to find escape between the pages of the books. There wasn’t a thing I wouldn’t read, fiction or non-fiction; as long as I could dive into imaginary worlds, I was happy.

  After all, no matter how bad things got in books, there were two certainties: you’d either get a happy ending, or you wouldn’t, but at least you knew it wasn’t real.

  Real life was different. There were no certainties. No guarantees of a happily ever after. And more often than not, when you think things can’t get worse, you’re fooling yourself. Life gives you a punch in the gut, just to remind you who’s boss.

  “Morning, Mrs. Moore,” I whisper, coming closer to the counter.

  “Brook.” She turns around, offering me a smile. “Here to grab more books for your art class?”

  Mrs. Moore is one quirky lady. She’s in her late fifties but looks and dresses like someone half her age. Her wild hair is colored a bright red color that matches the shade of her lipstick. Her nose is pierced, and she has a few earrings in each of her ears. Most of them she’s made herself. Today she’s wearing one of her colorful, bohemian dresses over a pair of brown leggings, and big, plastic frames are on her nose.

  Most of the bookworms would probably be outraged by the fact that I’m tearing up books, but I don’t look at it that way, and thankfully neither does our school librarian. She’s the one who helps me find worn or already damaged books for me to use for my art projects. They’d probably be tossed out, and I give them back life.

  “Nah, I’m getting this back.” I give her the book I was carrying in my arms.

  “Gone with the Wind,” she chuckles lightly, reading the title. “That makes it what the eighth time you read it since you’ve been here?”

  Probably like the twelfth, but who’s counting?

  A simple shrug of shoulders is my only answer. What’s there to say? I like both Mrs. Moore and Mrs. Brown, but that doesn’t change who I am. I don’t like to talk much. Talking means sharing and I don’t do sharing. Because there is always a chance you overshare and once the words are out you cannot take them back.

  “I think I’ll go and grab something new before my classes start.”

  She nods. “Take your time honey.”

  Walking down the middle aisle, I look left and right. I already know where everything is, but reading the little tags on the bookshelves helps me figure out what I’m in the mood to read.

  Just as I’m about to make a turn in the biography row, a lone figure sitting in the far left corner of the study section—a relatively big space in the middle of the library where you can find desks to study in peace—catches my attention. It’s not unusual to find somebody in here before classes start, but something about him draws my attention.

  He’s hunched over a book, hands cupping his face as fingers slowly rub the tension in his temples. Black hair is a mess on his head like he’s been running his fingers through it. The tension in his body so strong I can feel it all the way across the empty space that separates us.

  As if he can sense me looking at him, his body grows more rigid. Like in slow motion, he straightens in his chair, stormy eyes locking on mine.

  The Band-Aid rips, opening a hollow wound I thought had healed.

  One week. That’s how much time has passed since “the incident”, as I call it. I have managed to avoid him for one whole week, but now here we are, face to face once again. And I realize that everything I’ve been telling myself for the past seven days—that it doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t matter because he doesn’t own me, doesn’t hold any power whatsoever, that my pride is the only thing that was shaken, nothing more and nothing less—is a bunch of crap.

  Gray irises go wide when he sees me, and I’m temporarily rooted in this spot. The air is sucked from the space, making my skin tingle in awareness. I can still feel his lips on mine, the way they devoured me like he’d die if he stopped kissing me. His calloused hands running up my legs, his hot breath on my skin. My best friend’s name falling from his lips.

  Max opens his mouth to say something, but before he can even form words, I turn away and run.

  So much for keeping my cool.

  Chapter Four

  MAX

  I rise so suddenly that the chair behind me falls down to the ground, a loud bang filling the otherwise quiet room.

  I cringe at the noise level, my head throbbing in tune with the echo, but ignore it altogether in favor of running after her.

  “Brook, wait!”

  She doesn’t even turn around to acknowledge me, but that doesn’t stop me from going after her.

  A week.

  She’s been doing her best to ignore me for a whole fucking week.

  Not once looking my way or giving me a chance to explain and say how sorry I am.

  This was ending now.

  I’ve been trying to concentrate on studying ever since Coach kicked me out of practice, and it feels like my head is going to explode. Nothing makes sense, not one word. The headache I was feeling before has grown to epic proportions. Literally, anything's better than this.

  Just when I think she’s long gone, black leather catches my attention. Taking a step back, I look down the row at her.

