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𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟐
" 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐚𝐥 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬 "
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          I storm out of the exam room with an air of dignity and derring-do. My classmates' baffled stares and dropped jaws give me a ridiculous sense of power. I feel like a goddamn rockstar.

But as soon as I make it to the hallways and I am utterly alone, I explode. My fist slams against a locker, once, twice -- I'm losing count. The clanging echoes across the empty hall. A sharp pain spreads across my hand.

"Fuck!" I hiss, shaking the pain off. It doesn't help. My knuckles are bleeding. What else did I expect? God, what an idiot.

I look at the locker and notice I've dented the metal surface. Destruction of school property and cheating all in one hour? Wow. For someone with a 4.3 average, I sure am making a lot of stupid decisions today.

It's all this anger that's clouding my better judgment. I'm what my mother calls "a violent hothead." I've always denied it, but this dented locker is damning evidence.

I need to cool off.

I rush to the nearest boy's room. As soon as I enter, the overwhelming smell of bleach floods my nose. I ignore it and head to the sink. I slap the faucet on, which is another stupid decision what with the damaged hand and all.

The cool water soothes the pain to some extent. I wash the blood off my knuckles as gently as I can. Just a mild abrasion; should definitely get a bandage wrapped around it soon, though.

In the lull of the bathroom and the comedown from my rage, I start thinking about the repercussions of my misdemeanors. How bad will it be? Detention? Expulsion? Damage fees for the stupid locker?

Dr. Mom will not be pleased, that's a given. God, I am not looking forward to that discussion. Maybe Dad will back me up.

Sighing, I cup some water in my palm and wash my face. A couple more splashes, and I turn the tap off.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Wet. Tired. Pathetic.

"This is your fault," I say, pointing at my reflection. He points back at me.

Then I see a stall door swing open behind me. I whip around just in time to see another student emerge. He pauses when he sees me; there's a split second of us just staring at each other. Suddenly, I feel intimidated. I don't know if it's because of those piercing dark eyes, or those pouty lips scowling at me, or those broad shoulders befitting of a quarterback. 

He's leaning against the bathroom door like his knees are gonna buckle as soon as he pushes off. His eyes are a little misty, his nose a little red. His uniform is a disaster – necktie loose and swept up on his shoulder, poorly-ironed shirt untucked. And is that vomit on his chin? Gross. He looks — and this is an understatement — like a complete and total mess.

I don't really socialize outside the A-Class because... why would I? Students from the low end of the academic hierarchy just aren't worth my time. But even though I don't interact with those people, I do remember faces, and I am positive that I've never seen this guy before.

Is he new? He looks too old to be a freshman. A transferee maybe? Whatever he is, he has to know the rules.

"You're not supposed to be out here," I say. Students aren't allowed to go out during exams. Well, unless they were specifically kicked out of the room. You know, like me.

"Neither are you," he slurs, making his way to the sink with wobbly steps.

He turns the faucet on and washes his face. I watch him as he catches the running water straight into his mouth. He gargles it, spits, repeats and on the third time, he swallows it straight up. I fight the urge to gag.

"Oh, that's good," he purrs, wiping his wet hands on his blazer. Jesus. Can he be more of a hot mess?

He catches me staring at him, and he nods at my hand. "What happened there?" he asks.

Definitely not a topic I want to discuss. "Had a little accident," I lie, hiding the injury behind my back.

Hot Mess purses his lips. "Oh," he says. "So, you accidentally punched a wall or something?"

A soft laugh escapes my lips. He's observant, I'll give him that. "I punched a locker," I come clean.

"So dramatic. Why'd you do it?"

"I, uh, got thrown out of the exams." The answer surprises me. I didn't think I'd be willing to talk about it any time soon, yet here I am, sharing it to a stranger in the boy's room.

"You?" I ask. If he's gonna know my story, I may as well know his.

"Threw up," he says, pointing his thumb back at the stall.

"Ah," I say, like his answer explains everything. It doesn't, but I don't think I wanna know anymore.

"Wish I'd been thrown out," he mumbles. "Exams always get my nerves shot, I'd rather sit them out."

My eyebrows scrunch up. "Are you crazy? Think what that'll do to your grades!" God, I don't even want to think about the plunge my GPA is about to take. 

"Ah," he purrs, his eyebrows shooting up like he's had some sort of clarity. "So, you're one of those A-Class intellectual snobs, aren't ya?"

"I'm not a snob," I quickly deny. "Intellectual and A-Class, yes. But a snob?" I scoff and shake my head.

"Suuure," he draws out, and I know sarcasm when I hear it.

"What class are you in anyway?"

"D-Class."

My face scrunches up. "Ew."

Hot Mess smirks at my involuntary response. It's involuntary, I swear! It's just that D-Class is the lowest section in the academy. No better than rats in the gutter, as Anya once said. 

"Sure you're not a snob?" he teases.

"I'm not!" I exclaim, slamming my fist against the tiled sink for emphasis.

Fuck! The pain shoots back up, and I wince a little too loud. Good God, when will these stupid decisions end?!

I hear the faucet turn on again, and when I look over at Hot Mess, he's taken his tie off and bunched it up under the running water. When it's soaked, he turns the faucet off and wrings the fabric out.

Then, he steps towards me. Without warning, he grabs my hand. It's not forceful, but the mere contact shocks me just the same.

I flinch away. "What are you doing?"

"Relax," he says, taking my hand again, and this time I let him. "It's just first aid."

Carefully, he wraps his damp tie around my knuckles. It's not as soft as a medical gauze, but it'll do. Why didn't I think of that earlier?

My eyes wander to his face as he ties the makeshift bandage. He's got one of those wily, boyish looks that's one smirk away from making everyone swoon. Even with the state he's in right now, all groggy and sweat-sheened, I have to admit he's kinda cute.

"Done," he says, looking up at me. I immediately look away.

I want to thank him, but I seem to have lost the ability to speak. All I do is nod, and snatch my bandaged hand back.

Hot Mess takes one more look at me, then smiles. There it is. The swoon-worthy smirk. God, I hope I don't look as flustered as I feel.

"See you around, Snob," he says, then exits.

It takes me a couple of minutes to regain my bearings. I look at the necktie neatly wrapped around my hand, and I wonder how I'm going to give this back to him. I don't even know his name. 

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a/n: I've re-casted Chipp thrice now! I think I've finally settled on a faceclaim, Jeronimo Bosia. Isn't he a damn snacc?