XV. Something Wicked

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Act 2, Scene 5

While my teacher's monotone voiced droned on and on, I slipped in and out of consciousness. Then, when I wasn't asleep, I was distracted by the words scribbled on my desk, the sound of rain outside the window or with thoughts of Julien and our argument that neither of us had recovered from, yet. I struggled to read the text we'd been assigned.

I used to love photography but learning about it in school had dimmed the passion. Now, I was just a girl stuck in the class doing nothing but trying not to fall asleep and get sent out.

"Do you need to copy my notes?" Francis turned his body around from his seat in front of me and placed his papers on my desk. While his book was full of neat handwriting, bunched together to make sure there was extra room for more information, mine was completely empty except for a single smiley-face that Beatrix had written neatly upon seeing the sheet of paper on my desk last night. 

She often did that if I left things lying around the dorm She scribbled smiley faces on my schoolwork, my music sheets and even letters I'd written. It was a cute habit, one that I loved. It always made my usually empty worksheets a little more enthusiastic.  

"Thank you," I smiled.

He seemed taken aback by the smile for a second and while the teacher was busy helping other students, he dragged the chair forward and opposite me with a loud and obnoxious squeak that made me cringe against the sound. I'd tried to ignore our awkward moment from Monday but the feelings that wandered my stomach as I sat in his dorm still festered when I looked at his face for too long. I was sure that Francis was embarrassed by it too as he hadn't made eye contact for longer than a second since we'd arrived at the classroom. 

I felt bad for him. 

Francis sat poised with his forearms splayed along the end of the table and deep breaths. Every inhale was calculated and timed as his lips clamped shut into a thin line and eyebrows pointed.

I didn't understand him. I didn't understand how he was so cold one moment and melting into a smile the next. It wasn't malicious, it wasn't two-faced; it was talent.

"Have you read anything new lately?" He asked quietly.

I glanced up at the boy through my eyelashes.

"I've been busy," I spoke up, surprising myself with how soft my voice was. "Something about being in a real-life murder mystery has put me off reading them for a moment."

His lips pulled into a frown and he ran a finger over the papers between us absentmindedly. His touch trailed a path over the ink, capturing my attention and I couldn't pull my gaze away. 

"I heard about your fight with Julien," he commented. 

"Which one?" 

Francis snorted and I was surprised a noise so casual could escape from the boy. His character was such an anomaly to me. While everyone else I knew was taken straight from a textbook, he deviated from my expectations. I wanted to know everything about him. I needed to get just a slither of his attention, to roll in his secrets and dig through his mind. But then I was reminded about the uneasiness that had radiated from him and paused that thought. 

"The one where you shouted at him for trying to tell you who to be friends with." Francis looked down at his long fingers as they drummed a steady beat against the edge of the old table. "I'm surprised you didn't slap him."

"What can I say? I'm a lover, not a fighter," I shrugged. 

Francis lifted his head and stared at me with a lopsided smile. Except the smile wasn't so lopsided that it seemed young and spontaneous. It still felt crafted, he was pretty. Those sharp eyebrows and dangerous eyes that lifted like a cat's. He seemed to carry the eloquence of a controlled animal, poised to pounce and always watching. 

"Why did you fight?"  

"It wasn't a fight," I said, "it was a falling out." 

It wasn't unreasonable for an outsider to think that the Monet's were a happy family. Having Julien and me become best friends was a mistake on my father's part but it turned out quite well for them considering that it gave the impression of a tight-knit bond between us all. Sometimes the lies drove me crazy but other times, I didn't notice the tidal wave of negative emotions that weighed down on my chest until I was retching.

From the corner of my eye, I watched as Mr Donahue walked into the classroom. He marched up to my photography teacher and spoke to her with a scowl painted on his thick lips. I'd seen the Latin teacher a lot more recently - or maybe it was that I noticed him more recently. Either way, I didn't like it. He put me on edge, especially from what I saw in his memories. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" Francis asked over my thoughts. 

I shook my head no and continued copying in my notes. Soon, the bell rang loudly and the students were already up and out of the class before the noise had even silenced. I packed up my stuff slowly and Francis did the same. I felt a tinge of guilt for being so closed off today. Usually, we'd spend the time talking about what we'd listened to or watched or read but I wasn't feeling it this lesson. Through our bonding sessions, I'd come to know that Francis and I shared that obsessiveness within our personality that seemed well under control until we began a conversation on that thing. 

I loved how fast he talked, or how his eyes lit up, or how much he truly knew of a subject. My mind was on anything but all that today, though.

"Are you performing for Elijah's memorial?" I asked when he fell into step with me and we left the classroom without a second glance. "Beatrix told me a lot of scouts will be there." 

"Yes, I am. And she's right, it is stressful," he answered. "You're only playing the piano this time, though. Have you practised?" 

I'd only practised once. I didn't dare tell Francis that, though, scared he'd snitch and I'd have D'Angelo bite my ear off about it. So, I just ignored the question. In all honesty, I didn't want to go. I didn't want to play the piano for the interlude of Elijah's memorial as though he'd care about what Burton Abbey did as a homage to his time there. As though anyone who would attend gave a flying fuck about the boy who died up on that stage. As though anyone knew anything about Elijah at all. 

There was a time when Elijah Lawson and I were as thick as thieves. I would have watched the world fall apart with him by my side and not have been the least bit concerned. I latched onto his personality. I treasured the rare laugh he'd pulled from me and the hundreds of eye rolls he'd earned. I loved it all. And in a way, I loved him too. 

I loved Elijah the same way those astronomers loved the stars that they named after Shakespeare characters. He was always there, pretty to watch and interesting to think about, but too far to touch and already dead far before I ever knew him. 

Francis and I stopped beside the large open doorway to the outside and in silent agreement, we stood back and watched the other students brave the rain. It poured down almost viciously, like small pellets descending to the earth, rather than water. 

The wind was rough, too. It pulled at my uniform and flurried through my hair, attacking my face and turning my cheeks pink. Sneaking a glance at Francis, he leant against the stone doorway with a faraway expression trickled in his dark eyes. The light of the outside reflected onto his pale skin and accentuated all of the sharp lines in his face. 

I almost invited him to get tea in town with me but was momentarily silenced when his face turned to mine. His eyes slowly trailed down my body and he frowned. I felt self-conscious for a brief moment before his deep voice spoke up. 

"Your bag..?" 

And, he was right, I didn't have my bag. I'd forgotten it in my photography classroom. I never normally carried a bag with me on these days but as I was going straight to the cafe after school, I'd packed it with me. 

"I'll go get it now, thanks. I'll see you tomorrow, Francis." Then, I was gone. 

I rushed down the corridor, walking briskly and avoiding the shorter youth while on my way. I didn't want to leave Khaleel waiting for too long and I also didn't want to be in the school building longer than I had to be. 

Turning left into the open classroom where a few students still lingered, I rushed to my place at the back and breathed out a sigh of relief to see that my bag was still left on the floor. Thank goodness for that. 

Except, it wasn't only my bag I'd left behind, something else caught my eye. When I looked back to the table, my heart stopped to see the scribble of words etched into the wood, 

'SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES'. 


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