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Pathetic.
“I already bought my bus ticket,” I easily lie.
“You’re gonna refuse a ride in my 1961 Ferrari two-fifty GT California Spider right now? I’m only trying to be nice.”
Every chance he gets.
I lean down to get eye level with him, my fingers skimming the smooth paint. My polo shirt is unbuttoned at the top, exposing an inch of cleavage and I pretend not to notice his eyes dart to my chest for a second. “I’m sure there are other ulterior motives. Besides, public transportation is always super nice to me. They don’t call me names or write shitty things in my textbooks. They’re super sweet like that.” With a mocking wink, I smack the metal of his cherished car and continue my – slightly limping – victorious walk to the bus station. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“Dee, you’re kidding?” he hollers after me.
Without missing a beat or giving him anymore of my attention, I flip him a vulgar gesture over my shoulder that I've never actually used in my entire life.
It feels so fucking good.
Would it be just over the top if I did both hands, one after the other, after the other just so he really gets the point?
“Fuck you too then,” he growls, dropping his nice guy act. Rocks rain down in the long driveway as his car flings them up in the midst of him peeling out.
Clearly tantrums are more violent the older boys get.
I smile to myself.
Off he goes, his tires screeching down the street as he speeds away.
Asshole.
Mrs. Owens hums to herself as she passes out our tests from yesterday. She might be one of the most cheerful teachers we have here but it's probably because she gets her kicks off of working her students to death. It’s the first week of school and we already had a test this week.
At some point child labor laws must come into play here.
Landon is still pissy because I turned him down this morning. When I sit down, I grin wildly at him, that eat shit and die smile that I’m perfecting. I won’t tell him that I was almost late and ended up running the last three blocks from the bus stop to here.
Some things I can keep to myself.
For all he knows I had a lovely little stroll in the breezy summer morning. I didn’t step in a puddle. I didn’t almost forget my backpack on the bus. I didn’t have to slip my shoes off to sprint here.
Nope, if he cares to ask, Best. Morning. Ever.
I hope the sweat on my brow has dried up a bit. Also, I’m pretty sure my blister is bleeding into these shoes. Hope these aren’t designer. Yet knowing Knox’s taste, they likely are.
Mrs. Owens reaches me and her humming stops. She flips my test over on my desk so I can’t see my grade, a sad smile tensing her thin lips.
Oh no.
As she continues on her way I take my chances and flip my paper over.
F.
F as in Fuck-My-Life.
A big bold, red marker, almost as bad as Venereal Violet, letter “F” sits at the top of my test. Sucking in a deep breathe I try to hold back the flood of emotions that want to escape. This particular F, our first grade, brings my grade down for the class to an overall F. F for failure. F for fucking lucky if I even make it through high school let alone college.
Suddenly, I’m no longer in Mrs. Owens’ class but I’m twelve again bringing home my first failed test to my mother.
I held the paper up for her to see. I’d always been good in school, proud of my grades, working hard for them everytime. But something about math just never clicked with me.
My mom puffed on a cigarette, blowing the white smoke in a large cloud over my paper. “Do you need something?” She asked as if I was an inconvenience in her day. She tilted her head and tried to look around me at the television.