  “Why did you run?”

  She gives me a fleeting glance before she turns back to observing the shelf.

  “I wasn’t running.”

  “Seemed like it to me.”

  “Well, it seemed wrong,” she cuts me off coolly, averting her gaze from me, her chin held high.

  For the past week, she hasn’t even looked at me. And it’s making my blood boil with irritation. Yes, I messed up, but she didn’t even give me a chance to fucking explain. If she had, maybe things would be different. Maybe...

  I rub my hand over my face, the guilt over what hap
pened still eating at me.

  Who the hell am I kidding?

  We’ve been at each other’s throats since the beginning. I’ve never understood what her issue is with me. I’m a likable guy, outgoing and friendly. I’ve never had problems making friends, not like Jeanette has, and I’ve never met a person who disliked me so openly like Brook Taylor does.

  But more than that, I’ve never understood her.

  Brook Taylor is an enigma.

  She’s so cold and standoffish. The complete opposite of her best friend, Lia. Brook is cranky and moody. The dark to Lia’s light. She barely speaks to anybody, and when she does, it’s to say some snarky comment before sticking her nose back in one of the books she carries around. Brook acts all high and mighty, you’d think she’s some rich girl who has a stick in her ass. Only I know that’s nowhere near the truth.

  Sighing, I run my fingers through my hair, making an even bigger mess, not that I care.

  “Brook…”

  How can one word, one name, carry so much tension and regret?

  She must hear it too because she interrupts me before I can say anything else. “I saw you studying and I didn’t want to interrupt. Besides, I came here to grab a book, and then I’m going to homeroom.”

  I look at her, trying to see if she’s telling the truth, but it’s hard when the person’s not looking you in the eyes.

  Her finger slides over book spines until she finally settles on one. Pulling it out, she cradles the hardcover to her chest.

  “Found what you’ve been looking for?”

  Old Brook? She’d tell me to mind my own damn business before stomping away.

  New Brook? She merely shrugs.

  I hate that half-hearted movement of her shoulders.

  The warning bell rings, startling us both.

  She gulps down. “We should go to class.”

  Sighing, I wave her off. “You go. I have to catch up on some studying.”

  Her head snaps up, eyes looking at me, and she stares for a bit. I’m not sure what she’s looking for, but whatever it is, she either finds it or gives up because she nods and walks away.

  My breath hitches as Brook squeezes past me, careful that her body doesn’t brush against mine in passing.

  I close my eyes, waiting for her soft steps to retreat. My fingers run through my hair, pulling at the strands in frustration.

  The last thing I want is to go back to that desk and study, but if I don’t even try, I can hang up my skates right this moment because there is no way I’ll play on Friday.

  Exhaling loudly, I get my shit under control and turn around, determined to get things done. Only when I do, I find Brook still standing there.

  Just a few short steps away from me.

  She’s looking in the distance, nibbling at her lower lip.

  Green eyes find mine once I’m facing her.

  Silence stretches between us until it seems it’ll burst from all the tension in the air.

  She clears her throat. “Need some help?”

  Chapter Five

  BROOK

  What the hell just came over me? Why did I think this was a good idea? Obviously, I didn’t think, because if I did I’d have known this has disaster written all over it. But looking at his tired, frustrated face, his hair mussed from all the times he’s run his fingers through it, dark bags underneath his eyes, I couldn’t just leave him alone. Not when I knew, or at least supposed, how difficult all of this is for him. Why this is so difficult for him.

  Yes, Maximillian Sanders got on my nerves. I’m not even going to try and deny that. From the first time I saw him, he rubbed me the wrong way. I think it’s because of the way he pretends to be something he’s clearly not. The bad boy persona he’s trying to present to the world is bullshit if I’ve ever seen it.

  When Miss Rodriguez paired us up to work on that Spanish project at the beginning of the year, I thought he was just one of those lazy jocks. Not interested in studying and putting in the work, but just waiting for somebody else to pick up the slack while he waits to take the credit in the end. Turns out I was wrong, because the more we worked, the more I started noticing little things.

  Like the fact that his brows would always furrow when he was trying to read. He’d mumble and curse underneath his breath, probably not even aware that he was doing it out loud. His hand would rub his temples or between his brows every so often, trying to ease the tension. And don’t even get me started on the time he needed to actually finish reading the material, only to lift his eyes to mine and just for a second, I could see desperation and dread flash in his gray irises before he promptly masked them.

