I MISS THE BUS.

Once safely back inside the school, I realize that I have no way of contacting my parents. I have no cellular device nor the ability to speak through one anyway. Despite these complications, I realize warily that I do not even wish to contact them.

Their reactions are already clear in my head; the coarse, feminine disapproval of my mother and the noncommital grunt of disappointment from my father. I pause in my stride and realize I do not want to go home.

For what defines a home anyhow? For others, it might be perceived as a sanctuary or temporary bliss, a place to drown in relief and self-indulgement, a place to be one's self in the fullest. For some, it is hell on earth, where one's demons hide and lure them into their trap. They do not wish to suffer, for their home is their death.

I like to think that my home is somewhere in between, lost between the temptations of good and bad. But alas, my home is not technically my home.

If where home is where the heart is, then I belong in the depths of my imagination where pain does not exist and happiness is found in its full stature and genuine state.

That is my home.

I wander around the building aimlessly, ducking behind corners as I pretend to be a safari explorer, on the prowl for information and energized with the thirst for adventure. In my hands are my camera, which snap pictures of unsuspecting janitorial staff as if they were the lion on the hunt.

Candid photos are my favorite because the moment is caught in its utmost best, filled with unknown secrets and a story to tell. Emotions are shown through the most unsuspecting photos, catching everyone in a state of perpetual joy. Or sadness. Or anger. It all varies, I assume.

It is only until I pass by an open door that I pause in my exploration and turn my head towards the entryway in awe.

Music is streaming past the open barrier, sweeping me onto my feet and twirling me around in its melodies and harmonies, acting as one being. Although the music is anything but sweet, the edgy guitars intermingling with one another through counteracting melodies, the drums harsh and stiff, and the bass line attacking phrases with vindication, I am drawn to it. To its beauty.

And then it blossoms into a scene I cannot fathom.

His voice is like a phantom, creeping and quiet through the music, lurking in the shadows until it struck, and Chase's voice grows with confidence, infused with a raspy tint that sends shivers down my spine.

I peer past the open door, one eye open and concentrate on the boy with the guitar, with not an acoustic in his hands but an electric as the contours of his lips grazes the edge of the microphone in front of him.

Unknowingly, I reach my camera to my face and start snapping pictures, quite proud that I had remembered to turn off the flash. I take multiple photos, not of just Chase, but his band as they all become one mechanism in a clockwork of sound.

Yet suddenly the music comes to an abrupt stop and I hear a voice scold pointedly in my direction, "Really, Eleanor? That's the second time this week."

I feel like I have been caught doing something irresponsible, such as sneaking onto the roof at night to document the stars, or perhaps staying up until early in the morning to perfect the adjustments on one of my digital cameras. Both of which events my parents had fully punished me for.

Chase's expression is not angry though, like my parents would have been. Instead they are filled with amusement as he raises a curious eyebrow in my direction.

Hesitantly, I glide into the room, hugging the camera to my chest and looking anywhere but at his eyes.

"Oi, who's the girl?" The boy behind the silver kit questioned, a slight Irish lilt to his high voice. He is fair-skinned with fiery hair messed up in the front yet definitively clean towards the back.

"A friend," Chase replies with a shrug and I look towards him with my mouth stretched into a small 'o' of surprise, "Eleanor."

Friend.

"Why is this the first time I've seen you around these parts, beautiful?" The boy to the right of Chase pipes up. He winks and I blush as a response. He is accustomed with short, spiked hair the color of darkened gold, his eyes a mischievous shade of periwinkle.

"Fuck off, Dylan." Another boy, holding a beautifully crafted bass guitar and standing opposite said Dylan snorts. He turns to me with a roll of the eyes, "Just ignore him and anything he says. He's a manwhore."

"Hey!" Dylan objects.

The boy who had addressed the second guitarist besides Chase is dark-skinned, his hair a poof of chaotically organized frizz. 

Chase removes the strap of his guitar, the harness brushing over his shoulders, and places the instrument gingerly on the rack beside him. "What are you still doing here anyway, El?"

I jolt at the nickname; we're we already close enough to give one another a special name reserved just for that person? I inwardly panic and point out the window. All four boys stare at me in confusion as I feel myself beginning to sweat. I am not a people person, and there are three too many people in this room besides myself and Chase.

I take a pen from my bag and scrawl against the fairness of my skin. The black ink glides and sets itself into the creases of the surface, spelling out slowly like the roots of a tree: Missed the bus. I show them my wrist.

"That sucks," Chase amends. "Do you need a ride home then?"

I widen my eyes and start to shake my head, when Dylan reminds us gracefully of his presence. "Well someone's gonna get laid tonight. I just wish it was me."

My head shakes even more vigorously.

"Jesus," Chase glares at him and throws up his middle finger. The bird, I acknowledge in my mind. He recaptures my attention and asks, "No, really. It's not a problem."

There is something in his tone, one that instantly brings a sense of security and calm to me, and I find myself hesitantly nodding. 

He smiles and adds, "You'll have to wait until after practice though. You can take a seat there," he points to the small line of chairs situated in front of the instrumental set-up. "And take some pictures while you're at it, okay?"

I find myself smiling back with a nod. Excitedly, I turn and make my way to the seats, picking the one closest to center and taking a seat.

  ↛  

"So, why doesn't she talk?" I hear a fierce whisper in the distance, which makes the smile drift slowly away.

"Maybe she's... you know?"

"What if she's just shy?"

"I dare one of you to go ask her."

"No way, man. You do it."

I fiddle with the settings on my camera, frowning deeply. My silence was unnerving to them, so perhaps I should just leave? I don't like to explain why I don't talk. I don't like being discussed about as if I am not there. I feel the back of my eyes begin to sting.

"Listen, so what if she doesn't talk? She's still a human. You act like she's some kind of disease," Chase's voice hushes them all, and I glance towards him. "She's unique and can do whatever the fuck she pleases. Cut her some slack for Christ's sake. Now let's just drop it and give her a gig that she'll enjoy. We have an audience now, so treat her like one." 

I smile, feeling the curve returning as an unknown emotion swells in my chest.

The other three members slowly nod their hands in understanding, struck by their vocalist's speech. Slowly, they all return to their previous positions, eyeing me warily.

Chase smiles and speaks into the microphone, "You didn't hear any of that, right?"

I give him a sheepish and expression and point to the mic, watching embarrassment color his and his band's faces as they realize I had heard every word they said.

---

So, I haven't updated in forever, because I... am working on a new story! It's called The Junk Drawer and you should all check it out because you love me. c

Haha, anyway, I made this chapter longer than usual just for you all faithful Shutter fans, and please do not ask about the names of the members of Chase's band. I know I only mentioned Dylan, but the other two will be introduced in the next chapter.

Hope you enjoyed the chapter. :)

COMMENT. SHARE. VOTE.

-Isa