The first thing that I ever saw of Lucas Bradley were his eye catching, red as a traffic light, all star converses.
I was walking down the school halls, on a wet and rainy Monday morning with my earphones shoved into my ears and a 'don't even think of getting in my way' glare on my face. It was 8:45pm, way to early for any normal teenager to be bright and smiley, echoing hellos to anyone who passed.
I guess that's why I noticed the shoes. Because red, is not a morning colour, oh no. The only possibly colours that bloodshot, half asleep eyes can practically live with is black and white (possibly brown, if I'm in a good mood).
So that's why my only half frightening glare turned into a full on look of disgust.
"What's got you so down in the dumps?"
I turned to find myself almost walking into the dumpy, four foot ten body of Finley Gardener. Lady's and gentlemen, please meet my English Lit stalker, who's just about to push my day further into the bottom of the ocean.
I narrowed my eyes, trying to saulter off in the opposite direction. But Gardener, as clueless as he is, followed me.
"So, have you got your notes on The Great Gatsby?" He did not even wait for me to reply. "Because a couple of my brothers year nine friends decided to play nasty and throw mine into the sectaries garden. So, mind if I copy?"
He told the story with such a determination of trying not to cry that, as much as cow I am, I softened slightly.
"Yeah, course." I mumbled, handing over my English Lit book.
"Thanks Andie! I'll see you fourth period!" And with that, he bumbled away.