“Actually, I thought I’d sit it out this year,” I begin, but I never get to finish.
“That won’t work. You need to try out,” she asserts. “You’ve got to get involved in as much as you can to pad your transcript. I’ve got a few leads on scholarships you might qualify for, but the requirements are strict. Which means we’ve got our work cut out,” she shares. “They’re not huge amounts, but possibly enough to cover your first year‘s overages for tuition and textbooks. So, aside from not getting into any more trouble, I need you to get involved in at least two auxiliaries. Basketball will cover one, but you’ll need another.”
Another thing to add to my plate.
Perfect.
“…Like what?” I ask, trying not to let my frustration show.
She reaches into her drawer and pulls out a flyer. “The school newspaper is short on help this year. I already told Mr. Dansk to expect you to drop in after school to introduce yourself.”
I could practically smell my future boredom. “Isn’t there something else? Something less time consuming? Something less … lame?”
Her brow quirks. “The Mathletes have room. Is trigonometry on weekends any less lame?”
And now I know she’s heavy on the sarcasm when provoked. Duly noted.
“School newspaper it is,” I concede.
The flyer is shoved across her desk for me to take. “Remember, Mr. Dansk after school. Then, basketball tryouts in November. Do you need a form for your physical?”
I shake my head. “Got one during orientation. Out of habit, I guess.”
She nods and then goes back to the mountain of paperwork on her desk. Halfway to the door, I glance back.
“You don’t have to go through all this trouble for me,” I admit. “So … thank you.”
A faint smile curves the corners of her mouth. “Close my door on your way out.”
@QweenPandora: Whoa! Talk about starting the year off with a bang! Looks like someone’s got it out for NewGirl already. Although, I might think twice about provoking the sibling of a known killer. Pretty sure there are stats that suggest murderous predispositions can pass through DNA. Or … it’s entirely possible I just made that up. Either way, we’ll all have our eyes set on NewGirl. Can never be too safe, right?
Later, Peeps.
—P
Chapter 8
BLUE
“So, YOU’RE the one Pandora’s been going on about? The one KingMidas is into? OMG, Blue, you’re basically famous!”
Rolling my eyes at Scar’s text, I shove the phone down in my pocket. She likely hadn’t made the connection until this morning’s post referencing Hunter. Leave it to my sister to see the silver lining in this fiasco.
Leave it to my sister to think West Golden is a god.
Demon is more like it.
It’s true what they say. Speak of the devil and he shall appear. Or, in this case, think of the devil and he shall appear.
I spot him across the courtyard. There’s no denying how good it would feel to rush across the lawn, march right up to their table, and dump that entire can of soda on his head. Instead, with Ms. Pryor’s words from a few hours ago still fresh in my brain, I just stare as he chugs it down. This guy doesn’t have a care in the world.
When he lowers the can from his lips with a smirk, nodding once in my direction, it’s like he’s taunting me. King Midas knows he’s untouchable, knows I’m alone here.
Clutching the edges of my lunch tray so tight I could snap it in half, I double back toward the cafeteria, deciding I’ll eat inside. Beats having to stare at his hateful mug while I eat.
I only grip the handle when my name is called. Well … a version of my name, anyway.
“New Girl.”
Peering up, there’s only one person close enough for me to have heard her voice. A girl propped against a tree, not making eye contact as she discreetly puffs smoke from the side of her mouth.
“Are you … talking to me?” I ask. Maybe I was mistaken, because I have no clue who she is.
“You’re the one Pandora calls New Girl, right? The one from the posters?”
Great. Just how I want to be identified. “Yeah, unfortunately.”
She flicks ashes from the end of the cigarette hidden behind her thigh, out of sight from the teachers and monitors hanging around. Dark, inquisitive eyes look me over as a breeze incites an explosion of long, black curls that frame her face.
“Who’d you manage to piss off so early in the game?” I don’t miss the smile that accompanies the question. It isn’t menacing.
Taking slow steps toward her, still holding my tray, I sigh. “Eh, you know. A little bit of everyone, apparently.” That’s all I’m willing to say, hoping to avoid widening the target on my back even more.
An easy laugh puffs from her mouth before dropping the butt of a cigarette in the grass. The sole of her heavy boot comes down to snuff it out. Then, she eyes me again, with the same scrutiny as before.
“You got a real name?”
“I do,” is the only answer I give, and my response seems to amuse her.
“Just what the world needs. Another smart-ass,” she points out. “Fine. Name’s Lexi Rodriguez. You are?”
Her feigned politeness draws a laugh from me, too. “Wait. Did you not read the posters? Someone made sure everyone knows who I am.”
Her shoulders lift with an indifferent shrug. “I skimmed but stopped when I realized it was just more of the usual toxic bullshit that circulates around here. These robots thrive on grinding each other’s self-esteem to dust.”
Lexi’s perfect description of West has me glancing at him again and, sure enough, he’s watching.
“I’m Blue,” I finally answer. “And, before you ask, that’s not short for anything. It’s just Blue.”
“Wasn’t gonna ask,” she replies.
With how everyone else here seems hyper obsessed with others’ business, her statement comes as a surprise. Then again, there’s a laidback vibe about her
