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Chapter Twelve
Skye
"Hey, you must be Skye!" the boy announced, standing confidently before me. He was of average height, his name a mere whisper in the back of my mind - Greg. A flicker of recognition sparked in his eyes, mirroring the one igniting within me. It dawned on me with a sickening certainty – this was the boy who aided Dax in his relentless torment of me. Despite the anger churning in my gut, I couldn't help but steal a glance away from Dax, drawn to the figure who dared to command my attention.
He began to speak, about to offer an introduction, but I cut him off before he could finish. "Greg. I know."
"Oh, so I guess you do," he replied, seemingly unfazed by my abruptness. He rose to his feet, extending his hand in invitation.
"I know you're Dax's sidekick, aren't you?" I retorted, my snark dripping with scorn.
Greg's demeanor remained calm, his voice steady as he corrected me, "More of a friend, actually.
"Dax doesn't have friends," I scoffed, rolling my eyes as I observed him regaling a group with stories from a distance.
"Oh wow, you seem to know him well, Skye," Greg countered, a hint of sarcasm lacing his voice as he noted my keen observation. Maybe I was being a bit harsh. Sometimes, Dax's posse just got on my nerves.
"Anyway," I quickly shifted the topic, hoping to erase the sting of my earlier remark, "is this project meant for two people or more?" The truth was, the girl currently screeching behind me, Tresa, was pushing my annoyance threshold.
"Nope, five, I think," Greg replied, a note of relief in his voice. "But luckily, there are four of us in this group!"
"Four?!" I exclaimed, scrambling to do the math in my head. So it's me, Greg, Dax, and Tresa all chained to this history project. Well, at least I know Greg. When I prayed for a group project with people I knew, out of the fifty-odd students in my class, God must have answered with a mischievous twist, and decide to throw in dim-witted Tresa and the ever-irritating Dax, who I'd much rather avoid.
"It's you, Tresa, Dax, and me," Greg listed, a smirk playing on his lips.
"There really wasn't a need to announce their names," I sighed, the energy draining from my body. I glanced away, unable to bear the sound of their high-pitched laughter that scraped against my sanity. And then, I saw it. Did I just witness what I thought I did?
Tresa sat precariously on the edge of the desk, her body dangerously close to Dax, who lounged nonchalantly in his chair, legs crossed as if he were some kind of royalty. Two boys fanned him with their textbooks, their eyes filled with a strange, almost worshipful adoration. The kiss, heated and intense, seemed to be fueled mainly by Tresa's fervor. She was the driving force, the orchestrator of this strange, almost forbidden, magic that danced between them.
And amidst the chaos, Mrs. Williams, our oblivious teacher, packed her things. She, too, bore witness to this public display, forced into a precarious position: observe silently and risk being labeled a voyeur, or leave abruptly and maintain a sliver of innocence in this increasingly absurd world.
I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could unsee what had just unfolded. This wasn't something I should be witness to, it felt wrong on every level. My attention needed to be elsewhere, anywhere but here.
With a deep breath and a newfound resolve, I finally managed to tear my gaze away. At last.
An unexpected urge surged through me, compelling me to shut my books, textbooks included, with a newfound purpose. As I carefully stacked them into my backpack, Greg's voice cut through the air, "Heading somewhere, Skye?"
"Art class," I blurted out, the realization hitting me like a tidal wave. Greg, Dax's self-proclaimed "servant boy" as I liked to call him, was right there, witnessing my sudden departure. I had also made a reluctant promise to Dax to attend his football practice after history, but the sight of that unsettling makeup kiss between him and Tresa had me questioning everything. Maybe he no longer needed me... maybe he was back with his ex-girlfriend. "Please don't tell Dax about this, okay?" I added, urgency creeping into my voice.
"What?" Greg asked, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
"Don't tell him I went to art class," I clarified, forcing myself to be concise.
"Why would he care?" Greg questioned, genuine puzzlement in his eyes.
"Because I promised your... friend I'd be at his football practice," I admitted, my voice trailing off. "But I've had a change of heart."
"Not coming?" Greg exclaimed, his voice a mixture of disbelief and disappointment. At Rosedale Academy, Dax was practically royalty, his requests carrying an unspoken weight that few dared defy. Except me, apparently.
"No," I declared, my tone leaving no room for argument.
"But he's right there," Greg pointed out, gesturing toward Dax's location. My hand shot up, book meeting his finger in a swift, silencing blow. Attention was the last thing I needed right now.
"Ow!" Greg yelped, rubbing his abused digit. "What was that for?"
"Can you please just be quiet for once?" I hissed, my patience wearing thin.
"Says the girl who's not exactly known for her quietness," Greg retorted, a mischievous glint in his eye. He always called it his "precious, fragile little finger," a playful jab that I secretly enjoyed.
