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“That’s a hard no,” she deadpans. “The teacher said your name. He also didn’t know mine. Are we done here? Did you actually want something?”
“Yeah. I want to know what other time you think I was a dick to you?” I demand.
“All of them. Times, plural,” she replies but then her eyes go wide and she looks guilty. “When you kicked my chair that first day and wouldn’t apologise.”
I frown, not comprehending for a moment, then realise that she was the stroppy blonde chick. Ah, it makes sense now.
“I can apologise to the chair if it’ll make you feel better,” I offer, half joking, but she just huffs and throws her hands up in exasperation. “Do you wanna get a drink with me sometime?” I try turning on the charm again, unable to help myself.
“No, I bloody well don’t!”
“Who says bloody?” I laugh.
“Me! I say bloody because I’m bloody British you…you…gormless tosser!”
Bit harsh. I’m not gormless. Can’t deny the tosser part though…although I’d probably call myself a wanker. Hey, if it was an Olympic sport, I’d have more medals than Michael Phelps.
She storms away past the fountain just as Cove enters the courtyard. I’m still reeling over whatever’s made this chick so angry, that I don’t really pay attention to what Cove says as he passes Malia and approaches me. He frowns though.
“What was all that about with Mai-Tai?” he asks when he reaches me.
“Huh?”
“Nothing.”
I don’t bother to ask again. Does he know Malia? The back of my neck prickles uncomfortably at that idea.
“Whatever, dude. I’m going home. I have a fight to prep for tonight.”
“Okay. I’ll catch you later…hey, you sure you’re alright?”
I’m not, but I can’t explain why, so I wave my hand dismissively. Cove knows me well enough to know that I’m not about to talk about my emotions and shit. I’ll let my fists do the talking tonight.
As I head off campus and hijack the prof’s college-issued golf cart. Yes, I could hire one, but it’s way more fun to piss him off by taking his from his appointed staff parking space.
I tear out of campus with as much angry wheel spinning and speed as an electric buggy can muster, which only fuels my anger. I need speed right now, to match my foul mood, not a bloody girl scout wagon.
And that British chick has got me using the word bloody. Sure, only in my head, but I might have to shoot myself if I utter it out loud. Ridiculous.
I’m pissed off, and I don’t fully comprehend why. I race towards our beach hut over on the shores of Ben Weston, vowing to find time at the weekend to do some modifications to the prof’s cart in the workshop.
It feels like it takes forever to get to the turn off for home. Ben West is inaccessible by vehicle, so I have to park at the garage-cum-workshop that’s a mile from our home, and then walk the rest of the way. As usual, there’s a line of golf carts parked up outside the building. It’s the best surfing beach on the island, and the serious riders know it’s worth the long walk with a heavy board, which is why you’ll only ever find professionals in the water out here. Tourists and grommets don’t like to bother with the hike.
Which also makes it perfect for our beach side home, because we’re rarely bothered by anyone. No-one else lives out this way, and the property is surrounded by ‘keep out’ and ‘Warning Danger’ signs.
I wanted to install an electric fence, but the prof shut me down on that one. Bastard.
It doesn’t take me long to reach the two storey house and let myself through the high-tech security protocols we have in place. Can never be too careful.
From the outside, the hut looks more like something you’d expect to find in the Scandinavian wilderness. A typical A-frame hut with the ocean facing wall made entirely of windows and patio doors. There’s a small balcony on the second floor and a deck with a firepit on the first. Inside, the building is much larger than it first appears thanks to some clever engineering. It’s decked out in a minimalist and modern beach theme, using white wood and mint, rather than the traditional blue. I like it. It’s light, airy, relaxing and it reminds me of home.
And totally pisses me off right now because I don’t want to be in a calming environment, I want to channel the anger sizzling under the surface of my skin and use it to win my fight tonight.
Taking off in the direction of our small home gym, I use the voice activated surround sound system to select my workout playlist. It’s set to random, and when Chester Bennington hits me with the opening lines of ‘Crawling’ I realise two things at once: the lyrics sum up exactly how I’m feeling, and I may have more in common with Malia-Tarni than I first thought.
