Charity hung her head, her eyes fixed on the white paving stones that formed the path that their bench was bolted to.
“Two weeks,” she finally said.
Peter nodded, though he was not sure why he didn’t speak up. “Who is he?” he asked, getting the words past his dry lips while jealousy and anger started to show in his words and on his face.
This did not surprise Charity; she surely knew what the outcome would be.
“His name is Steven Olbert.”
“The billionaire?” said Peter, realizing the true reason for Charity’s affection toward this new boy.
“No, that’s his father you’re thinking of,” Charity chuckled, not realizing what she had given away.
“Right, he’d be too old for you if it were him. Or would he?” Peter’s jealousy was now flaring even more.
“What does that mean?”
“What I said. I mean, it’s about money isn’t it. That’s what it’s about with us?”
“No.”
“So you’re saying that the reason you wanted to go out with me was because you liked me?”
“Yes it -”
“Then why did you ask me – or should I say blackmail me? – when you found out my mum was rich.”
Charity’s face went blank. “I wanted to go out with you for years, but I thought that you thought I was just a Barbie doll. That’s what you Losers call me and my friends, isn’t it?”
“No, I never and would never call you that, even after this,” said Peter suddenly, thinking that maybe he was wrong. But why? he thought. Why throw it away if not for money? It doesn’t make any sense. I tried to be there for her, just as she wanted.
“So if it’s not for money, then why?” he asked
“It’s just that I want to move on,” lied Charity. “Can we still be friends?”
“Sure,” Peter lied. He knew that Charity was lying; he could always tell when she was lying.
“Break will be over soon,” said Charity, looking to get away.
“Yeah, probably,” Peter’s voice was flat.
“Well, I better go.” The girl got up and within seconds was gone.
Peter sat there for three or four minutes. “Happy Birthday Pete,” he said to himself. Then he slowly stood and headed for his next class, English, which he was reasonably good at. He wanted to leave early so not to give Weavger the pleasure of finding him late for his very own class. As he walked, he felt empty, as though someone cut him open and gutted him like a fish right there and then as he walked.
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He found himself going over his conversion with Charity in his head, trying to get why she would lie about the money thing. It’s not as if I didn’t know that she has a weakness for boys with money or boys who have parents who have money. Why? He was suddenly feeling angry, but his anger was not directed at Charity or this new rich boy who came and gave her a reason to stray. For Peter suddenly realized that he didn’t really care that he and Charity were no longer an item. This anger was directed at himself, and wherever it came from, it seemed to make him whole again, as if he had gained something within those seconds.
Why didn’t you tell her to bug off when she told you the truth? Why didn’t you walk away? Or even tell her you didn’t care? And worst of all, why didn’t you dump her before she had a chance to tell you?
He stood still as this last question flooded his mind fuelling his anger. “GOD, YOU’RE AN IDIOT!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. His last sentence travelled far and wide through the corridors of the school before fading away into nothing. However, Peter hadn’t noticed for a split second after those words leapt from his lips that he balled up his right fist and swung for the nearest locker to his left.
To say that he was surprised by what happened next would be an understatement. His fist was not stopped by the door of the metal locker; it went straight through. As if that was not shocking enough, when Peter removed his bleeding hand from the hole, he saw the thin scraped wounds on his hand healed in a mere second. He stood there, his pale face whiter than ever. He turned his hand to look at its palm and then turned it back as if he expected it to be a figment of his overactive imagination, but there was nothing to say that the incident had ever happened, not one mark.
“What’s going on here?” said Mr. Weavger as he opened the door of his classroom just as the bell sounded. Peter slowly closed his eyes, for he knew that Weavger had him right where he wanted him and that he was in big trouble.
“It looks like you’re late again Stark,” said Weavger. “Oh dear, I guess your appointment with the principle is going to be sooner than I’d hoped. What’s that?” Weavger had seen the hole in the locker.
“What?” said Peter as he stepped to his left to try and hide it.
“Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Trust me when I say you really don’t want me to answer that.”
By now Weavger was only two steps away from him. The English teacher waved his hand to his left, gesturing for Peter to step aside, however, when Peter did not, the man said, “Move.” And Peter did this time. “So where is it?”
“Where’s what?”
“I don’t think you understand your position, Mr. Stark.” Weavger was reveling in the thought of finally getting rid of Peter. In fact, that’s all he could think about. “You see, you are in a lot of trouble. First of all, you were late for your first class of the day. Then you were late for my own class, which was to be your third class of the day. I know that doesn’t sound too damaging, but then there’s this.” Weavger held his hand up gesturing to the hole that Peter’s fist had made. “Destruction of school property is a serious thing. Under normal circumstances, I’m sure that you would be fine. Though considering your past, I can’t see you worming your way out of this one. So all that’s left for me to do is to take you to the principal, and if you don’t confess, I’ll have to do my job.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Peter said under his breath.
Peter’s witty comments directed at Alistair Weavger did not mean he wasn’t scared of what might happen at the principal’s office, for he was. Furthermore, what really scared him senseless was the fact that he couldn’t remember Weavger ever sounding or looking so happy.
The thought came to him that this could really be the end of his days at the school that to him was more like a prison, and Alistair Weavger, who hounded him in and out of the classroom, was the toughest, most unforgiving prison guard to ever walk the halls. The thought lingered in his mind for a mere moment, and this brought a slight grin to the boy’s face, though the thought dwindled and quickly vanished as a new thought burrowed its way into his mind. This one was of his mum and dad and what they would say when he brought them this news. He stared at Weavger as uneasiness rolled over him.