If only he’d just let me be . . .
Rollins shakes his long brown hair out of his eyes. “Are you okay? Did you just—”
“Mr. Rollins,” a smug voice calls out. “Little late today, I see.” Mr. Nast—“Nasty,” to the students— strolls toward us, his thumbs tucked casually through his belt loops like he’s in some kind of western. It’s the last face-off—Nasty the principal and us, the delinquents.
Nasty glares at Rollins, whose face has settled into a smirk. Rollins’s snarky attitude hasn’t won him any favors with the administration—that’s for damn sure. He gets busted once a week on average. It’s pretty much Nast’s hobby, trying to nail Rollins for smoking in the parking lot or cutting class.
When Nast sees me, his face kind of wavers. I’m a tricky one. With my strange disability and permanent hall pass, there’s not much he can do to me. Rollins, however, is a totally different story. I know for a fact he’s only one tardy away from suspension.
Rollins’s grip on my arm tightens for a moment, and then he lets go. He prepares himself for battle, crossing his arms across his chest and tightening his jaw.
I throw myself between them. “Mr. Nast, Rollins was just walking me to the nurse. I’m feeling faint.” I make my voice wobbly and grasp Rollins for support.
Mr. Nast looks from me to Rollins and back again. I see in his face that he doesn’t believe me, but there’s nothing he can do. Finally, he throws us a severe look and mutters at us to hurry up.
Rollins and I bustle away from him, arms linked, heading toward the nurse’s office. When we round the corner, we burst into laughter, and any tension there might have been between us before has dissipated.
“I never knew you were such a fine actress,” Rollins says, snorting.
“Oh, that wasn’t an act. I really am feeling faint,” I say, pretending to swoon. “I’m such a delicate flower.”
“My ass,” Rollins says, nudging me with his elbow. “You’re about as delicate as an AK-47.” His snicker fades as he catches sight of my forehead. “Seriously, though, what happened?”
I shake my pink hair so it covers my wound. “It’s nothing. I just passed out in the bathroom. But I’m fine. No big deal.”
Rollins can’t hide his worries, though he tries. His eyes narrow. “If you say so.”
I squirm. Concern makes me itchy.
“Look, I gotta get to class. See you later?”
Rollins nods. “Later, Vee.”
When I get back to English, it looks like someone released sleeping gas in the classroom. Almost everyone is draped over their desks, holding their copies of Julius Caesar at odd angles in front of their faces so it’s not completely obvious they’re asleep. Mrs. Winger is still absorbed in her game. She doesn’t look up when I ease into my seat.
Samantha Phillips, her hair framing her face in straight red sheets, eyeballs me from across the room. Her cheerleading skirt is yanked up to show off her fake-baked thighs. I can’t believe I once wore one of those skirts. I can’t believe I was ever friends with the girl who is now captain of the squad. Sophomore year seems like a lifetime ago.
She looks at my Oasis T-shirt and sneers. “Nice outfit. What is it, like, 1994?”
I give her a death glare until she looks away and goes back to inconspicuously tapping the screen of her iPhone.
My gaze falls on the crisp, clean copy of Astronomy: The Cosmic Perspective, which peeks out from my black school-bag. I had to order it brand-new to avoid the possibility of sliding when I flipped through the pages. People have emotional ties with books more often than you think, and I try to play it safe.
With Mrs. Winger so enthralled by her computer game, it would be easy to pull my book out and continue the section on black holes I was reading the night before. There probably won’t be any questions about black holes on the Julius Caesar test, though, sadly enough.
I turn to Icky. “What’d I miss?”
“Hmmm . . . Well, the conspirators stabbed Caesar. You missed about the only good part in this play.”
“Aw, crap,” I say, in mock annoyance. I lean over his desk, careful not to touch the book, and scan the part I missed. Yada yada yada, the conspirators surround him, Caesar is history.
One of the questions on the study guide: What were Caesar’s last words?
I look back at the book, searching for the answer. Aha! Right after Brutus plunges the knife in, Caesar says, “Et tu, Bruté?—Then fall Caesar.”
I think of Caesar going to the Capitol, surrounded by men he thought were his friends, only to be stabbed repeatedly in the back. And there’s Brutus, holding the bloody freaking knife. The only thing left for Caesar to do is die, thinking he’s such a shitty person even his best friend wants him dead.
Sophie’s face pops into my head. What will she think when she finds out her two best friends are plotting against her? On her birthday, no less?
People suck.
I shake my head, writing down the answer.
“Pretty sick stuff, eh?” Icky grins.
“I’ll say.”
The bell rings, and everyone jumps to life.
Lunchtime.
I sit in my usual place, underneath the bleachers, and wait for Rollins. From my spot, I spy an empty Coke can, half a Snickers bar, and a Trojan wrapper. Fumbling in my backpack for my lunch, I wonder who in their right mind would want to have sex under the bleachers. Maybe they did it on the football field and the wrapper just blew over here—not that that’s much better.
The brown sugar Pop-Tarts I packed this morning have crumbled to bits, so I eat the big pieces and then tilt my head back and dump the rest of the crumbs into my mouth.
I expect Rollins to sneak up on me and make a snarky comment about my ladylike table manners, but he doesn’t show. This is the third lunch he’s stood me up for. After a few minutes, I pull out my astronomy book and read about black holes in between swigs of warm Mountain Dew.
I’m in the middle of a really great paragraph about how nothing—not even light—can escape a black hole once it’s reached the event horizon when something above me clangs. Two people are working their way down the bleachers. I stick my finger in the book to hold my place and tilt my head up, annoyed by the interruption.
A familiar voice floats down to where I’m sitting. It makes me want to puke.
Scotch.
They sit down above me, and I hear another guy’s voice. “Dude, you have to check this out.” His tone is conspiratorial, like he’s got some drugs or a Penthouse magazine.
Quietly, I stuff my book into my backpack. Maybe I can sneak away without them noticing me.
“What is this? Where did you get this?” I hear Scotch ask.
“One of the cheerleaders sent it out this morning. Hey. Didn’t you bang this chick?”
Scotch snorts. “Yeah, once.”
Feeling like I’m going to be sick, I crawl toward the opening beneath the bleachers. Something sharp slices into my knee, and it takes everything in me to stifle my yelp of pain. When I look down, I realize I’ve cut myself on a broken Budweiser bottle. My jeans are torn, and blood oozes through the opening. I bite my lip and move toward the exit.
After emerging from my hiding spot, I risk one quick backward glance. Scotch and another football player are both staring down at a cell phone, smirking. My heart clenches for the poor girl they’re discussing, whoever she is.
In the bathroom, I clutch a wad of paper towels to my knee, but the blood doesn’t