“Why?” he asks, “you have something coming up?”
No. “Yes.”
“Well, I do too. I want to be able to hit the bag as much as possible.”
“You’re going to box?”
“No. It’s a pastime.”
“Pity.”
“Why?” He crowds me and I swallow while the scent of him invades my nose. Clean, masculine, tempting.
“Because someone needs to knock the shit out of you.”
“Wow,” he chuckles, “you really don’t like me.”
“You made a bad first impression. Now, I’m indifferent. And you don’t really care if I like you.”
“I owe you an apology,” he takes a step forward. He loves his effect on me, it shows in the twinkle in his eye. Typical. “I just got…well, it was a bad day, so I apologize for the way I acted.”
“Accepted. But we don’t have to be best friends to share this space. So, let’s just divide the sandbox and go our separate ways.”
“What do you have coming up?”
“None of your business.”
He ignores my snark. “Is it like an audition?”
I wish. “Why?”
“Maybe I’m curious.”
“I’m not a pastime, so go find another to entertain yourself with.” I push past him and hear his gravelly chuckle behind me before he speaks up.
“You really should do something about that.”
I glance back at him.
“About what?”
“About that thorough fucking you need.”
My lips part as he stalks towards me before standing uncomfortably close. He bends down until we’re eye level with each other. “You get to assume shit about me, well allow me to join the party because clearly, you don’t accept my apology. That chip on your shoulder isn’t sexy, at all. There’s a tiny division of men who will jump through hoops to try and get past it, but they aren’t going to entertain your attitude long. Loosen up, Priss, or you’re going to find yourself with your own shitty reputation.”
“Says pot to the kettle. Stay out of my way, Prescott.”
“No problem, sweetheart.”
“Don’t bother with the pleasantries now, you basically just called me an uptight bitch.”
“If the Nike fits.” Like an idiot, I glance down at my solid hot-pink Nikes before I catch his smirk.
And with that, he makes his way towards his bag.
Lance
At the ATM, I enter my code for cash only to get rejected a second time. Slapping the side of the machine in aggravation, I lower my head and let out a slow breath, knowing the culprit.
“Hey, man, you done?” I glare at the asshole behind me, who clearly decides not to give me the moment I so obviously need.
“Fuck off,” I grumble, punching in the numbers again, deciding to check my balance. Nineteen dollars minus the three fucking dollars it cost me to check my balance. I have sixteen dollars to my name. Gaping at the total, I dial my dad as I walk away from the machine with my cell to my ear.
“Hey, son, I was just talking to Pete about you.”
“Dad, where’s the money?”
“Yeah. About that, son, meant to call you. Pete gave me a good deal on a few heifers and I needed to borrow a little.”
“A little? You wiped me out!”
“I’m sorry, son. I couldn’t pass it up. I’ll put it back by the end of the week.”
“You can’t just take it, Dad, it’s my money.”
There’s a hesitation. I know I’ve embarrassed him, something I never want to do to the man who’s given me everything. “It’s a loan, son. Temporary. I swear, I’ll replace it. Just give me a few days to move things around.”
I pace the parking lot. “Fine. But a heads-up would have been nice.”
“It’s just temporary.”
“Yeah.”
“Let me just tell you about what I’m working with,” there’s an uncomfortable edge to his voice, one I’m all too familiar with. It’s the same tone I’ve dealt with for the majority of my life when he wheels and deals, doing his best to make ends meet. He got us through those times and he’ll get us through this, I just have to be patient. But it doesn’t change the fact that my stomach is growling, and I have no solution.
“I gotta go, Dad. I’ll call you back.”
“All right, son. Don’t worry. Leave that on me.”
“Sure. Bye.”
“I love you—”
Guilt shadows the anger knowing I’ve hurt him by cutting him off. I order an Uber, knowing the commute home is going to wipe me out. In the back of a white Taurus, the driver, Dave, makes polite conversation with me as I fume in the back seat. Though the ride is costing me, I need the bag right now a lot more than I need a meal. I need the release. Thanking Dave, I shut the door and approach the gym, knowing I just have to hang on a few more seconds. Opening the door, the smell of the sweat-infused pleather equipment brings me comfort the way it always has since day one.
“Mr. Prescott, we’re waiting,” Mrs. Sheffler prompts me expectantly as all eyes in the classroom dart my way. It’s the last thing I want.
“Lance, get up, man, it’s your turn,” Chad mutters under his breath as I stare down at the gaping hole on top of my shoe, his new Nikes gleaming in my periphery. I shake my head, keeping it lowered.
“Freak,” I hear uttered behind me.
“Lance, I’m going to need you to come up and do your presentation.”
I kick at the poster board leaning against the front of my desk. I’d worked on it for three days, but it’s the hole in my threadbare shoes keeping me in my seat. This morning I’d tried to cover it with black electrical tape, but it only made it look worse. So I shaded my shoes with a permanent marker to try and match the tape, but I’d jacked them up even more, and they’re my only pair. If I stand up in the front of the room, everyone will see what I’m attempting to hide.
“I’m going to have to pass, Mrs. Sheffler.” That comment earns me a few laughs and I sink in my seat, knowing this isn’t going to end well.
“This isn’t optional,” Mrs. Sheffler says, her fingernails tap, tap, tapping against the notebook she’s holding.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Knee bouncing, I reach for any excuse I can come up with to keep from standing in front of the room to be scrutinized. I can feel Channah’s stare on me. Last night she’d helped me finish my board and as a reward, I’d kissed the life out of her. I should never have brought the board to class. It only makes my lie more damning.
“I didn’t finish mine.”
Mrs. Sheffler isn’t buying it. I wouldn’t either. “Lance—”
“Chickenshit,” I hear from the same voice behind me. Mark, it’s always Mark. I’ve already kicked his ass twice this year. Doesn’t change the fact he doesn’t have holes in his sneakers. He doesn’t have to worry about thirty sets of eyes judging his clothes.
“Who said that?” Mrs. Sheffler barks, just as I snap and snatch up my poster board.