1
“God I love hockey players, don’t you?” Jeanne gazes at the boisterous jumble of muscle-bound seniors as they shove past us. One of them elbows me, making me drop my binder. He doesn’t even turn around to acknowledge me, just keeps horsing around with his jock buddies.
“Ugh. You can have them all.” I stand to pick up my things, tucking a strand of long brown hair behind my ear as I do so. Jeanne sighs as the boys thunder around a corner and out of sight, before finally rearranging her priorities and moving to help me.
“Okay, so they’re a little rambunctious,” she admits as she twists her blonde hair out of her face. “But you at least have to admit that Maverick is dreamy.”
“Oh yeah, super dreamy,” I grunt sarcastically, rolling my eyes. “The kind of dream that ends in night sweats, a therapy bill, and serious PTSD. Super-duper dreamy.” I slam the binder shut and stand, straightening my skirt.
“He’s not that bad,” Jeanne says dismissively. “Besides, he’s hot enough to get away with it. And that accent! Ugh, he’s just so classy!”
I can feel my eyes narrowing as my lips draw tightly into a pout. She’s unbelievable.
“Super classy,” I huff, folding my arms across my chest and shaking my head to keep myself from shaking her. “Because dumping a trash bag of empty beer cans over somebody’s head is the epitome of class.”
Jeanne laughs. “Oh come on Beth that was just a little prank! Don’t be so sensitive.”
I press my lips tightly together. I don’t have many acquaintances at this school, so it’s best to keep the ones I do have, rather than completely alienate them with my sensitivity. If my poverty didn’t push them away, there’s no reason my mouth should.
Still, I’d been late for work that day because I had to go home and shower. As far as I’m concerned, that means Maverick personally owes me $12. It might not be a lot to him, but it sure as hell is plenty to me.
My parents and I live on such a tight budget that missing an hour of work pretty much means using the rough hand-pump shampoo in the school locker room for a month.
I’d managed to get into this elite private high school on an academic scholarship—which would have been great if it hadn’t been public knowledge.
“Oh! Did you see the picture he took for the yearbook? He has his shirt off in it. You can see his tattoo!” Jeanne is somehow still going on about Maverick, and I reluctantly tune in.
“It goes all up his ribs, it’s a dragon with a coat of arms and knights and stuff.”
“Wonder how much that cost.” I frown disparagingly as we turn the corner. When I stop short, Jeanne stops with me. A pack of cheerleading puck bunnies is standing in a line across the hallway, blocking our path.
“More than your whole family could afford.” Sarah, the head cheerleader, smirks at me as she flips her raven hair over her shoulder. “What’s the matter, bookworm? Jealous that you’ll never get a chance to touch it?”
“Come on,” Jeanne says nervously as she tugs on my arm. “Let’s just go around.”
I hesitate. I hate caving in to these bitches, but I can’t exactly afford to get into a fight here. Not with a Juilliard scholarship on the line. So, I bite back bile and turn around to walk with Jeanne, only to come face to face with the boy himself.
“I heard you were talking shit about me,” he says in his very British accent. “Shame, really. You should choose your enemies with a little more, hm—discretion.”
“So sorry to offend you,” I manage to grit through my teeth in a tone that is very much not sorry. “Please move, your highness, I’m late for class.”
“How many uniforms do you own, bookworm?” He takes a menacing step towards me. The hairs on the back of my neck instinctively start going up. He has an ominous, large feline-like stare somewhere behind his dark brown eyes, making me feel every bit like a trapped rodent.
I hate it. But not as much as I hate him.
Somewhere in my spine, I can feel the cheerleaders coming up behind me.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Enough. Excuse me.”
“Oh, I doubt that. Brandy?”
“Brandy?” But he isn’t looking at me, he’s looking behind me. I tense up and whirl around just in time to get a face full of tomato soup. It’s cold and smells as if it has been sitting in a thermos long enough to grow its own ecosystem.
I drop my binder again as I frantically wipe the slime off of my face, gagging as everyone around me laughs themselves into stitches at the poor broke girl covered in their classist shit. My white blouse is plastered to my breasts, exposing my cheap, basic bra.
“Ew, what is that? Victoria’s secret shame?” The cheerleaders all laugh. I can’t see who said it—not that I care—because I’m still trying to keep the moldy goo out of my eyes.
“That skirt looks freshly pressed,” Maverick says. “Be a shame if something were to, you know, happen to it,” he smirks.
I brace myself for another dousing of someone else’s grody lunch, but that doesn’t happen. As I’m still trying to collect myself, the crowd around me begins to snicker with new-found enthusiasm.
Ignoring them as well as I can, I scoop up my sopping binder, duck my head, and try desperately to walk away with what little pride I have left this morning. They’re blocking my way, preventing me from getting through. Jeanne is long gone by now—the fair-weather acquaintance that she is.
I manage to worm my way through them and rush toward the entrance. As my desperate scurry intensifies, I can feel the back of my thighs warming up and my eyes starting to water. I won’t let them see me break. They don’t get that pleasure. Not today.
As if conjured up by the demon behind me himself, another group of girls pops up before me, blocking my way. The giggles rise into guffawing laughter as I try to push past this set of minions.
“Hey, bookworm,” Maverick calls after me with a stupid grin on his face.
“You probably wanna stop, drop, and roll.”
The acrid scent of burning polyester finally fights its way past the stench of moldy soup. I look over my shoulder in panic just as the flames reach my ass. Screaming, I drop the binder for the third time this morning and scrabble at the buttons on my skirt. I get it off in the nick of time and stomp like a drowning chicken to out the flames.
As I stand there, shirt and hair sopping wet, moth-bitten underwear on full display, the bell rings. The savage monstrosities suddenly morph into perfect little angels and race away to class, blowing kisses at each other as they go.
“Shit.”
I pick up my tattered binder and the scarred remains of my skirt. Holding the binder in front and the skirt behind, I desperately try to wizard my way into an invisibility realm of some kind as I scurry through the halls back to my locker.
I can feel my heart being wrung to ash as I hang my head and hurriedly shuffle down the hall. There are morons everywhere pointing.
They’re laughing.
They’re whispering.
And no one is even attempting to help. Not that I’m crazy enough to expect them to- and why would they? I do not belong here with these cactus up the ass rich bitches and overdone snobs or their steroid pumped jocks and inflated egos.