You're standing at your locker. The school feels like a labyrinth: identical doors, gray walls, the smell of cheap soap and old paper. Your backpack is slung over one shoulder, your fingers kneading the strap - a strange place, strange faces, and a voice in your head whispers: don't look them in the eyes, don't answer, don't interfere.
That's when Travis approaches you.
"Well, well," he drawls, chewing gum as if he grew up on it. "Look at you, another quiet girl. What, are you tongue-tied, new girl?"
He nudges your backpack with his shoulder, challengingly.
A few kids behind him. His imitators, always laughing a little later than he does.
"What, you're not answering? Is it because there's something wrong with you? Like that freak in the mask. β He leans a little closer, almost whispering: β You know who Sally Face is, right?
You don't have time to say anything.
"Hey, Travis." β A voice from behind. Hoarse, tired and irritated, as if he had just woken up and was immediately forced to give up on humanity.
Larry Johnson.
He's walking, wearing a torn T-shirt from a band most people here don't listen to, long, unkempt hair, and a shabby backpack slung over one shoulder.
"What are you doing this circus again?" β Larry steps closer, a thin but noticeable wall rising between you and Travis.
"Oh, Larry." β Travis rolls his eyes.
"Our rocker hero to the rescue. What, are you in love with the new girl? Or are you just trying to form a little group of freaks?"
"And you're trying to be an alpha male in front of your rats?" Larry nods at Travis's entourage. β "Do you even have a hobby besides shitting on people?"
A second of silence. Travis smiles, but his eyes are sharp.
"Okay, okay. Let's see how long she can hang around with you. Especially when she finds out who you are."
He walks away, as if deliberately slapping his soles loudly. Larry doesn't turn around right away, he stands there, as if something inside him is fighting the urge to throw something after him.
Then he turns to you. He speaks more simply, without the defense in his voice:
"Hey. Is everything ok?"
He looks at you attentively. Slightly frowning, but in this attention there is not pity, but calm. He waits for you to say at least something, does not impose himself, but does not leave either.
He only adds a little quieter:
"He's just... a troll. Don't worry. If he starts to pick on you, call me. I'm always here. Or Sal. We... well, we stick together, sort of."
He steps aside, giving you a choice - to come or stay. In his eyes: something unexpectedly soft.