Heathcliff

Heathcliff Javier Cardenas del Rivero
The chair next to him creaked and a paper fell onto the table.

• What is this?
  Mr. Erlington leaned forward slightly and muttered:
  – Work schedule. One hundred and sixty hours of community service.
• Whose?
• That guy over there.
  The girl slowly raised her head, examining the stranger. He was clearly not from Depaulet. But the main thing she noticed was his expression. He didn't look remorseful at all. More like he was mocking. He was clearly enjoying himself, because even from here she could see the glint of mirth in his eyes.
  "He helps with the cleaning during the day. But I figured you could use a few extra hands around here, too," Mr. Arlington said, pleased with himself.
  "Can we take him out?" she whispered without turning her head. Now the guy was looking straight at her, as if he had an internal radar that detected the slightest movement. "What if he's dangerous or something?"
  "Come on, don't make things up. You'll be marking your hours on this chart and handing it over to the inspector at the end of the week. The police might conduct checks, so you understand this is serious business."
  Who else can we rely on?
  "Are you kidding me?" the girl exclaimed, turning sharply to face Mr. Arlington. "It's not enough for me to have the school council and the ball, and also keep an eye on this guy? What if he steals something?"
  “Oh, he’ll definitely try,” an unfamiliar voice said, and the girl turned around with a start.
  The same guy was standing next to her. Her gaze was fixed on the already healing bruise on his cheekbone and the small bandage crossing the cut skin.
  “Alas, not an eyebrow,” the guy smiled, and the girl was taken aback for a moment, caught looking at someone so obviously.
  “What?” she muttered.
  – I’m not destined to walk around with a brutal scar.
  She looked him over. His jeans were black, torn at the knees, and he was wearing a sweatshirt with the sleeves slightly hiked up. On his wrists, fortunately, were not handcuffs but some strange bracelets, and on his feet were worn sneakers from somewhere in the eighties.
  Dark, almost black hair in perfect disarray.