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Crap.
Craaaap.
I’ve had more mature moments in my life than right now, where I start to stomp my feet on the ground and cuss. “Goddammit. Shit. Fuck. Dammit. Dammmmit!”
“Jensen, what’s wrong? Everything okay?” Christine brings her attention to me, her comforting hand resting on my shoulder. Actually no, everything’s not okay. Your sister is a blackmailing whore. Not only has she gotten me suckered into a month-long contract with the son of Satan, now she wants to join me in hell!
“Oh, yeah, sorry. I just remembered I left my notebook in our room. Anywho! I gotta get to class. I’ll leave you two to discuss and debate how many colors of pink exist in the world.” I smile at my friend and give my back to the enemy. I start walking up the steps when Sylvia calls for me.
“So, I’ll hear from you soon, okay, Jen!”
I don’t bother turning around to respond. I raise my hand and offer a dainty wave in return. I may also have stalled, leaving up my middle finger a bit longer than necessary.
“…and in retrospect, the mind tells us with repetition comes conviction…” Ms. Phillips, my psychology professor, ends, turning and writing a brain chart on the board. I’m sitting in the way back of the large auditorium. The video screen allows me to see well enough to take the proper notes. Even though I should still be sitting in front, my lack of sleep made being in the back a better call since I’ve head-bobbed twice already, giving myself whiplash every time I accidentally fall asleep.
I should know better. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday are my busiest class load. I wanted to fill my days to the rim in hopes to graduate early. Make the most out of college. Now, I’m regretting being a student altogether. My eyes feel like hundred-pound weights are holding them down. Stay open. Stay open. Stay—
“Ms. Stone?”
My head is up, eyes open. “Because the negative behavior coincides with the reaction. The dog just wants the treat.” What? Everyone is staring at me. “Um sorry, can you repeat the question?”
“Ms. Stone, I wasn’t asking a question. This man has a package for you.”
My eyes dart to the man standing next to her by the door. He’s carrying a box with a red bow. This cannot be happening to me right now. I pray my seat eats me whole. “Are you…uh, sure it’s for me?” A girl can only hope.
“Unless we have more than one Jensen Stone, come on down.”
Kill me now.
Students start laughing and whistling, and howling fills the packed auditorium as I stand and forcefully make my way the billion steps down to the ground level. It’s when I get up front and am being handed the box, I recognize the man. It’s one of Satan’s Henchmen. That son of a—
“If you’re done receiving presents, can we get back to class, Ms. Stone?”
Right. “Yes, sorry.” I give up staring down the handler and turn to make my way back to my chair, but not before I notice Sylvia’s beady eyes. How did I not know she was in my Psych class? Because there are almost three hundred people in this class? True. Settling back in my seat, I drop the box on the floor, showing no immediate interest in opening it, and pretend my Psych notes take precedence over whatever’s in the damn box.
But let’s be honest, we all know what it is. The same thing that was in the box the other night. An overpriced outfit so Satan’s spawn can dress me up like his little doll. When I came home, I wanted to tear the dress off me and burn it. But I also knew it was very expensive by the label and decided to hang it nicely in my closet with plans to resell it for extra school money.
I tap my pencil on the desk, trying to focus on the lecture and act interested in whatever it is Ms. Phillips is talking about. I’m also fighting hard not to look to my left at a set of eyes staring me down. She’s not going to let this go. Maybe I should give her the box and phone. Tell her exactly what’s in store for her and wish her the best. That would certainly get Damien out of my hair, along with the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pains in My Asses off my back.
The sound of buzzing from my purse alerts me I have a text. Of course, it’s coming from my stalker bat phone. I wait till Ms. Phillips turns to the board and bend down to scoop the phone up and read the new message.
Son of Satan: Be here at nine sharp.
I huff loudly, breaking the concentration of the guy next to me. “Sorry,” I apologize, then fire off a reply.
