The Banana Milk
1300 Words
Up close, he was even more striking and even more chilling. His eyes didn’t hold the warmth of someone who had just been saved. They held the cold calculation of someone who didn’t think he needed saving in the first place.
“You were called to the office,” he said, his voice a low, smooth baritone that seemed to vibrate in the quiet hall. “Because you stood up for me.”
I blinked, letting out a short, dry laugh. “Oh, so you can talk. I was starting to think you were part of the furniture.”
He didn’t smile. He didn’t even flinch.
“Anyway, it’s fine,” I said, crossing my arms to hide the fact that my hands were still a little shaky. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
I stared at him, my mouth hanging open just a fraction. The sheer, unmitigated gall of this guy was… impressive.
“How about I treat you to coffee?” he asked.
I froze. Coffee? I was still wrapping my head around the fact that he could talk, and now he was casually ordering me along?
Before I could find my voice, he turned on his heel and started walking. I stood there like a statue, watching him move. Five steps. Ten steps. He didn’t look back. He just walked as if the world would naturally fall in line behind him.
Just as I was about to turn away, he stopped. Glancing over his shoulder, his expression flat as ice, he said, “Coming or not?”
My eyebrows shot up. “Is that how you ask people out? Because it’s a miracle you aren’t drinking that coffee alone.”
He didn’t answer. He just kept walking.
"Wait!" I called out as we passed avending machine. "Since you are so intent on treating me, buy me a banana milk first. Slapping people is exhausting work and my blood sugar is crashing."
Owen stopped, his shoulders dropping as he let out a heavy, audible sigh. He stepped over to the machine, and punched the button for the milk. He practically shoved the cold carton into my hand with a look of pure annoyance before continuing his march toward the school gates.
I stood there for a second, clutching the carton. "Unbelievable," I muttered, but my feet were already moving. Curiosity is a dangerous drug, and I wanted to see what kind of person lived behind that wall of ice.
We stepped out onto the sidewalk where the afternoon heat was shimmering off the asphalt. He didn't say a word, his hands shoved into his pockets as he led the way down the street.
"Is this the part where I realize you’re a kidnapper?" I asked, poking the straw into my milk and taking a long sip. "Because I should warn you, I’m a biter."
He didn't even look at me. He just kept walking as if the world would naturally fall in line behind him.
"Right. Great. Cool," I muttered to his back.
We reached a small café a few blocks away, a quiet place that felt far too sophisticated for a couple of high schoolers. After the waitress took our order, I folded my arms on the table. “Won’t you introduce yourself? Or is it strictly a ‘need-to-know’ basis?”
He didn’t look up from his phone. “Did you?”
“The… what?”
“Introduce yourself,” he repeated, finally looking up.
I bit my lip. Usually I had the upper hand, but he was playing a different game entirely.
“I’m Aurora Wilson,” I said.
“Owen Wembley.”
I’d heard the name, the senior who stayed in the shadows. Mark Peterson was the Sun; Owen was the Dark Side of the Moon.
“You’re a senior?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Fascinating conversation,” I muttered. “I’m glad we did this.”
“What did Student Affairs say?” he asked, ignoring my sarcasm.
“Nothing major. Just a day of detention.”
“And the others?”
“A week each,” I said. When he gave me a suspicious look, I rolled my eyes. “I’m very convincing when I’m not being kidnapped for coffee. Told them it was self-defense.”
He gave a slow nod and returned to his phone. Silence settled between us, thick enough to carve. I stared at the ice cubes bobbing in my peach juice, then at the steam rising from his cup. I wished my sarcasm could generate enough cold to offset the intensity of his silence.
"Do you always ignore people this impressively?" I asked.
Still nothing. I folded my arms. "Great conversation skills. You should teach a class on cold shoulder mastery."
We finished our drinks without another word, the quiet stretching out like it wanted to swallow the world.
The bell for the next period rang as we stepped back into the school.
“Thank you for the coffee,” I said as we reached the lockers.
Owen paused, looking down at me, a tiny flicker of amusement crossing his face. “Well,” he said, voice dropping an octave, “thank you too. For apparently standing up for me.”
He turned and started walking toward the stairs. I watched him go, then couldn’t help myself.
“Apparently?!” I yelled after him. “I slapped a girl into next Tuesday and got my first detention ever! What part of that is ‘apparent,’ you overgrown icicle?!”
He didn’t answer, already striding away, and I huffed as I approached my locker. A folded piece of paper peeked out from the vent. I grabbed it carefully, feeling a weird twist in my chest.
Aurora,
I frowned, turning it over in my hands. So, he’s apologizing… or trying to? My brain filed it under “interesting, but proceed with caution.”
In my next class, Wendy was practically vibrating in her seat next to me.
“Aurora!” she hissed. “We saw the whole thing. Phil is losing his mind. He’s pacing like a caged tiger since lunch.”
“Is he mad?” I groaned.
“He’s past mad. He’s in ‘Who-do-I-need-to-eliminate’ mode. But seriously, what did they say at Student Affairs?”
“Detention,” I muttered. “For the rest of the day.”
“YOU GOT DETENTION?!” Wendy’s voice cracked. The room went silent.
Mr. Harrison turned slowly from the chalkboard. “Miss Miller, care to share what’s more important than the Treaty of Versailles?”
Wendy turned tomato-red. “Um… Aurora’s permanent record, sir?”
“Fascinating,” Mr. Harrison deadpanned. “Find some silence in the back row. Another word, and you can join Miss Wilson in her extracurricular plans.”
Wendy squeaked an apology and ducked behind her textbook. Thirty seconds later, a tiny scrap of paper landed on my desk.
Phil and I are waiting at the usual café. DON’T BE LATE OR PHIL WILL CALL THE POLICE.
I sighed, giving her a small nod.
By 2:00 PM, I was in the detention hall. A small room smelling of floor wax and lost potential. The supervisor told me I couldn’t leave until 4:00. Two hours of staring at the clock.
I leaned back, closing my eyes, trying to erase Owen’s “apparently” from my head. Just as I was about to drift off, the door creaked open.
“I’m already here, Mr. Henderson. I’m not even breathing too loud, I promise,” I mumbled.
“I’m not Henderson.”
My eyes snapped open, breath catching in my throat. I sat up straight, and my heart skipped a beat.
“What are you doing here?” I blurted.
- Writer
