[“Morning after the murder”]
How did Malik and Charlotte Blackwood even become friends? It was a question and perhaps the most easy question to answer because it was as simple as: they just had too. Everyone knew of Malik’s love for cheerleaders, and everyone knew Charlotte Blackwood was one of the best cheerleaders this school has encountered, but not only that, Malik remembers Charlotte being one of the first people to greet him, when he moved into the neighborhood.
t See, Malik’s dad was a famous athlete — the kind of man people recognized at gas stations and grocery stores, the kind of man who lived on highlight reels and endorsement deals. Until the injury. A bad leg break during a game that ended the career everyone thought he’d have for another decade. It healed, sure, but never well enough for the field. Malik remembered being little and hearing the TV commentators whisper about “the tragic end,” “the wasted potential,” “the fall.”
The woman who birthed him-who Malik refuses to call “mother” because the word feels too warm for her — was the one who insisted they move. She wanted a “nice quiet town” where they could “start fresh,” and really, she just wanted somewhere to parade her still-famous husband and pretend the life she lost hadn’t slipped out of her fingers.
So they packed up, settled, and Malik was young enough to be impressionable but old enough to know none of this was his choice. Charlotte Blackwood arrived at their door on their second night in town with a plate of cookies and the confidence of a girl who’d already decided she liked him. She had stepped inside before his dam (mother) could say no.
“Hi! I’m Charlotte. I live down the street. These have chocolate chips — unless you’re allergic? Oh my god, are you allergic?”
And from then on, she was simply a fixture of Malik’s childhood. Not his closest friend — that was Isaac Mercer, well, at that time at least.
So when Charlotte admitted to Malik, in a half-whisper, half-whine,
“Ugh, Isaac keeps asking me out,”
Malik just raised an eyebrow.
“Surprise you’re even his type.” He teased her, though he knew for a while know Isaac liked Charlotte, anyone would be blind not to notice. “But you could do worst, he actually likes you.”
Between Malik’s encouragement, and Isaac’s relations with Keir, Charlotte decided to date Isaac Mercer for many different reasons and when that relationship kicked rocks, Malik was still friends with the both of them.
So now, how could a friendship so sweet turn sour like this. Man, he should really have listened when Keir called Charlotte a b!tch because she was acting like a grade A btch right now. Yup, Charlotte 's been fcking ignoring his calls, and it was getting to him, because a few days ago, she had told him, that she didn’t feel sane keeping his secret. Like, excuse me? Since when did Charlotte Blackwood decide to become mother theresa?
Whatever Mother theresa feelings she was having, Malik did not need to take the blunt of it, and thus they had a little fight, with Charlotte at first, saying fine she wouldn’t tell again, to something else, to Malik yelling at her and calling her a b!tch (which to be fair she was) to her getting mad at him and saying she was going to tell, running out of his house before he could stop her and now ignoring his calls.
His dad would really kill him if this sht gets out. Malik groaned, punching his locker. His fist met the metal with a loud clang, sharper than he meant, and pain shot through his knuckles. Malik didn’t even look at them at first — he just pressed his forehead against the cold locker door and exhaled through gritted teeth.
Then, as the sting settled into a dull throb, he finally pulled his hand back.
His knuckles were split open. Tiny red beads welling up, smearing across his skin and dripping just barely down his wrist. Great. Perfect. Exactly what he needed the morning after Charlotte Blackwood decided to try and ruin his life and not even phone him. Like this is the 00s, we have phones now.
The hallway swallowed the noise until a familiar voice cut in:
“Bro… what the hell happened to your hand?”
Theo Hansen — six foot two, built like a twig with some muscles, and somehow still the most dramatic guy on the team — stared at Malik like he had grown a second head.
Malik didn’t bother looking up. "Tell Coach I’m not coming to practice.”
Theo blinked. Hard.
“Be serious for one second. We have conditioning. Conditioning, Malik. You skip today, Coach’ll shave you alive.”
“I’m feeling under the weather,” Malik muttered.
Theo scoffed, full body, full attitude.
“You were literally doing push-ups on the cafeteria table yesterday to impress some junior girls and now you’re under the weather."
"Well, that’s the thing about the human body Hansen, we can’t control when we feel under the weather, no wonder you failed biology,” Malik rolled his eyes, grabbed his bag with the non-bleeding hand, and started walking “Don’t forget to tell Coach and hasta juego.”
“Bruh,” Theo called after him, “you are unbelievable! And by the way it’s Hasta luego not juego, dumbass"
Malik didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. Didn’t care. He just needed to rinse the blood off, clear his head, and pretend — even for five minutes — that his entire world wasn’t slipping through his fingers because Charlotte Blackwood couldn’t keep her mouth shut.
He pushed a bathroom door open, not caring to look at which gender he entered, with his shoulder, walked straight to the sink—
And froze.
Because standing right there, arms folded, face set in permanent disgust, was Maggie.
Maggie, who hated his guts.
Maggie, who never passed up a chance to glare at him like he kicked puppies for fun.
Maggie, who always had that why are you breathing near me expression ready the moment she saw him.
She eyed his bloody hand instantly.
And he sighed, already annoyed.
“Can you not start right now?” Malik muttered, turning on the sink. “If you couldn’t guess, I’m injured. Be a good… Samaritian— Samari— whatever the hell it’s called. I’ve already dealt with too many bitchin, can a teenage boy not find rest in this town?"
@Ouijaloveletters - Maggie