"Ms. Montgomery, will you stay back for a moment?" My English teacher calls out as I'm halfway to the door.
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The most annoying part about a teacher telling you to stay after class is their complete disregard for the very little time students have between classes. Each moment we get out of a desk is cherished, treated as though it's the best part of our day besides lunch and the final school's bell. To keep us any longer than scheduled shouldn't ever be a thing.
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Maybe Mrs. Thompson is the first to notice me, my unhealthiness. After all this time, she could be the one to finally address being high at school. That might give me hope, hope that I won't have to make the choice of getting better for myself. If my teachers see it, the counselors will be told and then my parents will be called. I know that doesn't sound ideal to most, but I for as long as I can remember, I've been begging for this exact series of events to happen.
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She didn't notice me though.
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"I wanted to talk to you about your essay; the short story you wrote." Mrs. Thompson tells me, sitting behind her desk with that warm, nurturing smile she always wears.
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She holds the three pieces of paper, stapled together in the corner, in her hands. She holds it delicately, as if being extra careful not to crease it.
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"You've never gotten less than an A on a paper you've wrote in my class, Lilliana." She tells me. "But compared to all your others, this one really stood out to me. I couldn't give you any less than a perfect grade."
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The papers transfer from her hands to mine. Looking down at the paper, in thin red ink, written in large letters in the corner is a '100%'. She drew a cheesy smiley face underneath the grade.
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Seeing it, I don't feel prideful like I used to when presented something like this. I remember wearing the largest smile after getting a grade back, in any class. At one point, I anticipated them, spending extra hours to achieve them. I haven't strived for one for a long while.
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School always came as second nature to me. I pick things up quickly; rather it's numbers, literature, or historical events, I learn it without much effort put into studying.
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The past year, I put down the books and picked up pills...and I still have yet to make my grades budge.
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"You truly excel in creative writing." Mrs. Thompson adds. "Have you thought about doing it as a career, Lilliana?" She uses a hand to motion to the paper. "I mean, it's impressive."
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Typically, when someone compliments me on anything other than my looks, my instincts is to call them a liar. But I know writing is my strong suit. Creating an entire world unlike your own is a high within itself. Putting myself in an alternate reality is the ultimate form of therapy.
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As a career? No.
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College, for me, was thrown out the window around the same time I started using drugs as a blanket for my emotions. I don't plan on being here long enough to endure another long handful of years of schooling. Why do that when I won't be alive to actually use my degree?
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"I don't plan on going to college." I blurt out.
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My answer catches her off guard, giving a brief look of surprise before straightening her face.
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Mrs. Thompson's eyes brighten as she gets an idea. "You don't have to go to college to be a writer, Lilliana. It depends on what you want to do with it. Do you write at home?"
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I give a disinterested shrug, as if to say 'a little bit.'
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"What do you write?" She asks, leaning forward on her desk a bit, eager for my response.
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I suppress the urge to groan and tell her to shut up. Instead I answer with, "Stories."
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She holds an excited hand up. "You could publish those! Be an author! That's a career!"
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"I'm really not interested in making a career out of anything, Mrs. Thompson." I say uncomfortably. "I've put a lot of thought into it and I just want to get a job when I graduate...go from there."
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She gives a light laugh. "Well that's not much of a plan, Lilliana. You're far too smart to let all your talents go to waste. I hope you don't take that the wrong way."
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The lady doesn't understand me. Pressure makes me run and right now, I just want out of this conversation.
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"I should really get to my next class, Mrs. Thompson. Thank you for the grade though." I wave my papers awkwardly.
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She glances at the clock before giving a soft smile. "Of course. But I'd like to talk about this more with you."
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Having zero interest in continuing this conversation at any point, I nod with a fake smile, starting for the door with hurried steps.
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—————————-
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"I'm suffocating, Maverick! Every fucking day!" My tears threaten to fall but I don't let them, instead I let it out in the form of anger. "And this bitch has the audacity to tell me I'm wasting all my talents?!" I cross my arms over my chest, pacing the pavement of the empty parking lot we're in. "Every breath I take is a fucking waste."
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I roll my eyes, shaking my head to myself. "I want to die. What am I gonna do, Mrs. Thompson? Write a fucking book and then kill myself?"
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"You know..." Maverick finally speaks up after hearing me rant for a good five minutes.
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Turning to look at him, he's rested back against the hood of the car, flicking the ash off the end of the blunt.
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"That's not a bad idea." He says. "Not the killing yourself part." He clarifies. "You should publish a heavy hitter before you die."
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I groan. "You don't get it either. Never mind."
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"To deeply know you is a privilege...and I learned you long ago." He tells me. "Most people won't be able to wrap their mind around yours...ours are extremely similar, Lilliana. You know as well as I do that I get it...so don't act like I don't because you're angry right now."
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He pauses.
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"You've been aware since the start that just because I understand you, doesn't mean I agree with you killing yourself."
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"But you think I'm wasting my talents too, don't you?" I ask, approaching him to take the blunt he's offering.
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Maverick shakes his head. "I wouldn't say you're wasting them. I do think you need to find at least one thing you have a passion for and do it. It can be anything, Lilliana. It doesn't have to be something any teacher or parent suggests, doesn't have to be traditional. Just one thing you want to do before you die."
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"Like what?" I ask through a breath of smoke. "What's your one thing?"
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His eye contact is odd, which makes me realize this is the first time I've ever been uncomfortable under Maverick's stare.
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I can visibly see the wheels turning in his head but I have no idea what it could be about. He seems almost tempted in a way that confuses me.
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His shift in demeanor makes the atmosphere around us darken, thicken.
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All of a sudden, Maverick comes back to reality, that relaxed, expressionless face back. "I haven't found it yet either." He then reaches an arm out, taking the blunt from me. "Stop hogging it."
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"You smoked like half of it by yourself!"
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"You wouldn't stop talking." He states with lungs full of smoke before exhaling. "And if you're smoking for free, you're definitely not wasting my weed."
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I can't help my laugh. "Do you even sell close to the amount you smoke?"
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"My money." He flashes that award winning smile that he uses to get on my nerves. "My business."
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"It's practically my money too. You spend enough on me." I tell him smugly.
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He lets out a puff of breath. "I spend more on you than I do myself. You do realize that you've never paid for yourself, right? Any and everything you have and get is from someone else?" His amused expression doesn't match his disapproving tone. "Easy with the attitude, Lilliana. I could cut you off whenever I want."
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"There's always someone else, Maverick."
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His eyes squint but his grin remains. "Is that why you've kept me around; To use me?"
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I laugh, nudging his arm playfully. "Oh don't get all sad boy on me now."
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"Yes...well, at least you know I'm only using you for friendship and not anything else."
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"I can't tell if that was an insult or a compliment."
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"A bit of both."
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"Ha. Ha."
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I start for my own car that's parked right beside his. "Let's go get some food."
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"You mean, I go get some food and you wait comfortably on your bed?"
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I smile at him from over the roof as he pushes off the hood of his own car. "How did you know?"
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Maverick has his back to me, shaking his head as he opens his door. "What do you want?"
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"I'm not really feeling anything in particular." My left shoulder gives one short shrug. "Surprise me."
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"Of course." He says with a sarcastic smile over his shoulder at me before getting in and closing the door without another glance my way.
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