to tone it down a notch. I’m well aware of how he feels about me. Too bad I’m not into the shy, barely-went-through-puberty little boys.
I look away from Dante and catch Brantley’s gaze. The way he watches me almost unnerves me. I wonder what he’s thinking. Does he know something about me?
“Something you want to say, Brantley?” I make sure to lower my voice, making it hard and sharp.
“You know,” he starts, a suspicious look on his face. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you support those assholes of St. Jude.”
I almost sigh in relief. He doesn’t know. Okay. Good.
All eyes turn to me. The guys in the class look hostile, with frowns on their faces. Mind you, most of them aren’t even athletic. And even if they are, most of the shitheads in my class, beside Dante and Brantley, play as third string. In other words, they never play.
The girls watch me, jealousy flashing in their eyes, hanging on every word being spoken. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of these bitches is recording me.
“You do, don’t you?” Brantley’s eyes widen as he watches me, his facial features hardening. I look around and notice, he’s not alone.
See, the thing is, no one at Clintwood Academy has the balls, let alone the guts, to stand on the opposition’s side. Supporting them in any way or form is like signing your own high school death sentence.
Because one, you’ll be labeled a traitor, an enemy of the great institution of Clintwood Academy, the best private school in Palos Verdes, after St. Jude High of course.
And two, when the top kids declare anyone a traitor, that means you’re TOTALLY shit-listed. Nobody likes a traitor, but most of all, nobody will ever go against the top tier of the student population. Blacklisted inevitably makes that poor someone a social pariah overnight.
They become a target with a large, red ‘X marks the spot’ target on their back for bullies and every pheromone-lacking asshole in this school to terrorize and get a free confidence boost.
I’ve sat at the head, center table all my years in high school, and watched decrees being made, and soon after, everyone will be laughing at that one person, who would receive in-house special pranks that include the slashing of tires to cruel jokes that hit at one’s self-esteem.
And the miserable list just keeps going on and on until you finally decide to grab a rope and hang yourself.
No big deal, though. It’s just high school.
But the thing is, I wasn’t just anyone in this school. I’m Mia Montague.
I’ve done shit that matters, and well, no one has the balls to get in my face to tell me shit. Unless of course, they want to be severely embarrassed. Like Brantley is trying to do now.
“Hmm, let’s see here. Clintwood had three games with St. Jude this year. One for basketball which ended in, a sad—”
“Don’t say it.” Dante rushes to cut me off and I smile, but I’m not done. If you call me out, you’ll get it.
“The other two games were for football. And as I recall, you told me, Brantley, that you had both games in the bag, buddy, but—” I look around then, knowing I have everyone’s attention and seeing as Mrs. Henry is writing something on the board, talking to herself about Pip. “—you couldn’t even get one touchdown in. The entire game was over in thirty-five minutes, flat.”
“Mia, I swear to God—”
“In that short, short time, you never made a successful play. Your offense was on the sidelines the entire time.”
“You don’t have to repeat that,” he growls.
“But wait, something else happened during that game.” I look around, pretending to think about something that we all know. Something that was recorded and has over 500K views on YouTube. “Weren’t you the one who attempted to sack one of the Fitz brothers, but instead, your nose ended up his—"
“Miss Montague!”
“Yes, Mrs. Henry?” I answer sweetly, turning around, flipping my hair over my shoulder, knowing damn well that I don’t have to finish that little story on how Brantley ended up ridiculed, his face shoved up Liam Fitzgerald’s nuts. For a full minute.
“This is learning time, not recess to gossip,” Mrs. Henry says with a frown.
“I apologize, Mrs. Henry. Brantley and I were just reminiscing.”
The class snickers again and I smile.
“Here’s a suggestion. Why don’t you go down memory lane in your own time, not mine. How about that?” She raises an eyebrow, watching me.