DETENTION AND DENIAL
1476 Words
Chapter Five – Detention and Denial
If there was one thing I swore I’d never do at Crescent Ridge High, it was land myself in trouble.
But apparently, fate had other plans.
It started in Chemistry class. We were supposed to be working in pairs on a simple reaction — supposed to be the key phrase. My partner had bailed, leaving me to muddle through the assignment alone. Of course, that was when Eric Leone and his little entourage decided to make their grand entrance. Late. Loud. Distracting.
“Try not to blow up the lab, Leone,” I muttered under my breath as he brushed past my table.
He didn’t even glance at me, but the smirk tugging at his mouth said he’d heard.
By the time the teacher turned his back, my patience was already wearing thin. And then Eric’s friend — Nate, the same i***t from the hallway — decided to flick a crumpled ball of paper in my direction. It landed in my beaker. The solution hissed, bubbled, and before I could react — boom.
It wasn’t an explosion, but it was loud enough to send a cloud of smoke spiralling into the air and trigger the fire alarm. Screams echoed, alarms blared, and students stumbled over each other as we evacuated.
The best part? When the smoke cleared, guess who the teacher blamed?
“You and Leone. Detention. After school. Today,” Mr Halvorson barked.
I opened my mouth to protest, but Eric just shoved his hands in his pockets and said nothing. That infuriating, indifferent silence was worse than any smart remark he could’ve thrown at me.
---
The detention room smelled faintly of bleach and boredom. It was a narrow space tucked at the end of the west wing, with peeling paint and too many desks for the few unfortunate souls sentenced there.
And of course, Eric was already there when I arrived — lounging in a chair like he owned the place, tapping his pen against the desk with maddening rhythm.
I dropped into the seat farthest from him and glared at the clock. One hour. Sixty minutes. How bad could it be?
“Didn’t think you had it in you,” Eric said casually after a few minutes.
I didn’t look at him. “Had what?”
“To get detention. Thought you were too busy being perfect.”
“Perfect?” I scoffed. “I was doing my work. You’re the one who started the circus.”
He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “I didn’t throw anything.”
“No, but your i***t friend did.”
“Not my problem.”
That did it. I snapped my head toward him. “Not your—? He only did it because you egged him on.”
His lips curved into that same infuriating half-smile. “Maybe he just thought you needed to loosen up.”
I clenched my fists under the desk. “Or maybe you’re all just children who think everything’s a joke.”
Eric leaned back in his chair, studying me with that maddeningly calm expression. “You really hate it here, don’t you?”
“What gave it away?” I shot back.
“The way you glare at everything. Like you’d rather burn the whole town down than be here.”
“I didn’t ask to come here.” My voice was sharper than I intended. “I had a life. Friends. Plans. And then my mom decided I needed a ‘fresh start.’”
Something flickered in his eyes — curiosity, maybe — but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. “Fresh starts aren’t always a bad thing.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Yeah?” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. “You think it’s easy being me?”
I opened my mouth, ready with a snarky reply, but the words froze on my tongue. For just a second, there was something real behind his eyes — something I couldn’t place. But then he blinked, and the mask was back.
“Forget it,” I muttered, tearing my gaze away. “I’m not doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“This fake heart-to-heart thing. You’re the last person I’d ever open up to.”
“Good,” he said easily. “Because I wasn’t offering.”
God, I hated him.
And worse — I hated that part of me didn’t.
---
The clock ticked painfully slowly. Fifteen minutes felt like fifty.
I tried to focus on my notebook, doodling nonsense in the margins, but every sound Eric made — every sigh, every tap of his pen — grated on my nerves.
“Can you not?” I snapped after the tenth tap.
“Not what?”
“Tap. Breathe. Exist. Take your pick.”
He chuckled — a low, rich sound that sent an unwelcome flutter through my chest. “Touchy.”
I slammed my notebook shut. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Immensely.”
“Of course you are.” I exhaled sharply. “Do you ever stop being so—”
“So what?” he pressed, eyes gleaming with amusement.
“—you.”
“Sorry, sweetheart. That’s not something I can turn off.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“What, sweetheart?”
“Yes.”
“Noted… sweetheart.”
I groaned, dragging my hands down my face. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
I froze. “What?”
He didn’t look at me this time. Just leaned back again, stretching his long legs out under the desk like he was perfectly at ease. “If you did, you wouldn’t bother arguing. Hate’s too much effort for someone you don’t care about.”
I stared at him, stunned into silence. The nerve of him. The arrogance.
And yet… I couldn’t shake the tiniest, most infuriating sliver of truth in his words.
“Congratulations,” I muttered. “That’s the most narcissistic thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you.”
---
Half an hour in, detention was still unbearable — but something had shifted. The silence wasn’t quite so suffocating anymore. The tension wasn’t just anger; it was something heavier, stranger, harder to name.
I caught myself sneaking glances at him. Once. Twice. Too many times.
Each time, I told myself I was just making sure he wasn’t looking at me.
But he was.
Every time our eyes met, he didn’t look away. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t speak. Just watched me, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle he hadn’t realised he cared about solving.
It was infuriating. And unsettling. And something else I refused to name.
---
The final ten minutes dragged by in near silence, save for the faint scratching of my pen and the occasional creak of Eric shifting in his seat.
When the clock finally struck four, Mr Halvorson — who had been grading papers at his desk the entire time — cleared his throat.
“You’re free to go,” he said without looking up.
I was out of my seat in an instant. My bag was on my shoulder before the words had fully left his mouth.
But Eric didn’t move.
He watched me walk toward the door, and just as I reached for the handle, he spoke.
“You know,” he said, voice deceptively casual, “for someone who claims to hate me, you talk to me a lot.”
I froze. Slowly, I turned back to face him. “You’re delusional.”
“Maybe.” His smirk returned, lazy and infuriating. “Or maybe you’re just bad at pretending.”
I didn’t have a comeback. And that made me even angrier.
“Go to hell, Leone,” I muttered, yanking the door open.
His laughter followed me down the hallway — low, amused, and far too pleased with itself.
---
By the time I stepped outside, the afternoon sun was already dipping low, painting the sky in streaks of orange and gold. I inhaled deeply, trying to shake the lingering electricity from the room.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
I wasn’t supposed to notice him.
Eric Leone was everything I resented about this place — arrogant, untouchable, smug. He was a reminder of everything I’d lost and everything I didn’t want.
And yet…
I hated that I couldn’t stop replaying our conversation. The way his voice dipped low when he teased me. The way he looked at me like he could see straight through the walls I’d built.
I hated it. I hated him.
At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
---
But deep down, buried beneath the denial and the anger, something small and traitorous whispered that maybe — just maybe — hate wasn’t the only thing growing between us.
- Writer
