Most people who didn't know Kenner Hawthorne would describe him as a supercilious, haughty brat, with no hopes for his future. Probably a stereotypical bad boy with plain, hollow brown eyes, jet black hair and a short-circuit temper.

    From the intentional, slight skip in his step to the shredded jeans and plain T-shirts that only existed in shades of grey, everything about Kenner screamed arrogance. He didn't care about anything that had nothing to do with him, and wasn't exactly self-sacrificing. But, when push came to shove, he was always there for those he loved, even though there was just a handful of people that fitted into that category.

    He dominated Primswood, having the town's best lawyers as his parents, and had juniors and fellow students cowering when he was upset. Everyone believed he had no feelings or care for anything, but that was where they got it all wrong.

    Kenner cried, Kenner laughed, and Kenner felt pain. Everyone must've noticed that when he dragged himself into school that Monday morning.

    His shoulders were slumped as he pulled his feet across the hallway, his bag limply hanging from his fingers. Around him, students whispered amongst themselves, some even pointing towards him. It had been a widely discussed topic that had clouded his Facebook feed through the weekend -- how Kenner Hawthorne was going to handle the loss.

    His head hung down as he fixed his gaze on the phone in his hand. With every tap he made on it, consolatory messages popped up. And he'd received nearly a hundred in the past week, so was it unreasonable for him to want them to stop? The messages, with all the 'I hope you'll be alright', were just cruel reminders that Kenner had lost a huge part of himself.

    He heaved a tired sigh, and held down the power button until the phone's screen turned black, then shoved it into his pocket. He came to a halt in front of his locker and pressed his forehead on it, squeezing his eyes shut.

   What's he doing?

   Will he be alright?

   Poor boy.

    He wanted the not-so-discreet whispers to stop, they weren't making him feel any better. All it did was make him angry, since it was proof that they saw through his facade. So, he turned to address the nearest gossip he could find when he noticed the crowd forming at a particular locker -- Terrence Donovan's.

    He looked on with interest, too lazy to walk up to them as he leaned on his desk, fingers intertwined, peering at Kenner throug find out what was going on. He noticed the balloons tied to cards, the sweet-smelling candles arranged on the floor, someone had even sprayed an 'R.I.P' on the locker. A picture of Terrence Donovan, the recent profile picture on his Facebook page, was enlarged and placed beside the other gifts. Students stopped by, sad looks on their faces and placed their gifts while Kenner stood and watched, contemplating going up to them to take a closer look.

Suddenly, his face brightened up when he spotted a familiar face among the crowd. Kyra Maynard, his girlfriend, stood behind Liz from chemistry class in front of Terrence's locker. She was dressed in black from her beanie to her sneakers, and Kenner watched her bend and place a rose next to the picture. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then stuck a hand in the air to catch her attention.

She slowly got to her feet, stuffing her hands into the pocket of her hoodie. Her entire body shook as she heaved a sigh, then leaned in to whisper something to Liz. Tucking her heavy, brown locks behind her ears, she glanced towards Kenner's direction and spotted him.

Kyra Maynard was Primswood's cover girl, computer genius and head of student body. She had nothing in common with Kenner, but somehow when she'd slapped him at Mason's party, last year's homecoming and the tongue-lashing she gave him when he'd gotten into a brawl with her brother, Kyra tamed him -- in a way.

She headed towards him, her strides short and uncertain, then came to a stop when the distance between them had closed. Her hazel-green eyes scanned his face for some time as she searched for the right words to say to him.

"What are they doing?" He spoke first, waving his hands nonchalantly at the people gathered near the locker.

"Paying their respects," She answered, still searching his face. "Are you alright?"

"Respects?" Kenner snickered, avoiding her question. "Half of those kids are glad he's gone."

He knew how irritating his best friend could be at times, and on more than one occasion, Terrence had fallen out with some students. And wasn't it fantastic that he recognized some of those faces by T's locker?

Kyra narrowed her eyes at him, her red-coated lips turned down in a scowl as she shifted her weight to another leg. "Look, I know you're hurt, and so am I. And I'm pretty sure other kids are sad T's dead."

Kenner glanced at her, but didn't say anything in reply. He simply took his bag off the floor and began to empty it into his locker.

"Kenner?" She called, observing how his jaws contracted and how he rammed his books into the locker. She tugged at his shirt, shaking him, but it only seemed to infuriate him further.

"Ken!" She repeated, yanking the bag from him.

Kenner stopped and pressed his forehead to the locker, his breathing heavy. His fingers curled into fists by his side as he struggled to control himself.

Terrence could've hung on for a few hours, or not even gone out that evening and all this wouldn't be happening. Kenner didn't know whether he should be mad at Terrence for leaving so abruptly or be mad at himself for handling the loss so terribly.

Terrence had been gone for a week, and to him, it was supposed to be time enough to grieve. Instead, with each passing day, it became even worse to deal with it.

