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1
I’ve always suffered from this horribly disadvantageous condition—it’s called being directionally challenged. It’s self-diagnosed of course, but I’m almost positive it’s an actual thing, so it’s not really my fault that I’m having trouble navigating this maze known as King City High School.
The warning bell rings and animal-like students scramble from their assembled groups and lockers and head to class. Shit. I’m going to be late and I still have no idea where my first class is. It doesn’t help that I can only walk so fast since I hurt myself a few weeks back, and that injury is still healing.
When I got here this morning, the curt secretary sent me off with no more than a map and dismissive “Good luck.” Starting a new school a month and a half into first semester is hard enough—having my face planted in a map would just scream New girl, eat me alive!, not to mention trash my plan to get through senior year without drawing too much attention to myself. Not that I’d be able to read the map anyway. As I said: directionally challenged.
Pulling out my schedule again, I see that the name printed at the top reads Amelia Collins. It’s a pretty name this time, but it’ll still take some getting used to.
I reread the room number that I’ve already committed to memory, as if reading it again might magically transport me to it. Glancing at my brand new cell phone, I huff out an aggravated breath as I realize I only have five minutes to get to class before I’m late.
“Screw it,” I mutter as I rush aimlessly down the hall while searching my shoulder bag for the school map—I really hate being late.
Not really paying attention to where I’m going, I’m blindsided by a group of giant walking trees slash teenage boys. They’re talking and joking among themselves—walking through the halls as if they own the whole school. Without slowing down, I hug close to one wall, and reach into my bag to grab my map. Instantly, I’m thrown back as I collide with an outcrop of bricks, stopping just short of falling on my butt. Who designs a stupid wall to stick out like that?
My belongings have poured out everywhere, and I grab them hastily before quickly turning around, only to come face to face with something both hard and human, if the colorful curses are any indication. My stuff crashes onto the floor again as the pain in my ribs intensifies.
Great. Just freaking great.
“Are you blind? Can’t you see I was walking here?” a voice growls.
My eyes meet the agitated gray ones of the most breathtakingly gorgeous guy I have ever seen. He’s a member of the walking trees I saw before—tall with broad shoulders, a scowl plastered on his face.
His attitude sucks. He was equally at fault, if not more, since the skyscrapers had to walk in a horizontal line in the hall, but I seriously don’t want to draw any more attention to myself.
“I am so sorry.” I apologize as we bend down to retrieve our belongings.
“Is your brain not able to communicate to your legs where you can and can’t walk? If you didn’t notice, there was someone in front of you, which means you move out of their way,” he shoots back as he stands up with his binder.
A small crowd is gathered around us, clearly interested in seeing the poor girl stupid enough to incur the wrath of this intolerant jerk.
Think first, Amelia. Don’t say something stupid. You’re supposed to keep your head down and get through the year unnoticed.
“Sorry. I’m new and really don’t know where I’m going.” I stand up with my now-collected belongings and push my strawberry blond hair out of my face. “You wouldn’t happen to know where room 341 is, would you?”
“You’re new, not blind. Don’t use excuses to cover up your stupidity. Get out of my sight while I’m still being nice,” he scoffs, and runs a hand through his blond hair.
This is him being nice? Bemused faces of the other walking trees and the larger assembling crowd surround me, and I’m doing the exact opposite of blending in. Not wanting to stand out any more, I contain my anger and don’t even glance at him as I stride by.
“Oh look, she does have some good ideas in that otherwise useless brain of hers,” I hear him say to his friends, like being a jerk is part of his genetic build.
That’s it. I turn and walk back to him, looking straight up and into his gray eyes with my narrowed hazel ones.
“Oh, I guess her brain is a hundred percent useless after all,” he says to his friends.
He bends down to match my full height, three inches taller than usual thanks to my gorgeous tan wedges, and looks me straight in the eyes, talking as though he was speaking to a toddler.
“Do you need me to draw you a map of how to get the fuck out of my face?” he slowly asks, putting emphasis on the curse.
“No, thank you,” I say evenly and calmly. “But I can draw you a map, so when I tell you to go to hell, you’ll know exactly where to go.”
