up. “Give it to me.”
One hand is holding drugs. The other, stolen jewelry. Slowly I raise the bracelet, praying it’s the lesser of two evils.
She barely glances at the jewel-encrusted bangle. “Nice.”
“Thanks.”
“A gift from your father?” There’s some serious nasty in the question.
“From … a friend.”
She puffs air out of her nose, like she has no doubt what this “gift” is. Contraband.
“That’s about a week’s salary for me,” she says. “So if I were you, I wouldn’t lose it.”
Then she turns and walks away.
Seriously? I breathe again, swamped by relief. Slipping the bracelet on and stashing the joint in my bag, I saunter across the bathroom, sparing a look in the mirror. Nothing’s changed. I’m beautiful, I’m cool, and apparently I’m invincible.
I wink at my flawless reflection and head to the hall. There, Bliss grabs my arm. “What the hell was that flutey girl’s name?”
“Candi Woodward,” I answer, barely thinking about it, even though a truly popular girl wouldn’t have bothered to remember the name.
“She’s dead to me,” Bliss says.
“Why? She’s the one who warned us.”
“
After
she told Verderosa we were in there, getting brownie points from teacher, props from us. Does she think we’re stupid? Snitches get stitches.”
“Whatever, Bliss.” I dismiss her with the same ease I did in the bathroom and walk past her, instinctively knowing that maintaining the upper hand with Bliss is key to my success.
“Hey,” she calls, snagging my bag to stop me.
I flatten her with a contemptuous look.
“Gimme my joint back,” she says, but the bite is gone in her voice.
“See you at lunch,” I reply, heady with the charge of power.
She backs off. “Sure.”
Holy crap, this is amazing. I can snuff out bitches and outsmart teachers. Could this possibly get better?
I head down the hall to find out.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When I open the door to English lit, the teacher’s back is to me as he writes
symbolism
in red marker across the whiteboard. Every eye in the class turns to the door, and there’s a rumble of comments ranging from “You’re toast” to “Of course
you’re
late” to “She’s wearing
Juicy
?” from two brats in the back.
The teacher, Douglas Brighton, according to the nameplate on his desk, lets out a put-upon sigh.
“I have rules in this classroom,” he says without turning.
I search for an open seat, but the only one is in the dead center of the class, requiring me to struggle through a maze of tightly cramped desks and chairs to get to it. But some girl instantly shoves her seat forward, and another guy inches his desk to the right so I can sail through.
Make way for royalty.
Damn. Back at South Hills High I would have had to beg, plead, and humiliate myself for some space. No, back at SHH, I would never be late for a class. Especially not because I was in the bathroom talking trash, doing drugs, and taking stolen jewelry.
“I know this is first period,” the teacher continues, his marker still squeaking on the board. “And I know you all need your precious sleep, and I know that most of you stayed up until two on Facebook. However, every one of you knows how I feel about first period tardiness. My class is not an excuse to sleep late.”
I’m
almost
to the open seat. One more kid, this one wearing some kind of brimmed fedora hat, has to move his chair.
He just stares straight ahead, chin on hand. Jerk.
“So this will be your only warning,” Mr. Brighton says. “Next time—” He snaps the marker top and turns, beady eyes narrowed through John Lennon round-rimmed glasses. Instantly his face softens. “Ayla.” He shakes his head, a genuine smile dawning. “You’ve never been a morning person, have you?”
I go with it. “I rock after lunch, though, Mr. Brighton.”
Everyone laughs like I just said the wittiest thing.
“Mr. Zelinsky, please let her through,” he orders Hat Boy, who gives his desk
One hand is holding drugs. The other, stolen jewelry. Slowly I raise the bracelet, praying it’s the lesser of two evils.
She barely glances at the jewel-encrusted bangle. “Nice.”
“Thanks.”
“A gift from your father?” There’s some serious nasty in the question.
“From … a friend.”
She puffs air out of her nose, like she has no doubt what this “gift” is. Contraband.
“That’s about a week’s salary for me,” she says. “So if I were you, I wouldn’t lose it.”
Then she turns and walks away.
Seriously? I breathe again, swamped by relief. Slipping the bracelet on and stashing the joint in my bag, I saunter across the bathroom, sparing a look in the mirror. Nothing’s changed. I’m beautiful, I’m cool, and apparently I’m invincible.
I wink at my flawless reflection and head to the hall. There, Bliss grabs my arm. “What the hell was that flutey girl’s name?”
“Candi Woodward,” I answer, barely thinking about it, even though a truly popular girl wouldn’t have bothered to remember the name.
“She’s dead to me,” Bliss says.
“Why? She’s the one who warned us.”
“
After
she told Verderosa we were in there, getting brownie points from teacher, props from us. Does she think we’re stupid? Snitches get stitches.”
“Whatever, Bliss.” I dismiss her with the same ease I did in the bathroom and walk past her, instinctively knowing that maintaining the upper hand with Bliss is key to my success.
“Hey,” she calls, snagging my bag to stop me.
I flatten her with a contemptuous look.
“Gimme my joint back,” she says, but the bite is gone in her voice.
“See you at lunch,” I reply, heady with the charge of power.
She backs off. “Sure.”
Holy crap, this is amazing. I can snuff out bitches and outsmart teachers. Could this possibly get better?
I head down the hall to find out.
CHAPTER EIGHT
When I open the door to English lit, the teacher’s back is to me as he writes
symbolism
in red marker across the whiteboard. Every eye in the class turns to the door, and there’s a rumble of comments ranging from “You’re toast” to “Of course
you’re
late” to “She’s wearing
Juicy
?” from two brats in the back.
The teacher, Douglas Brighton, according to the nameplate on his desk, lets out a put-upon sigh.
“I have rules in this classroom,” he says without turning.
I search for an open seat, but the only one is in the dead center of the class, requiring me to struggle through a maze of tightly cramped desks and chairs to get to it. But some girl instantly shoves her seat forward, and another guy inches his desk to the right so I can sail through.
Make way for royalty.
Damn. Back at South Hills High I would have had to beg, plead, and humiliate myself for some space. No, back at SHH, I would never be late for a class. Especially not because I was in the bathroom talking trash, doing drugs, and taking stolen jewelry.
“I know this is first period,” the teacher continues, his marker still squeaking on the board. “And I know you all need your precious sleep, and I know that most of you stayed up until two on Facebook. However, every one of you knows how I feel about first period tardiness. My class is not an excuse to sleep late.”
I’m
almost
to the open seat. One more kid, this one wearing some kind of brimmed fedora hat, has to move his chair.
He just stares straight ahead, chin on hand. Jerk.
“So this will be your only warning,” Mr. Brighton says. “Next time—” He snaps the marker top and turns, beady eyes narrowed through John Lennon round-rimmed glasses. Instantly his face softens. “Ayla.” He shakes his head, a genuine smile dawning. “You’ve never been a morning person, have you?”
I go with it. “I rock after lunch, though, Mr. Brighton.”
Everyone laughs like I just said the wittiest thing.
“Mr. Zelinsky, please let her through,” he orders Hat Boy, who gives his desk
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