Don't Get Caught [01]

Chapter 1; He Wouldn't Understand.

I never meant for things to turn out so terribly. I never meant to get involved. I never meant to get hurt.
There are a lot of things I meant for never to happen. Although, I could not lie to you and say that none of this was my fault; if I said that, I would be a coward, and a liar. Not only that, but I would be denying what I once wanted at the time of the happenings described from these pages on.
Or, rather, what I still want, but know I can never have. My fate was decided on a brisk February morning; the twenty-second, to be precise. And, what may surprise you, is that I chose this path. I chose to live in despair, and I chose to live the rest of my life wishing that I could have back what I denied.
But I would not let myself live in happiness while weighing down the thing I wanted most down along with me. To sink it.
To let him live in chains for the profit of my happiness.
Though, before I begin my story, let me tell you this: I loved that man. I loved him more than I loved myself, or anything else in the entire world, for that matter.
Just remember that what I did, I did for love. I would kill myself in an instant if it would make him smile. I would do anything if it would make him happy.
And I was willing to sacrifice my entire lifetime of ever being content to give him the chance to make the most of his own.
It just might take him a while to truly see that.

I first met Jeremy Lowe on September the second, on my first day of high school at Benton High.

My legs took me down the long, colorless hallway that I was only all too unfarmiliar with. I stared at the door, locked at the end of the corridor. Loud, authoritive shrieks came from within, causing an anxious shiver to travel down my spine. I begged for my feet to slow, but it seemed that they wouldn't listen. No matter how loud I pleaded with myself, there was nothing I could say or do to merely stop, turn around, and skip this death-sentence which I would soon be carrying out.
"Please," I cried inwardly, "don't make me go. Please, don't make me go."
There would be no persuading with my legs; my mind, it would seem, had shut down, so that the rest of my body was doing whatever it felt the need to do.
Giving up, I found it hopeless to try and stop what I knew was bound to happen anyways. I stood out the detention room's door, looking inside at the many students sitting at the desks; their hands were crossed perfectly, poised with complete precision.
Or, nearly every student.
There was one student, in particular, that I found not to be paying even the slightest bit of attention to what was the man conducting the incarceration had to say. This only made his bellowing grow louder. I shrunk down in apprehension before knocking on the door.
All eyes in the room immediately fell on me, staring intently at the cause of the noise upon the door. My fingers curled around the icy metal door handle, and turned it with extreme sluggishness.
"How nice of you to join us, Miss Jacobs," I heard the voice of the man greet, though he sounded neither happy nor sad for my appearance in detention. "It is your first day at Benton, and you have succeeded in gaining a session with me. Splendid."
What kind of man says "splendid"? I asked myself incredulously, though I was careful not to speak this thought aloud.
"Why don't you take a seat," he suggested pointedly, motioning to a seat behind the boy who seemed to be unaware of my presence; he was also the boy who was not paying any attention to his position in detention, and he did not seem to care.
I shrugged my backpack into a different (and inevitably more comfortable) position on my shoulder, and let my legs drag me towards the seat that teacher told me to sit at. Setting my bag on the linoleum floor beneath the table, I pulled out the chair and took a seat.
My place in the classroom was next to a girl who looked my age, though she seemed quite afraid to be in the classroom. Had she ever been in detention before? My guess was drifting south.
She was quite beautiful, though; her eyes were a deep seafoam green, and her ruby locks fell around her face in small manicured tufts. I wondered if she was popular at school. Perhaps she was a cheerleader, or on the pep-squad. Her face was perfect enough to be on the cover of a magazine; it was shaped like a heart.
"I am going to leave this room, as I always do," the teacher (whose name I still had yet to remember) said with a strong sturdiness in his voice, "but that does not mean you are allowed to speak under any circumstances. The door to this room will be left open, so if I hear a peep out of any of you, you're in Saturday school."
I made a mental note to zip my mouth shut.
"You will all work on homework, and when I return at four o'clock, you all will show me what you have done."
And, with his god-complex personality, he left the room with an extra hop in his step. The door slammed shut behind him with an air of disgust, and a few students let out a sigh of relief. Apparently, there was more than one person frightened of being in detention.
The boy in front of us stirred in his seat, before standing up and taking a few steps towards the chalk board in the front of the room.
It seemed so natural to him, and to everyone else in the room, that I could do nothing but stare at his actions in disbelief. He snatched a piece of white chalk from the edge beneath the blackboard, and began to scribble letters, which were pieced together to form words on it.
"Go suck your dxck," I murmured, inwardly grimacing at the saying written on the board in big, bold, capitalized letters.
He turned around to give me a glare, his nostrils flaring; staring at me hatefully would seem to be an everyday task for him, albeit I had only met him this very day in this very detention. My guess was that he was merely a horribly detestable child, and gave out looks the same as the one I caught daily. Perhaps he was a bully; even if he wasn't, I was hardly afraid of him. In fact, he seemed a bit insufferable to me. A bit annoying.
That was, at the time.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize that what I wrote applied to you," he spat, walking back to his seat in a loud huff. He seemed to be both sarcastic and rude. And perverted.
"My appologies," I told him, turning my eyes to the smooth tabletop beneath my arms, which lay limply above it.
I heard a chuckle beside me. Turning my head, I observed it to be the girl whom I had been forced to sit beside. She smiled at me lazily.
"You're new here," she commented, staring at me with a look that said she had no doubt in her mind I was a regular student at Benton. When I nodded my head, she smiled.
"I knew it," she said. "Your face is too fresh to be one of the normal kids here."
"Yeah," I told her, my hand raising upwards to scratch the back of my neck, "well, I guess my face is pretty fresh."
She smirked. "The name's Rachelle."
"I'm Linda."
She smiled with a nod, but was suddenly immediately stiff due to something she must have caught out of the corner of her eye. I turned my head to find the mystery teacher in the front of the classroom once again. His face was calm, as he turned to sit at his desk.
I bit my lip, glad that he was not aware of our chatter, but my stomach was churning; how would he react to a specific writing on the wall.
His face remained calm, until he passed the scripture on the board, scratched onto the surface in messy handwriting. Nearly immediately, the skin consealing his face turned bright red; crimson, and was most likely hot to the touch. His eyes flashed to the boy sitting directly in front of me, a flame of hatred easily detected inside.
"Jeremy," he spat, "you are going to be meeting with me this Saturday. Seven o'clock, do not be late."
"I am afraid, sir, that I won't be able to attend," he shrugged sadly, though the rest of the classroom and I were fully aware that he was just being smart.
The teacher smiled mockingly. "Oh?" he asked. "Is that so?"
"Yes," he nodded in mock-despair, "I'm afraid it's true."
"Well then," he said, his head turning sharply to the side, "what exactly could you possibly be doing?"
"Oh, you know," the boy, who I had now learned to be called "Jeremy" said, "I'll be doing anything that includes me not being here at seven o'clock."
"Well, it seems you'll have to cancel your plans," the teacher spat angrily, "because you will be here, or you will receive a suspension. Is that alright, Lowe?"
He smirked up at the teacher. "Of course," he answered, "I would love to see your lovely face this Saturday."

Jeremy Lowe was his name, and I will never forget it.
Jeremy Lowe.
What a terribly wonderful conundrum you turned out to be.
Say a prayer, but let the good times roll.
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