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Danika
Compared to the toothpicks on campus, I’m not a tiny girl. At one hundred and fifty pounds my hips are thick but I have the ass to go with them. My stomach has more fluff than most, but the double-D’s I’ve been blessed with make my waist and tummy look smaller than it is. I have my assets, and I know how to work them.
That being said, I don’t openly flaunt what I’ve got. I make it a point to cover up because guys, young and old, have gawked at me since I was eleven years old. Back then, my figure seemed to develop overnight and I didn’t know how to handle it. Logan was good about not making a big deal of my body.
I knew who Logan was the second I laid eyes on him. My heart soared when I realized Sarah and I were about to sit at the same table. Even more so when I realized that he had friends.
Logan was always a social loner. Any time Cooper was around, Logan was surrounded by people. But the moment Cooper was sick or anywhere Logan wasn’t, those friends disappeared. Everyone wanted to be around the smooth-talking football prodigy, not the quirky kid with a speech impediment.
All things considered, I’m not surprised Logan outgrew his awkward stage. It helps that he’s absolutely gorgeous, but he’s always been cute. From what I can tell, both Harris boys have long, lean bodies, muscled in such a way you know they still play some kind of sport. While Cooper’s hair is the color of gold and buzzed short. Logan has locks so dark they’re almost black that fall into his eyes. Sitting on top of the table at lunch, he looks like a living sculpture. Too beautiful to be real. Too flawless to be human. In California, I’d have argued that no one looks that good unless they’ve had work done, and yet Logan defies my logic.
I shake my head, still stunned that little Logan Harris has turned into the kind of man my mother warned me about. Dark and magnetic. Every fiber in my being is drawn to him with a pull I’ve never felt before. Mom said she’d only felt an attraction like this once, and it wasn’t to my dad. Their love was pure. Wherever this feeling stems from is dirty. I hate it. I love it.
Too bad Logan doesn’t remember me. Or worse, if he does that means that he consciously chose to be a jerk. Although, I can’t for the life of me figure out why. I’ll have to ask him after school. Perks of being neighbors.
Coach blows his whistle, signaling to get ready. I widen my stance and intertwine my fingers, prepared to hold my own once the first serve is sent over the net. Volleyball is a good sport for big breasted chicks. There’s minimal running, which is great because even with two sports bras my tits go bouncing, and that shit hurts.
I’m in the first row, center, with Melody to my left and some red-headed chick to my right. The ball goes flying over the net and behind me. We volley it back and forth a few times, until the other side scores. We go a few rounds, my team holding its own against our opponent until Melody sets up to serve.
She tosses the ball into the air and spikes it straight into the back of my head. “Sorry.”
Bitch. I rub the sore spot with my palm and hold up my other hand so the game can continue. We are tied with roughly fifteen minutes left in the period and I hate to lose. I’ve been competitive for as long as I can remember, from spelling tests to mini golf. Losing is not a concept I handle well.
Coach blows his whistle and Melody sets up again. She serves, hitting me in the head harder than before. I spin on my heels, pressing my fists against my hips. “What’s your deal?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Melody smirks. “I missed the net.”
I take a step towards Melody, prepared to let her know that what happened at lunch today was a one off. If I wasn’t so thrown by how Logan treated me, that belittling conversation wouldn’t have gotten as far as it did.
I hate a bully almost as much as I hate cancer. Cancer is a bully. It picks on your cells. Takes over your body. And when the medicine isn’t strong enough, you die. I can’t do anything about cancer, but I can take a bully down. And I’m good at it.
Coach blows his whistle twice, the loud ring echoing in the silent gymnasium. Seems like everyone stopped to watch us. “Focus ladies.”
I pop my neck and turn back towards the net. Let that bitch hit me one more time. Thump. The volleyball smacks the back of my head again and the snickering behind me sets my blood on fire.
I turn, lunging at Melody before she has a chance to figure out what’s happening. She lets out a high-pitched, blood-curdling scream as I grab a fistful of over processed hair and drag her to the ground. Melody is tiny, maybe one-hundred and ten pounds soaking wet. Even if she could throw a decent punch— which I doubt— she wouldn’t stand a chance.
Coach blows his whistle again, hollering at us as the back of Melody’s head smacks
against the shellacked wood floor of the gymnasium. He snakes his arm around my chest, securing me in a school approved choke hold. I’ve been in my fair share of fights at my old school. This may be Florida, but I doubt the protocols are that different from state to state. I hold my hands up in surrender, letting Melody’s hair go, but taking a fistful of dyed strands with me.
Once I’m considered to be deescalated, Coach has me escorted to the school guidance counselor, Miss. Cherrybroom.
She stands outside of her office waiting, perfectly manicured nails curled into a fist at her hips. I walk through her open door and chuckle because her office is everything, you’d expect a high school guidance counselor’s office to be: plain and intimidating with a touch of warmth. You know, to remind the unruly that she’s in charge but still understanding.
Miss. Cherrybroom opens my school file as she settles in behind her desk. “Danika Winters.”
My manila folder is thick, having been forced into guidance sessions in California, every emotional outburst, every tear, every fist thrown was documented. I was considered high risk. Relocated from my friends. Terminal mother. Blah blah blah.
“It’s your first day and you’re already getting into a fight.” A sigh escapes Miss. Cherrybroom’s thin coral lips, “I guess this is my fault. I should have scheduled to meet with you this morning,”
I shift in the oversized plush chair. “No. You should switch my classes. Melody is the devil.”
“Seems like you’ve always been a fighter.” Miss. Cherrybroom ignores my request. She flips through my file, silently skimming through each page. “Until the spring of last year. The fighting stopped, even while you were a victim of bullying.”
Her big eyes widen as she mumbles “oh my” under her breath. I know what she sees. I don’t need her to remind me of what I’ve been through. I clear my throat and Miss. Cherrybroom abruptly shuts my overstuffed manila folder. “Your last counselor was very...uh...detailed in her notes.”
“But not in her actions,” I whisper.