"I miss him," He told Kyra, his voice cracking. "I texted him this morning, and I waited for a reply. Even when I walked through those front doors, I was waiting."

Kyra slowly let go of his bag, then cautiously wrapped her hands around him. He stood still in her embrace for a while, then he dipped his head down to rest on her shoulders, breathing in the mixture of lavender and coconut oil.

****

"You know, this would end very quickly if you just answered my question, Mr. Hawthorne." Principal Radcliffe's stern face contorted with a frown as he pushed his glasses further up his nose and leaned forward on the table, fingers intertwined.

To most people, the air-conditioned room with a shelf on every wall, a desk with a couple of chairs thrown around, would be intimidating. But Kenner had been in here, for both good and bad reasons, more times than he could count.

Kenner kept his gaze fixed on the clock above Principal Radcliffe's head, unconsciously fiddling with the zipper of his bag. He was certain that he had no answer for the man, even though the question in itself was an easy one.

"How are you coping?" Radcliffe repeated, his tone conveying his irritation at Kenner's silence.

Kenner sat up straight and stared at Radcliffe. "What do you care?"

"Mr. Hawthorne..."

"That's my father's name, not mine," Kenner corrected him, taking advantage of the fact that everyone was sympathizing with him.

"Okay, Kenner, we know that you and Terrence Donovan were good friends, and I just wanted to know if you're okay." Radcliffe paused to see if Kenner had anything to say, then continued. "We can organize therapy for you."

"I don't need any therapy," Kenner mused. "What I need is for everyone to keep their noses out of my business."

"Kenner," Radcliffe warned.

Kenner was never one who loved to be seen as weak and soft, and if he took therapy, that was exactly what everyone was going to think. The only time he'd ever let anyone see him down was when his parents officially got divorced a few weeks ago, and in his rage, he'd come to stay at Terrence's place for a couple of days.

That was the first time in years that anyone had seen Kenner cry.

"We put our nose in your business because we care about you." Radcliffe stood up from his seat, scraping his chair against the tiles in the process, and crossed the room to search through a drawer. 

Kenner remained in his seat, occasionally glancing over at Radcliffe, wondering what the grey-headed man was searching for. If it was another inspirational book, he made a mental note to burn it once he got home.

He didn't have to hold the thought for too long, because Radcliffe returned with an old picture that he placed in front of Kenner.

Kenner shrugged at the picture, plain disinterest written all over his face.

"That's Alistair Willis, our very first quarterback. He was very good, better than you," Radcliffe said, making him scoff. "He lost his family to the Willis fire, heard of it?"

Kenner nodded, as he recalled the event that put school in Primswood on a hold for a week. "Willis fire, a mother and her daughter burnt alive."

"Yeah," Radcliffe sighed, taking his glasses off. "It was a terrible loss for everyone around, and Alistair didn't take it very well. First of all, he quit football, stopped coming to school. Next thing, he was found dead in his room. He'd committed suicide."

Kenner cringed in shock. "We heard he was sick!"

"Yeah, that's what his relatives asked us to go with." Radcliffe shrugged. "And we don't want that to happen to you, Kenner. You're an important part of the school, our lead quarterback."

Kenner's shocked expression relaxed and he laughed. "So you guys don't want history to repeat itself?"

"We don't." Radcliffe put his glasses back on. "And we don't want to lose another student."

Kenner sat quietly for some time, the muscles in his jaw contracting and releasing repeatedly. He could picture Alistair popping one too many pills into his mouth, then slowly starting to fade away. Maybe he wanted to be with his family, choosing his fate the minute he swallowed the pills.

His fingers tapped against the table in a fast, uncoordinated rhythm. Then as if something ticked off inside him, he shot out of his seat. Grabbing his bag, he headed towards the door.

"Sorry, Principal Radcliffe, I've got a class now." With that, he excused himself from the office and rushed through the hallway.

He didn't go into Biology class like he should've.    Instead, he averted to the bathroom. Stopping in front of the mirror, he leaned on the sink and stared at his face. His usual dark brown eyes appeared black, glistening with unshed tears.

The emptiness he felt deep inside him was slowly starting to eat him up, as he mentally connected the dots and similarities between him and Alistair. He was slowly coming to realize that Terrence was gone, that he wasn't going to have anyone to share a drink with, anyone to smash things with when he was having a bad day.

Turning on the faucet, he began to wash his hands. He kept scrubbing it, whispering unintelligibly as he washed it over and over like there was a dirt that wouldn't come off.

Maybe, if he washed it long enough, he'd wash the pain away 

****

Thanks for reading the first chapter and I hope that after four rewrites, I did justice to it.

I'd love to know your thoughts about the chapter and don't forget to vote. The second chapter will be up on Sunday or Saturday.

❤❤❤Zina.