I swivel around to look at the shitheads behind me, Brantley and Dante. They have to be the dumbest idiots in my junior English Lit class, but most of all, they think they’re God’s gift to women.
As if…
“Will you stop that! You sound like mosquitos in heat with that mess,” I snap and the whole class starts snickering.
“Whoa sweetheart, I just wanted to talk to you,” Brantley starts, a smirk on his face, his large lineman body practically choking the desk and chair he’s subjected to take the brunt of his body weight sponsored by junk food and out of whack teenage hormones.
“Talk about what?” I demand.
“We’re going to St. Jude’s Saturday night. Are you in?” Dante whispers, a shy smile on his face that’s riddled with a bad case of pimples and acne. His cheeks are tinged with a blush he can’t control as I stare at him, making the bumps on his face that look like skin layered over coarse paper more prominent than before. For a rich prick like him, he sure doesn’t know how to use all that money. “I mean, you’ve been missing from action the entire year. Actually, for the past two years, that’s so unlike the skinny dipping, party goddess that you are.”
I still in my seat, images and memories of one of the worst nights of my life replaying in my head for the hundredth time today. From the corner of my eye I can see my classmates leaning in, definitely waiting to hear what I’m going to say.
Everyone at Clintwood Academy is nosy. Whatever I say right now or any other time, will be known by the rest of the school before the day ends. That’s just how it is here, where people have nothing better to do than eye you with jealousy and pathetic envy.
I narrow my eyes, summoning my best bitch mask, then flip my hair over my shoulder like the diva they think I am.
“Seriously, Dante?” I start, a smile on my face that’s as fake as Brantley’s Yeezy sneakers that he thinks no one notices. Fact is, everyone knows what’s real and what’s fake here, including personalities and bank accounts. “You got your feelings and your little ego hurt one too many times, are you seriously trying to get another go at burning embarrassment?”
Why am I not surprised that these fools—that were severely sacked by St. Jude High School’s tough, strong, resilient football and basketball teams this year—want to go prank them. Again.
“Please, everyone knows those assholes cheated in all their games,” Dante answers, his face still red but he tries to play it cool, folding his arms, purposely bulging his cannon of arms for the prying, girlish eyes to see. He leans back into the backrest of his chair, unable to look me in the eyes, still.
Aww, bless the fool. He was really trying his awkward best to get my attention. Too bad I don’t date. Guys were so far from my mind right now, I’m surprised to even notice their endless advances, let alone be responsive.
“Sure, they cheat every year and with every single school in the state, that’s why they won the notorious state championship game and every other game they’ve played the past ten years, right?” I prompt sarcastically, rolling my eyes.
“Yes!” Brantley starts, getting impassioned on the sour topic that’s been a part of our school for years. “They’re cheating assholes, the whole lot of them.”
“Have you considered that maybe you and your team suck?” I bat my eyelashes at him, enjoying the look on his face.
“That’s a rotten thing to say, Mia,” Brantley growls.
“Whoa,” I hold up my hand, observing my freshly painted nails, something I have to set a reminder to do—just to maintain appearances. If not for the alarm, I’d never be able to keep up with this charade that is high school popularity. “Hold your pony there, B. You know I’m right. Or at the very least, you must have considered that maybe you’re not all that.”
Each year, the hallways of Clintwood always, and I do mean always, has chatter about the tense, unresolved, deep, dark, and cruel rival between my school and St. Jude.
Year after year, there’s always speculation on whether or not we’d finally beat them. In anything.
And well, long dumb story short, we haven’t. It’s that little, bitter yet endlessly constant, loss that makes large, brainless boys a little foolishly offended. And to think it was going to be my school once before the kismet