  The guy was struggling, but of course, he didn’t let anybody know it.

  “So…” I wave in the direction of the timeline I helped him draw on a piece of paper, prompting him to continue summarizing the information that we’ve been through while making it. My fingers cover short notes we’ve written, leaving only one thing open for him to concentrate on—the Battle of Gettysburg.

  It didn’t take a particularly smart person to realize what he’s struggling with. Reading wasn’t his strongest point, but when presented in the right way, he not only understood it but managed to grasp the concepts quickly. Reading from the textbook wasn’t just frustrating for him, but also boring, so when we work together, I’d make sure to read the material and summarize. Mental maps and timelines seem to help too. Carefully chosen keywords, important dates, places, and people organized in a visual, easily understandable and organized way were the key for him.

  The only problem was, he needed help getting to a point where studying on his own was easy. And we’re not talking about somebody who’d do it all for him and just hand over the materials, but somebody to sit down with him and help him make the materials, while audibly summarizing and explaining the importance of this or that and how it fits in the bigger picture.

  I listen to him carefully as he tells me everything about this particular battle, nodding my head in encouragement.

  We’ve been going at it for a while. The worry marks have erased from his face, and he hasn’t rubbed his face for the last five questions, so I call that a win.

  Once the words die down, he lifts his head, the big smile on his lips blinding me.

  I always knew Max was handsome. With his messy black hair and piercing gray eyes surrounded by thick lashes, nobody sane and with two working eyes could deny it.

  He says something, but the only thing my mind can concentrate on is the way his pinkish lips move so close that if I leaned forward just a bit I could taste them.

  Surprised, I blink, but that doesn’t change anything.

  He’s still here.

  So far in my personal space that I can smell the soap on his skin mixing with some kind of deodorant or cologne and something that’s just plain Max. So close I can feel his minty breath touching my cheeks. So close I can feel the warmth of his body that’s almost, but not quite, touching mine.

  “Brook?” He looks at me, confused and weary. “Did I not get it right?”

  Shaking my head to get out of my dazed state, I plaster a smile on my lips. “Nope, it’s perfect. You’re going to ace this.”

  He laughs nervously and I can feel that soft, husky rumble in my bones. “I don’t know about acing it, but I do feel more ready now than I did an hour ago.”

  It’s already been an hour?

  My head snaps up, looking at the clock on the wall. Yup, almost a full hour.

  A warm hand covers mine, making me tense. I look up, finding those silvery eyes staring at me. A warm, easy smile curls his lips making my breath hitch and my skin tingles in awareness.

  “Seriously, thank you. I wouldn’t have been able to do it without your help.”

  The lump forms in my throat, but I gulp it down. Pulling my hand from underneath his, I close my books.

  Go. I need to go.

  My body misses his warmth almost as soon as it’s gone, but I ignore the protest and keep
moving. Working on picking up my stuff and tossing it all in my backpack, I stand up quickly, brushing a runaway strand of hair behind my ear.

  “It’s nothing.” I force a smile. “I should probably go. The next class is about to start, and I can’t miss it.”

  “Oh…” He looks at the clock on the wall. “Next class. Right. Let me just…”

  But I don’t wait for him to finish. I don’t give him a chance to do the right thing, something a guy like Max would do. Not because it’s expected of him, but because he’s genuinely a good guy. Irritatingly so.

  But I can’t rely on that.

  Rely on him.

  Because guys like him? They only serve as a reminder of what a girl like me can never have.

  So I simply turn around and walk away.

  * * *

  “Where have you been all morning?” Lia asks as she slides into the desk behind mine.

  I barely lift my gaze off the book I’ve been reading. “Around.”

  “You never miss a class. Not even when you’re sick. Like the last time I had to drag you back home and put you in bed because you were burning up.”

  Yup, that would be me.

  But why would I skip classes? It’s not like I have anything better to do or anywhere to go. People hate going to school, they think it’s boring and useless, but I’d give anything just to stay a few minutes longer.

  School is safe, or as safe as it can be in today’s world. But it’s also my escape. If I’m here I don’t have to be there. And that’s the only thing that matters.

  Sighing, I close the book and face my best friend. It’s not like I’ll get any reading done anyway.