Meeting a Groovehood

After the morning classes ended and the lunch bell rang, I made my way to the cafeteria, which felt deserted by the other students. As I opened the creaky door, a warm beam of sunlight lit up the dusty tables, and the lingering smell of stale bread and forgotten moments filled the air. An unsettling silence surrounded me, interrupted only by the gentle hum of the refrigerators in the kitchen. The tables remained untouched, and the chairs were neatly pushed in, as if waiting for a crowd that never arrived. It was odd; everyone else seemed to prefer the comfort of their classrooms.

I scanned the room, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim light, and spotted him—sitting alone at a corner table, his dark clothing standing out against the dull surroundings. The soft glow from the table lamp illuminated his face, accentuating his strong features. The cigarettes were gone, but the air still felt charged with his presence. He leaned back, his long hair flowing over his shoulders like a cascade of night, seemingly unfazed by the emptiness around him.

A chill ran down my spine as I noticed the small silver chain he was playing with, his fingers moving with a practiced grace that made my heart race. Summoning my courage, I walked over, the creaky floorboards beneath my boots echoing in the stillness. This was my chance to connect with someone who, like me, seemed to exist outside the norm.

As I got closer to him, the scent of his cologne wafted through the air, a subtle mix of leather and spice that made my heart flutter. He looked up, his gaze locking onto mine. For a brief moment, I felt as if I was sinking into the depths of his brown eyes. I took a cautious step forward, my boots softly clicking against the worn wooden floor that creaked beneath me, breaking the silence that surrounded us.

"Hey, mind if I join you?" I asked, trying to sound casual despite the nervousness bubbling inside me. His gaze lifted, and for a brief moment, our eyes met. I noticed a flicker of surprise before he nodded, a hint of a smirk forming on his lips. "Sure, why not?" he said, his voice low and smooth, like honey dripping from a spoon. And very inviting.

I slid into the seat across from him, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. This was it—the start of something unpredictable, and I couldn’t help but wonder what lay ahead. The air was thick with tension, and I could feel the weight of his gaze on me.

"You are new," he remarked, brushing a strand of hair that seemed to like his face, just as much as I did.

"I am. I’m new," I replied softly, feeling a flutter in my chest. The confident Deborah Waters I knew would never speak timidly unless it was an act. But this was all new to me—the way his presence affected me, the way my heart was prancing in my chest, and also the way I seemed to like it.

He looked at me with those captivating brown eyes, studying me with curiosity, and then he smiled. It was a small but undeniably charming smile. He was incredibly attractive—with skin that could make any woman envious, deep brown eyes that held secrets, and a face that seemed sculpted by the gods; he could easily rival any model.

"Aren’t you scared of me?" he questioned, gazing into my eyes as if searching for answers that others had given him before. But I wasn’t ‘others,’ and he was about to find that out.

I took a moment of silence before responding with a playful smirk, "Do I not scare you?" He looked surprised, a smile beginning to form on his lips.

"You are something, new girl. Welcome to Town High, where all the fun happens. I bet you must have heard my name already."

"Uhm..." I pretended to be in deep thinking, "I do not know your name. Am I supposed to, or are you the king of this school?" I said to him.

He laughed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "King? Hell, no!" He declared.

The boy leaned back in his chair, fingers laced together, a confident smirk playing on his lips as he said, “I may not be the king of this school because there’s no such thing, but I’m something different.”

“If you’re not the king, then who are you?” I asked, narrowing my eyes while studying his expression, my mind buzzing with questions about the mysterious boy across from me.

“Ace. Ace Groovehood,” he answered, his tone casual yet commanding.

Groovehood. The name rang a bell. They owned Generosasis, which explained the air of mystery and confidence that surrounded him.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Deborah Waters,” I said, extending my hand for a shake. His grip was warm and firm, a subtle strength that sent a thrill through me as he said, “I know who you are, Deborah.” Hearing my name from him felt electric, and I couldn't help but notice how effortlessly it rolled off his tongue.

“Really? How did you know my name?” I asked, curiosity piqued.

"Nobody ever shuts up in Generosasis, Deborah," he replied, a playful glint in his eyes. Again, the way he said my name stirred something inside me.

"Trust me, I know. But, why are you here alone?" I asked, glancing at the boy who looked like he could take on a fight as a pastime.

‘You really can’t judge a book by its cover’. I had learned that lesson since arriving in town.

"Same reason why you are also here," he replied, a spark of amusement dancing in his eyes.

Such confidence, but he was mistaken.

I raised an eyebrow, feeling skeptical. “I like to eat in the cafeteria. That’s why it’s a cafeteria, but no one seems to do that here. I’m not gonna lie, this place is pretty different from my old school.” I shot back.

“It is, isn’t it? Well, I guess we aren’t here for the same reason. But for me, I’m here for inspiration,” he said, his eyes sparkling with creativity.

Inspiration?

“Are you an artist?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

“I could say I am. I’m a lot of things, Deborah. Right now, I’m working on a piece and I’m almost done. I could show you if you’d like,” he said, pointing to a sketchbook I had just noticed on the desk. The sketchbook looked old and worn, with its pages yellowed over time. As Ace flipped through the pages, the soft crackling of the paper filled the space.

Ace's fingers moved skillfully over the pages, his eyes scanning each drawing with a mix of pain and yearning. As he turned the pages, I leaned in closer, mesmerized by his talent, my gaze fixed on his strong fingers gently handling each page. Each one unveiled a new design, a new narrative. On one page, I saw a boy gazing at a river, his face reflecting deep sorrow.

Eventually, Ace paused at a drawing of a woman with her back turned, her hair styled in an updo. What struck me was the attention to detail – the way the light highlighted her hair, which stood out against the shaded parts of the drawing. I realized her hairstyle was unique in this town, where brown and black hair were the norm. She wore an edgy outfit, complete with a leather jacket and a skirt, reminiscent of my punk-inspired style.

As I examined the drawing more closely, an unusual feeling washed over me. It was a tingling sensation, almost like a hint of envy. I knew it was silly since I didn’t even know who the woman was. Yet, something about her made me feel like I had seen her before, though I couldn’t quite place where. I shook my head, trying to dismiss the feeling.

What was I thinking? It was just a drawing.

“Is this woman someone special to you?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady as I pointed at the drawing.

Ace paused, his eyes drifting back to the sketch. “She represents freedom,” he said softly, a hint of warmth in his tone. “I draw what I feel, and she embodies the strength and independence I admire.”

I nodded, still trying to figure out why this woman felt so familiar.

“It’s stunning. You have a beautiful talent.” I complimented.

I wanted to add, ‘Just like you,’ but the words stuck in my throat.

“Thanks,” he said, a small smile breaking through his composed expression. “Art is my way of conveying what words sometimes can't.”

“What inspires you the most?” I asked, genuinely interested.

“Everything,” he replied, leaning back as he closed the sketchbook. “But mostly the stories people carry with them. Everyone has a story to tell, even if they don’t realize it.”

I nodded in agreement. Just like this town, filled with hidden secrets and stories waiting to be uncovered.

He added, “I’m not sure what inspires me more, the beauty of the world or the darkness within it.”

I found his perspective captivating.

“So, what’s your story, Ace?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

He chuckled lightly, “That’s a long one, Deborah. But maybe one day, I’ll share it with you.”

The conversation flowed easily, and I found myself wanting to learn more about him, about his art, and the stories hidden beneath his confident exterior.

Maybe what I had seen in his brown eyes were stories, not secrets.

But what was Ace's story, really? I couldn't help but wonder.