you think you’re ready for it.”
Alex doesn’t say anything further. He just smirks and walks away.
6
ALEX
Pretending to learn guitar is a complete and utter waste of time, and playing a sport is pretty much identical to signing up for voluntary torture, but I have no other choice. There really is no way I’m joining the fucking debate team, and I have to make an effort to show Rhonda that I’m taking this shit seriously. If that means I have to strum out a few chords and bulldoze a handful of jocks on a football field, then so fucking be it.
The apartment issue’s going to have to wait for now. I have a roof over my head, but Rhonda was right; no judge in their right mind is going to look at the trailer I call home and sign off on it as a safe, secure place for a child. I’m going to need to bust my ass to make some cash for a deposit on a better place, in a better neighborhood, but that’s not really a concern right now. The money’s there to be made if I want it. And that in itself is my main problem. Getting another job that pays as well as my position at the bar is going to be challenging to say the least.
If only I could get paid to lie for a living, I’d be rolling in cold, hard cash by the end of the fucking week. I barely even blinked back in that bathroom when I told her I wasn’t interested in her. I sounded seriously unimpressed by the very idea that I might be into Silver, that I was laughing at the very concept of an attraction between the two of us. I managed to sound that way, even as I was fighting the urge to pick her up, wrap her legs around my waist, pin her to that vile yellow tiled wall behind her and shove my tongue down her throat.
From the moment she dumped that bag on the desk in front of me, she’s been plaguing my thoughts, day and night. I tried to tell myself on the way to Raleigh this morning that guitar lessons were nothing but an easy way to get where I need to be with the family court, but I’m no fool. There are other reasons why I chose her…
I saw the embarrassment creeping into her expression when I cut her down; I know I got a rise out of her. And inside, in the very pit of my stomach, that hadn’t exactly felt good. I did tell her the truth, though. I don’t want any drama, which means no romantic bullshit, no miscommunication, no stupid, childish games, and absolutely no distractions. Ben’s the only thing that matters right now, and I can’t afford to deviate from this course of action, no matter how weirdly drawn to her I feel.
Silver.
Who calls their kid Silver? I read about a kid named Bus Shelter in New Zealand once, so I suppose it could have been much worse, but still…
I make a conscious effort not to speak to another living soul for the rest of the morning. I’m so accustomed to existing in a heavy, sullen silence that having to string so many sentences together the moment I stepped foot inside the building this morning has put me in a bad fucking mood, and so I button my lip and keep myself to myself. Sam Hawthorne, one of the meatheads that was hanging out with that Weaving asshole in the hallway, tries to start shit with me. As I make my way to a back-row seat in Spanish class, second period, he shoves me, standing in the way, but I hold the fucker’s gaze, making it plain what'll happen to him if he doesn't move. He deflates like a popped balloon and scuttles off to sit by the window on the other side of the room.
After that, I wait for lunch to roll around, boiling away on a constant simmer. My best friend, Anger, has an issue with personal boundaries. It shows up uninvited nearly every day and makes a nuisance of itself, roaring in my ears, too brash, too loud, until I can’t hear anything over it. I’ve come to accept anger as a constant in life, just as I’ve accepted that the sky is blue (or rather grey, here in Washington), and that night follows day; it feels completely normal to be consumed by my