*Author's Note: All characters in this story are eighteen & older. No underage characters are present in the story, or put into suggestive situations. Thank you for reading and enjoy the start of this story.*
For all my life, the only sound that I could ever hear in my mind, was that of a gunshot. A sound that for someone like me, has grown into three meanings. The first of which, is a painful reminder of how my father decided he wasn't meant for this Earth. It happened when I was only five, with memories being like watered down paintings. I can only ever seem to remember the broad strokes, but never the details of the corpse that once laid before me. My mother shielded my eyes, if not a bit too slow, leaving just enough time for my trauma to sink in at such an early age. My sisters luckily were not in the house when it happened. Meaning they wouldn't understand the horrors that have made me who I am today.
The second meaning is that of my motto since that day has taken place. To keep moving forward, even if it means burying the past. I focused on school, drilling in every lesson so my life, and by self-indulgent reasoning's, his wouldn't be a waste. Honor rolls, dean's list, and a full ride scholarship to the college my family is all attending. It's rather amazing what ignoring people can do to one's potential. The final meaning to a gun shot, is that of a race starting. Every time the coach pulls the trigger, my legs begin to run on their own. Whether it is to genuinely win or to run from my past, it has made me since an incredible track star. So incredible, that even though my first year in college is only a month in, I am considered the next 'Westwood Academy Speedster'.
The wind clashing against my skin in effort to push me back to where I once kneeled in waiting. The new shoes being worked in right after I bought them over the summer. The sound of them hitting on the school's new track and field, letting me gain speed without much resistance. The blurry vision that only becomes clear when my eyes gaze forward towards the line that ends every dash I try. The line gains momentum, making me want to speed up. I know better than that, keeping my pace, knowing that within two more seconds, I will have beaten my personal record for the fifty-yard dash. Why does the two seconds it takes to win always seem longer? Like someone in the bleachers had a remote to life, slowing everything down to their liking. However, as with all things, the end finally came. My running slowed down to a brisk walk, before finally halting in my tracks. My breath slightly shaky, trying to catch the air that had since left my lungs. My hearing opened to the voice of my coach, who whistled out in a happy tune, more than likely about the exact seconds his stopwatch was showing.
"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch, James! You beat the personal record you set last year!" The coach smiled at me, his old, wrinkled grin taking in the fact he made the right call scouting me out back in high school. The day he came was the same day I set the record in the first place, making me the fastest runner in most counties by age seventeen. Though, the only reason that happened was because it was also the anniversary of my father's passing. Guess I was trying to outrun whatever bad thoughts would chase me. Coincidences are funny like that. The way they line up can make things seem more impressive than they are. "Guess all you Reid kids are something else. Though, wish your sister would take a little more time to focus on volleyball..." His words trailed off, with his eyes shifting over to the cheer squad, where at the top of their pyramid, was my sister. Autumn, the middle child, does both cheerleading and volleyball. Both of which is how she even got her scholarship here. Not to offend my own blood, but she isn't exactly that smart of a person. I sighed a little, before walking towards the changing room.
"I'll see you around, coach." With my unenthusiastic and monotone reply, I quickly got into the showers to wash off the sweat that had layered upon my skin. Nothing beats the feeling of cold-water dancing across sore muscles. After I dried off and put on my normal everyday clothes, I looked into the mirror for the first time in a while. By that, I mean look at how I appear to others nowadays. James Reid, standing at five-four, and what people would call short for a man. Shaggy unkempt black hair, with the ends reaching over my eyes so they always covered. My white pale complexion underneath baggy dark clothing.
To top it off is a slightly oversized hoodie I wear, even in the heat. Looking at my overall vibe, I wouldn't want to talk to me either. I probably look like some virgin loner who only plays video games. Though, that wouldn't be exactly an incorrect assumption for people to make. Putting aside my appearance, I grabbed my school bag, ready to start walking home. Our home is only about a mile out from the school grounds, making it easy to just take the sidewalks to and from. I simply put on my headphones and drown out the traffic. Before I could put my headphones on though, my phone buzzes for the first time since I got into the changing room. It was my sister, Autumn, asking for me to meet her by her locker before I head out.
I couldn't help it, letting a tired sigh escape my lips, wishing I could just not have to deal with her shit. However, being a good brother I am, or more so the fact I just don't want any trouble when I get home, I walked across the school to get to her locker where she stood in waiting. Her best friend since middle school, Aiko Mizumi, was by her hip as she usually is. This is when something clicked into my brain that I never gave any thought to before when growing up around the people I've come close to. What do they really look like now? Are there things I don't notice because I am too caught up in my head? After the changing room mirror earlier, I decided to take a moment of my time to look at the two women who stood in front of me.
My sister Autumn was leaning against the locker, letting the cold metal rub against the fabric of her pink off-shoulder sweater. Her skirt barely reached mid-thigh, which I am sure half the men at this school just love. Thigh high socks ride up her skin with tiny pink bows at the top. Her shoes are checkered pink Vans that she got last Christmas, and ever since she has worn them almost daily. Her nails were slightly long with a pink painted finish. Her neck was adorned with a small pearl necklace her ex-boyfriend gave her before he moved away. Her face had a little makeup on it, giving her a soft blush alongside what I guess others would call sensual lips thanks to some lip gloss. Brown colored eyes to match her hair, that flowed down her back all the way to her behind.
