We pull into the parking lot. I park beside the old Jeep Scout that draws me like a magnet. “Suh-weet! I’m such a sucker for the classics.”
JuneBug snorts and shrugs her shoulders. “I guess it’s kinda clash.”
I plug my ears at her fave new word which I’ve come to hate. “Noooo.”
I hop out. I’m in panic-mode when I hear the ringing of the bell. “JuneBug! You’re slower than a defective sloth. Get out so I can lock it!”
“Alright, already. I’m out, I’m out.”
I race inside and leave JuneBug and her ridiculous dragging butt behind me in the parking lot, calling out to her as I run for the double doors. “I’ve got stuff to do.”
I jog through the halls, feelin’ a little too bouncy as a group of boys eyeball me. I suppose there’s more than one way to make an entrance, even if it it’s not the dark and mysterious Gangster Squad Emma, who caused quite a stir in her signature slinky red dress, scarlet red nails and lips adorned by a slim cigarette dangling in front of the flame emerging from the hot stranger in the crowded speak easy, but what good is a vivid imagination if I don’t use it are my thoughts as I throw the office door wide and hit a brick-walled body.
I know by the scent and feel, the guy who interrupted my daydreams is very real and very present. Mudpie Mojo strikes again. Crap balls. There’s no escaping this fine specimen. I bend down to collect my things, try to ignore his amusement, and struggle to juggle everything as I rush the desk of the office lady.
“Excuse me. I’m new here, and I’d like to review my schedule and make sure everything is in order.” She barely acknowledges me as she glances over her glasses at the end of her nose.
“Oliver.” She pages him. I cringe as he approaches the desk.
“Yes, Mrs. Bartrem?”
“Oliver, be a dear and go over the schedule with this young lady. I’ve got a lot to do this morning, and this would really save me some time.”
She’s got to be fricking kidding! I have to go over my schedule with Mudpie Mojo? This is how my day starts.
I slap the desk in exasperation. Her eyes go wide at the noise. I plow on. “You know what? I’ll just come back later. It’s not a big deal.” It is. It’s a huge deal.
“Young lady, you’re here now. It’ll take less than ten minutes. I’ll even write you a slip excusing your tardiness. There’s no sense in you coming back. You have ten minutes so get to it.”
I try once more. “But you don’t understand.”
She clears her throat. “Oliver’s perfectly capable. I’ll be busy all day. Go find a chair. Sit.” She shoves my papers at me. Angel-office boy snatches them up!
Dash it all, bullocks. Oliver somehow has my schedule in his very large, capable hands. It grates on my ire that, by his satisfied smirk, he knows it.
I plop myself down in the chair unceremoniously with my arms on the table and try to read my schedule upside down and half-backwards as Oliver drops it on the table and pulls up his chair. His long legs don’t quite fit under this table any better than mine do. He scoots until too much of him bumps too much of me. I glance over at him. He’s totally doing this on purpose. He’s a real space hog as he leans over my paper until his arms run into mine.
I clear my throat. “Do you mind?”
He leans closer still and tips my paper with his finger. “No, not at all.” I fight the urge to squirm. Coherent thinking escapes me when he’s doing all this. His gaze is on my lips. Katie. Get. A. Grip.
I grab my paper and hold it close. I lean back as far away from him as I can get. Efforts to concentrate on my paper are pointless. I’m like an ant under a magnifying glass, getting burned by the sun. Oliver radiates heat. I stare at the paper for about three minutes, but I see nothing.
He clears his throat. “You know you can take that with you. You don’t need to sit here with it.” His stupid hot face smirks at me.
“Yeah, I know that,” I manage before I grab my bag and bolt. I snatch the pink slip from the office lady like an afterthought. The padlock on my locker spins furiously beneath my fumbling fingers, yet somehow opens with the first try. My stuff arranges itself in the bottom of my locker where it lands. I rush off to my first hour class—yearbook.
I slide into a desk to stress over being late. This is definitely not the best first impression in a class whose sole purpose is time management and meeting deadlines in a professional and timely manner.
We have a no-nonsense teacher, Ms. Dante. I choke back my laughter at her name, as I imagine the seven levels of the inferno rising all around me. I blink a few times and try to focus on her lecture, which halted the second my toe crossed the imaginary tardy line that presides on the other side of her room door. It’s not a stretch to hear some sort of alarm bell announcing my offense.
“As I was saying, before I was interrupted… do you have an office slip?” Whoa. I’ve been properly scolded.
I dig in my pocket and pull out the pink paper. “Yes, ma’am.”
She holds out a manicured hand, which I can’t help but admire. “Bring it here.”
I scoot out of my desk and walk slouchy in my usual way, but JuneBug’s voice reverberates inside my head. I stand up straight and tall, look my teacher in the eye, and hand her the paper.
“Thank you. Take your seat. Where was I? Oh, yes, if you meet your deadlines and put forth decent effort with your work, we shouldn’t have any trouble.” Despite the half stink-eye I just received, I respect Mrs. Dante’s no-nonsense manner and the fact that she treats me like an adult. I think I’m really going to like this class. We are about fifteen minutes in when little miss cheap-shot-nail-me-in-the-back-of-the-head-with-a-can-of-corn struts in. Dash it all to hades.
Ms. Dante’s face changes. The crap hath hitteth the fan. Interesting. “I’m sooo sorry I’m late, Ms. Dante. My family just got back from a trip to Aspen, Colorado. We had a late-night last night and I’m afraid I overslept.”
The hyena speaks, and my hand instinctively flies to my ear, which I quick cover by leaning on that hand and tilting my head more sideways to get a good look at psycho-Red. She hands the teacher a note before going to sit down with “her girls”. She looks around the room slowly before her gaze stops on me. She gives me a “Die Bitch Die” glare, which I return with a look as cool as a placid lake. I remain indifferent to the gnat for the rest of the hour. She does her best to rattle me, but I’m an expert in the art of ignoring (usually).