“Don’t you think you should limit your perfume to one spray? I think five is enough.”
She doesn’t laugh. “Why are you talking to Casper?”
I personally don’t see how it’s any of her business. Her loud voice stops some students in their tracks to watch us, like we’re going to have a cat fight any minute.
“Get ‘er, Amber!” I hear someone antagonize.
“He talked to me,” I argue. “So, if you wanna be mad at someone, why not him?”
“Yeah, like I believe that for one second. Why would Casper of all people want to talk to you? Trailer trash you are.”
I’m almost positive you actually have to live in a trailer to be called that. But this is Amber McLachlan. Straight-C student. Captain of the dance team. Homecoming Queen. Boyfriend expert.
“You’re right. I don’t know why Casper would talk to me. Wait, maybe he got tired of your whoring.” I know I shouldn’t have said it. But sometimes when I get pushed, that’s what comes out. It’s like I can’t hold back.
Next thing I know, I’m lying flat on the shiny concrete floor with my face throbbing and a bunch of oh’s sounding from the crowd.
She kneels down beside me, wafting vanilla my way. “Next time I catch you talking to him, you’d better run.” She leaves, taking the crowd with her like she is some hero.
I’m angry. Beyond angry. I sit up brushing my fingertips across my cheek. I know I’m going to have a bruise. What the hell? Psycho Amber punches me for talking to a guy? I sigh. And these are the Days of our Lives at Spring Valley High.
“Are you okay?” a small girl with long, brown hair asks as she picks up my book.
I nod and stand up. “Thanks,” I tell her, taking my book.
“I’m so sorry. You might wanna put some ice on your cheek. It’s starting to swell.” She gives me such a pitiful look.
“Thanks.”
She walks away and I’m left in the empty hallway alone. I really want to skip English, but I don’t want to get into trouble. Last thing I need is another grounding. As I walk in, the bell rings and the one and only empty seat is right across Casper. Great. Now I have a class with him? How did he manage to get into AP English?
I move my hair so it can hide the oncoming bruise, but I know most everyone in the class saw what happened. And only one person stopped to help. Soon the entire school will know what a weakling I am. A weakling, an easy lay, a crazy psycho witch. My reputation is certainly growing into a strong one.
I inadvertently look up and lock eyes with Casper. His angular face holds such concern. It’s so fake and I want to slap him or something. I glower at him instead. It’s his fault. I can hear whispers from people talking about how Amber kicked my ass and how I’m a wimp. Heat rises inside of me and I sink into my seat waiting for class to end.
My cheek aches and I need to find some ice soon. I’m sure it’s already started swelling, since I can see my skin bulging out under my eye. My head is pounding and as sad and pathetic as it sounds, I want to curl up in a ball and cry.
As my awesome luck has it, Mr. Burress announces an assignment for the first day and teams Casper and me together. I groan internally, especially when he takes his seat next to me. My heart hammers wildly in my chest.
“Hey,” he says.
I cross my arms, refusing to look at him. Can this day get any worse? I can’t wait to hear the rumors that I somehow forced him to partner with me.
“I’ll be back.” He stands from his desk and tells Mr. Burress something, then leaves. When he returns, he places a Styrofoam cup on the corner of my desk. His eyes hold the most apologetic look I’ve ever seen in his eyes—and that is a lot, coming from him. But it isn’t enough to soften me.
I glare at him. “Leave me alone.”
“I brought you some ice.”
I want to knock the cup over or throw the ice on him. It’s his fault anyway. But I take the ice and mumble ‘thanks. I press a large cube to my cheek and although it stings at first, I’m relieved.
“I’m sorry. She shouldn’t have done that.”
“Do you know why she did it?” I ask coolly.
He shakes his head.
“Because she saw us talking. Were you one of the ones cheering her on?”
He sighs. His brown eyes are no longer remorseful. Instead, they are intense, like in my dream. “No, Megan.”
“Well can you tell your girlfriend to chill out and stop harassing me?”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“You might wanna tell her that. I can’t say what will happen if she confronts me again. But I’d hate to mess up her pretty face.” Except I can’t fight. I have never been taught.
His lips curl into a grin, obviously laughing at me.
“This isn’t funny.”
His grin fades. “No, you’re right.”
“Why are you talking to me?”
I wait and he scratches the back of his head. He either doesn’t want to answer or doesn’t have a reason. It only means he’s playing a cruel joke.
“Well?” I urge.
“I think I like you,” he finally says looking down into my eyes. I ignore that my heart skips a beat. Why do I care that he “thinks” he likes me?
“I’ll make
