Things That Should Stay Buried - Casey L. Bond Page 0,9

to go with them.

I plugged my cell into an external charger and let the battery fill as I massaged my aching temples. Throughout the morning, my headache had steadily swollen into a migraine so intense even the backs of my eyes hurt.

I swore, migraines were like hurricanes. When they started, they were just little storms with barely enough energy to hover offshore. Then the bastards built, spinning over the water, gaining strength. When they finally hit, even high-powered medicine was too weak to fend it off. This one was going to be a category five. I could feel it.

“You okay, Larken?” Xavier asked as he passed by, concern knitting his dark brows. He’d bleached his longish hair, and to be honest, he looked hot. He had already earned quite a few appreciative stares from nearby females…

I tried to smile and pointed to my head. He nodded knowingly. “Do you have medicine with you? I can give you a ride home if you need it.”

“I took some before I came out here, but thanks,” I told him, wincing from the bright halo blazing above us.

“Text me if you change your mind?” he asked.

“I will, thanks.”

He hesitated and gifted me with a small grin, and I couldn’t help but grin back. His lips were pretty. Not thin like some guys’, and a lovely, soft shade of blush pink. “I’m looking forward to this weekend,” he said.

“Me too.”

He lingered awkwardly. It was sweet. “Feel better soon,” he said, tapping the table to say goodbye.

I thanked him again as he strode away.

Apparently, talking to Xavier rid the atmosphere of my ‘I-wanna-be-alone-for-the-love-of-God’ vibes, because a girl made an abrupt beeline for my table after that. I internally groaned when she sat across from me, the food on her tray still steaming.

Effing fajitas. When I didn’t have a migraine, I loved them. But not today. Today the pungent aroma turned my already queasy stomach. I was too tired to stand up and move away from her, so I covered my nose with the sleeve of my sweatshirt and closed my eyes.

“Was that Xavier Dillon?” the girl asked, swiveling her head to look at his ass. Not that I blamed her. It was a nice ass.

“Yeah.”

“Did you and Brant break up? I heard he’s with Reagan Summers now,” she fished.

I didn’t bother answering her. It was none of her business, and somehow she seemed to know anyway. I didn’t even know her name and she knew the details of my personal life. Or lack thereof.

Speaking of the devil himself, Brant and his band of loyal followers sauntered out of the gym and passed my table. His hazel eyes found mine and I might have imagined the look of regret, but I was okay with that. He should feel bad for being just like his father, the man he said he hated and could never respect because of how he treated his mom.

I fought back the urge to flip him the middle finger.

My lunch hour was almost over and Kes was still missing in action. I squeezed my throbbing temples, wishing the girl, her fajitas, and this splitting headache would go away and that time could stop for a few minutes so I could sit in the fresh, cool air just a little while longer.

The students of Ashburn High were divided into tragically stereotypical cliques. A group of goth kids lingered near the corner of the building trying to hide the smoke billowing and strong, sweet scents from their vapes. Jocks tossed a Frisbee over the small crowds huddled around each table, purposely landing the disc in the center of the cheerleaders. I rolled my eyes as the girls flipped their hair and crossed their arms over their chests to make their cup sizes seem bigger. Not that the guys didn’t take the bait every time. They couldn’t see past their…

The girl across from me began hacking, her eyes watering behind her thick-framed glasses. “Are you okay?” I managed to croak.

She nodded, coughing into her fist. I was glad she was breathing, because I was in no shape to perform the Heimlich on this chick. After a minute, her coughing calmed and she caught her breath.

She was an underclassman. Ninth, maybe tenth grade. And she was serious about highlighters and neon or white, lined and unlined index cards. Her textbook lay open and I saw that every sentence had been highlighted. Probably evidence of a last-ditch effort to study for finals. Still occasionally hacking, she flipped between it