Though, a small bit was thrown over the front of her shoulder, with it being too much to just lay all behind her. Her light yet dark complexion looked moisturized and taken care of, even though it really is just genetics that do most of the work. She got her skin from her dad's side, with her being half African American. Topping off her looks is a little pink bow she puts on her hair, to match the ones that hang on her thigh highs. Her looks have garnered attention from most of the men that go to Westwood, even if she denies them all for one reason or another. She hasn't had a boyfriend in two years, and when mom ever asks her why, her reasoning always boils down to 'haven't found the right one yet'.
With a snap of her fingers, my attention goes back into reality, pulling me from my thoughts. Her words spoke to me in a rather unpleasant tone. "Jamie, I need you to take my bag home." Jamie, the nickname my sisters call me, even when out in public. The name stems from my mother who thought she was going to have another girl during pregnancy, only to be greeted by a boy. So, after one drunken night, mom accidentally calls me Jamie, making the rest history. I squeezed the bridge of my nose with my fingers, before looking down at her five-two self.
"Why do I have to be the one to do? Also, where are you even going?" Autumn didn't look at me, checking her nails for any dirt or grime that could have made it onto them during cheerleading practice.
"One, I am your older sister, so you are supposed to do what I say. Two, I am going to mall with Aiko." I shook my head, fidgeting with the strap on my bag.
"One, you are only nineteen, meaning one year older than me. Secondly..." My voice trailed off as I noticed Aiko blowing a bubble with the gum that she was currently chewing on. Aiko has always been by Autumn, even though their personalities are quite different. My sister can be very loud and most of the time dumb, while Aiko is intelligent and quiet. Her focus was on her phone, so I took a quick second to do what I have now done twice today and take in her appearance. Aiko was the same height as me at five-four, with slightly tannish skin. If I remember correctly, she is Asian, specifically Japanese with her family coming over to America when she was only eight. Straight black hair that sits halfway down her back. Green eyes with little to no makeup. A sort of mustard colored sweater above a black skirt that reaches slightly below mid-thigh. With lastly some blue Vans and yellow socks that have blue lines at the top of them.
"Jamie, you going to finish your sentence or gawk at my friend like a little pervert?" I quickly looked at my sister with a frown, noticing out of the corner of my eyes Aiko gaining a soft blush.
"Ugh... Fine." I grabbed the bag from her shoulder, to which she just scoffed at. After slinking it over my free shoulder, I stepped to the side to let my sister pass through. My eyes slowly made their way to Aiko, who after meeting my gaze, walked past me to follow Autumn. After watching them disappear down the hall, I finally was able to continue my path home. For a good thirty seconds, until a familiar voice called out to me.
"Oh, James, a moment!" I turned around, kind of disappointed that I couldn't have at least been stopped outside. My art teacher was approaching me, fixing up her wide circle frames on her glasses. Makena Aguta, an art and creative writing teacher who used to work in Lagos, Nigeria. Despite being forty, she barely looks twenty-five, with her slender five-six frame. A skin like milk chocolate that always seems to compliment her outfits, which like a lot of days consists of a strapless crop top, followed by a gray jacket to cover up skin so the school board doesn't throw a fit. Brown flare yoga pants, polished nails, and fuzzy yet long brown hair that flows to mid-back. Light blue eyes, light blush with makeup, and her shoes usually being like brown slides. Unsurprisingly, many of Westwood's new students tend to have a crush on her, even though if they even spent a few minutes talking to her, they realize her priorities are far beyond finding a man. She usually is focused on taking care of her daughter, who a picture of can be seen on her desk.
"Mr. Reid, I can tell when you are in your head, so please come back to reality." I blinked a few times, finding myself a mere inch of my teacher's face, making me quickly jump back. She giggled, fixed her hair and posture before speaking again.
"I wanted to remind you of your project that's due tomorrow. Remember, no need to go crazy since this will be the first of many projects I will be assigning throughout the year." The project she is referring to is the drawing we must do of some fruit, which I already completed at lunch.
"It will be on your desk Monday morning, ma'am." She gave a nod with a smile, before going back to her classroom. Finally, without any more interruptions, I made my way out of the school grounds. With indie music blasting their way into my ears, I focused on the ground that my feet tread, not wanting to really look at anyone more than I already have. What was with me today anyways? Sometimes I think I overindulge my senseless thoughts. For example, today I gave a piss poor excuse to check out three females, one of which was my sister. Ignoring the implications of that part, I should keep my eyes focused from here on out. At least, that would have been the plan if my best friend since middle school didn't exist. Before I knew it, I was pulled by my backpack, with the back of my head landing on something soft. My headphones were moved down without my say in the matter before a voice reached my ears from a rather close distance.
