DanteMature

I glance over at the art professor on my way out, still feeling oddly detached. He's sketching something on a blank canvas, motioning animatedly with his free hand. Yeah, I know he told me to stay put, but...these weird feelings are starting to build up. Even now, I do question giving that little nerd my cell phone number. Why did I? He was simply sitting there, huddled up in a big pastel green sweater, eating his soup. He didn't ask for help. He didn't even complain about the treatment from that...Kevin guy. So why did I give him my number and tell him to call me if he ran into problems with them again?

It must be the art professor. He's so strange it's beginning to rub off on me.

I shake my head, scowling. I've already done it, so whatever happens, happens.

The rest of the day passes quick enough, since I only have three classes on Mondays. I end up crashing (literally) into the blonde flirt from earlier, while I'm on my way out the doors to go to work. She gives me a dirty look, snarling soundlessly, and disappears around a corner, possibly off to some stupid class that justifies the way she thinks. (Which is to say, not at all.)

It's when I'm at my motorcycle, fixing my helmet over my head, that I look over at the fountain in the courtyard. That unnamed feeling in my gut twists uncomfortably again, almost like it's demanding attention. "Shove it," I mutter, climbing onto my motorcycle, revving the ignition and tearing out of the college. I smirk when some unfortunate idiot squawks, leaping out of my way.

Damn straight.

The ride to my workshop is filled with thoughts, mostly of this morning. That blonde, Haylie, I think it was, and the little nerd Caleb. Both of these interactions are the most contact I've had with people for over five months. People always hide from me, talking about the guys I beat up practically on a monthly basis, spreading shit about me, not knowing that I take notice of everything. All the looks, the whispers.

I don't care if they gossip. They don't know the truth. Even if they did, it wouldn't change their perspective of me, because they don't know me. They'd say I'm crazy. And maybe I am. Really, it doesn't make a difference.

Thinking too much while driving, however...that does make a difference. Blinking out of my reverie, I have just enough time to swerve to the right to avoid making another seat in the grey car's trunk in front of me. But it's hitting one thing or the other, and I can't risk having to pay for damages--the air is painfully taken from my lungs as I'm launched from my motorcycle, landing rough on the sidewalk, barely remembering to roll so I don't crack anything under the fall.

"Watch it you idiot! Someone could've gotten hurt!"

Growling under my breath, I get to my feet, rolling my shoulders. Maybe some bruises, but nothing feels hurt worse. I flip my middle finger up to all the onlookers, hauling my motorbike back upright and swinging onto the seat. If it'll turn on, I can just check the damages later. Right now, I have to get to work. Even if that means driving with a banged up bike.

Veering through traffic this time, I make it to the dingy shack in less than four minutes. That's better than being distracted by nerds and flirts. I park in the back, hardly turning off my motorcycle and taking off my helmet before jumping off the damn thing to shuffle inside the repair shop. It only takes one look at the smooth brown of the table where the sign in sheet is to remind me of the nerd that almost got me killed. It's the same brown as the shade of his hair...that light, chocolately color.

So what am I helping Caleb out with these bullies for? The question slides up from my thoughts without warning. I shake my head as I pick up the pen to write my name and the time I walked in. It's done, now I just have to take care of that problem and never act on...whatever it is that made me give him my number.

Here, it's the same. I don't talk to the other employees, and I don't bother taking orders from customers. I just do my job (which doesn't include nagging people who can't fix their own damn automobiles), get paid, and get out. No one asks questions anymore, since the last person who did got a black eye, broken nose and twisted arm. And, as much as fighting thrills me, I'd rather refrain from being in close quarters with these miserable douchebags.

But there's still that one person who doesn't understand that I don't give a single flying fuck.

"Hey, Dante. Good to see you." Wicked calls from the cash desk when I enter the garage.

I scowl at the ground, turning my back to him as I pull off my jacket and tie my sleeves back. I always tell myself that I'll deck him in the face if he speaks one more word to me, but he never does. I wonder if he can read minds, sometimes. He simply points over at my post, motioning for me to repair a small, dented in truck.

Grabbing my toolbox, I pick up the clipboard resting on the trucks bent hood, reading over everything that's wrong with it. Once I get all this done, I can get out and go home.

The End

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