The Accompanyist
952 Words
The detention room door creaked open. I didn't look up from the desk I was currently trying to burn a hole into with my mind.
"I’m already here, Mr. Henderson," I grumbled. "I’ve been a model citizen for precisely twelve minutes. Give me a gold star."
"I don't have any stars."
That voice. It was like a bucket of ice water down my spine. My head snapped up so fast I heard my neck crack. Owen Wembley was standing there, looking like he’d just stepped off a high-fashion runway instead of into a room that smelled like industrial bleach.
Without asking, he pulled out a chair two desks away and sat. He didn't look at me; he just adjusted his sleeves and settled in.
"You got detention because of me," he said, his tone as flat as a pancake. "So I'm just accompanying you until it’s over."
I stared at him. "Is this a hostage situation? Because I’m pretty sure I already paid my ransom in social suicide and a permanent record."
He didn't blink.
"It’s not because of you," I continued, feeling my face heat up. "I’m the one who slapped the highlights out of Cindy’s hair. It has nothing to do with you."
Owen actually looked at me then. He seemed to process this for three seconds, then stood back up.
"What are you doing?" I asked, my eyebrow practically hitting my hairline.
"You said it has nothing to do with me," he replied, his voice a cool breeze. "Which means I don't have to accompany you anymore."
He turned to leave. My brain, which apparently has a death wish, decided to bypass my dignity.
"But I didn't say you couldn't accompany me!" I blurted out.
Owen stopped. He didn't turn around, but I heard it—a tiny, sharp scoff of amusement. He actually sat back down.
I immediately buried my face in my hands. Kill me now, I thought. Just open the floor and swallow me whole.
"How long?" he asked.
"4:00," I muffled into my palms. "I'm a prisoner until 4:00."
He nodded and pulled out his phone. For the next hour, I tried to be cool. But the silence was so loud it was giving me a migraine. I raised a fist and made a tiny, aggressive punching motion at the back of his head. Hmph. Arrogant icicle.
"So," I said, my voice echoing too loudly. "Does the coffee come with a manual, or do you always just order for people without asking? And for the record, I didn't 'apparently' stand up for you. I got detention. There is no 'apparent' about it."
Owen’s thumb paused on his screen. He slowly turned his head, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.
"You seem very fixated on that word, Miss Wilson."
"I am fixated on accuracy!" I snapped. "And don't call me that."
"I see." He went back to his phone.
"I hate you," I whispered to my desk.
"I know," he replied.
I let out a loud, dramatic sigh and face-planted onto the table. I’d meant to just rest for a second, but the boredom was a heavy blanket.
Knock. Knock.
I jerked awake, my vision blurry and a small, shameful string of drool threatening to escape my lip. Owen was standing right over me, his hand resting on my desk.
"It's time to leave," he said.
"I knew that," I lied, wiping my chin with my sleeve and tripping over my own feet as I stood up.
We walked out of the school in a silence that was slightly less suffocating than before. Outside, the air was soft, and a few stray cherry blossom petals were still drifting through the parking lot in the afternoon light. At the entrance, I turned to him and gave a stiff, formal bow.
"Thank you for the... accompaniment. I guess."
Owen gave a faint nod.
"But seriously," I pushed, walking backward. "Why did you stay? I told you to leave."
Owen’s body stiffened for a fraction of a second. He looked at his car, then back at me, his eyes unreadable. "No reason."
"Liar!" I yelled over my shoulder.
In the Cafe...
"You look like you've been run over by a tractor," Wendy said as I collapsed into the booth.
"Worse," I groaned, resting my forehead on the table. "I spent two hours with the Ice King. I think I have hypothermia."
Wendy opened her mouth to grill me, but Philip beat her to it. He silently crossed his arms, his Bodyguard Mode dial turned up to eleven.
"Phil? Are you mad at me?" I asked with a cheeky pout.
Phil let out a long, heavy sigh. "I'm not mad. But what if you’d gotten hurt? What if Peterson's friends had done more than just shout?"
"But I'm fine!" I cut in, looking down at my hands. "I'm sorry!"
Wendy elbowed Phil, giving him a hard stare. "She's fine, Phil. Focus."
"Yeah, right," Phil muttered, rolling his eyes but finally letting his shoulders drop as he scanned me for any actual scratches. "As long as you're fine, it's okay."
"Anyway," Wendy said, sliding a menu toward me. "What do you want to eat? My treat."
"I really want to eat fried chicken," I said, my spirit finally returning.
"Let’s order then!"
We stayed for an hour, the tension of the day finally melting away. By the time I got back to the dorm and finished my bath, it was past 8:00.
"Wendy! I'm going to sleep now," I called out across the shared suite. "If I don't wake up in the morning, wake me up, please."
Wendy replied with an "okay," and within seconds, I dozed off.
- Writer
