Slow Burn Part 9

"Thanks. I use the stairs a lot," I reply modestly. Then I sigh heavily and lean against the wall, closing my eyes.

I sense him settle next to me. "Rough day?"

"You could say that." I open my eyes and glance over at him. "You're girlfriend's a b.i.t.c.h, by the way."

Ben grins, showing off cute little dimples. "This is true. She's also a huge pain in the a.s.s. But she's hot, and every other night, she rides me like a Harley on a b.u.mpy road."

I immediately feel the need to dry heave.

"You're picturing it right now, aren't you?"

"Oh, my G.o.d, yes, and it's so gross." I grimace. "Thank you for that mental image."

"Anytime."

The most annoying thing about Ben Parrish is Arianna. Otherwise, we get along well enough. He's a smart a.s.s who has more than a pa.s.sing resemblance to a blonde WB actor-which he cultivates by adopting the guy's mannerisms and style. It's probably a good idea he hangs out with big tough football players because I can see him getting his a.s.s beat on a regular basis.

Ben fidgets next to me. He pulls a cigarette out of his pants pocket, and stares at it like he wants to eat it.

I'm about to ask him what the h.e.l.l I've ever done to Arianna to make her hate me so much, when he glances up and spots someone.

"Yo, Youngblood!" he calls, and my heart sinks. "Let me borrow your Zippo!" He holds up a hand.

Reluctantly, I look over to see Dean and Sloane approaching. Dean pulls out a silver lighter from his front pants pocket and wings it at Ben, who catches it with a big flourish.

"Gotta take a smoke break," Ben says to me. "Wanna go with?"

"No, I'll see you inside. Oh, and thanks."

"Yeah. Try to stay out of trouble while I'm gone." He gives me a friendly tap on the shoulder. "I'll see you inside."

I watch as he runs down the hall, pausing only to take a swing at Dean-who absently moves out of the way with barely a glance in his friend's direction. Boys.

Dean and Sloane are walking towards me, and I marvel at how good they look together, both of them tall, beautiful, and exotic. I wonder what it would be like to be the prettiest girl in school? I would ask Dean, but I'm fairly sure he wouldn't have a sense of humor about it.

I sneak a glance at him, and he returns my look hard. Sloane looks right through me, but I prefer her indifference to the other girls' catty glares. I abruptly turn and hurry inside the cla.s.sroom.

The desks are arranged in a U-shaped pattern, which probably means this teacher is going to be the hands-on type. My suspicion is confirmed when he practically ambushes me at the door. Mr. Shannon looks to be in his thirties, with curly red-gray hair and a perfectly round belly under his colorful Hawaiian s.h.i.+rt. I want to rub it for good luck, but I'm afraid he'll get the wrong impression.

"Welcome, Juliet," Mr. Shannon says jovially. We're currently working on the 'Scarlet Letter.' I think I have another copy at my desk somewhere. Have you read it before? And having seen the movie doesn't count."

I smile. "Wait, is that the one about the hooker with a heart of gold?"

"No, dear, that was 'Pretty Woman.'"

"Oh, that's right," I say, following him to his desk up front. "I get my trashy women confused, sometimes."

"So do I," he says wistfully. Then he startles, and looks over at me. "You didn't just hear me say that."

"I've already stricken it from my memory," I say with a small laugh.

"Hm." Mr. Shannon reaches into a drawer in his desk, and hands me a brand new paperback copy of "The Scarlet Letter." He gives me a curious look. "Do you think Hester was trashy, then?"

"She didn't do herself any favors, but I think the story was more about judgmental b.u.t.theads, and the failings of man then about adultery."

Mr. Shannon looks intrigued, even though I'm just talking out my a.s.s. "Do tell," he says.

"Well," I say, toying with the cover of the book. "First you have that old guy, Chillingworth. Instead of moving on and finding his purpose as the town's physician, he lets himself become consumed with bitterness and revenge. Maybe he should have put more effort into finding a wife near his own age than obsessing over one who was way too young for him, anyway. Then you have Dimmesdale-who would rather self-pity himself to death, rather than stand up for the woman he loves. If he had just gotten over himself, and grabbed Hester-they could have booked it to Bermuda, and been sipping Mai Tais on the beach with their daughter. But, no. Those guys were just selfish cowards-they let Hester take the fall for their weaknesses, and rather than grow and learn from their experiences-like she did-they just...die. If I were Hester, I would have written them both off, and found myself a nice girl to settle down with."

I trail off in my musings to discover Mr. Shannon is staring at me askance.

"Are you recently divorced?" he asks. "Or do you, perhaps, know my ex-wife?"

My cheeks flush as I realize I've just made an idiot of myself in front of my AP Lit teacher. Great first impression. Wow, I am having a pimp first day.

He's still looking at me like I'm crazy. Quick-what do I do? Do I blame it on my low blood sugar? Or do I just play it off?

I decide to play it off. I give him a gangster chin nod, and a tight smile. Let him think I'm one of those militant feminists. Maybe he'll be too scared to call on me in cla.s.s.

Mr. Shannon smiles back, now with a twinkle in his eye. "I have a feeling you'll make valuable contributions to our cla.s.s discussions, young lady. Now take a seat next to Mr. Youngblood over there."

Reluctantly, I turn. Dean and Sloane are sitting at one end of the U. Both are staring at me. Dean, with an unreadable expression, and Sloane...she's looking at me like I'm a lizard who did an interesting trick.

There's an empty seat on the other side of Dean, so I trudge toward it. This is your fault, I think at him. You should have just let me eat.

I plop down at my desk with my usual grace, and I end up sitting on the bottom my hair. I hate when I do that. It yanks my head back, and several strands are torn out of my scalp. I glare at Dean.

I don't speak for the rest of the cla.s.s, but my stomach-it roars volumes. I don't even care.

After cla.s.s, Ben offers to give me a ride home since the other guys will be at football practice. I start to decline, knowing Arianna will be in the car as well-but then he points out how much it would p.i.s.s her off to have me there. So I agree, and he's right-she pouts in the pa.s.senger seat the whole way to my house, while I stare daggers at the back of her bleached blonde head. The only time she talks is when she sees my "tiny gnome house." She can't believe it wasn't designed with hobbits in mind.

Apparently, she can be funny. In a painful, makes-a-girl-want-to-kill-herself kind of way.

The good news is, I've officially survived my first day at Leclare, School for b.i.t.c.hes and Their Victims.

Chapter 9.

While I'm waiting for the fish sticks to heat up in the microwave, I turn my phone on, and look through my text messages. The ones from Johnny, I save for later, when I'm in bed with a quart of coffee ice cream, listening to angsty music. I'm surprised to see a couple of texts from Nick and Mack, asking if I want to hang out after practice today. I text them back regretfully with the news that I have to be at work pretty soon.

I don't bother to check Heather's messages, I just call her back. I give her a very edited recount of my day. She's annoyed at my vagueness, so I tell her about the Cherry Flavored Girl encounter. She makes weird monkey like sounds, and I can just imagine her jumping up and down and pounding on the ground with her fists. It occurs to me then that she might be drunk.

"Was she cute?"

"Who" I mumble, rudely crunching on a fish stick.

"Cherry Flavored Girl! And what are you eating, crinkle paper?"

"Fish sticks," I say through a mouthful. "And she wasn't anything special. You can't tell at first, because of all the makeup and the att.i.tude. But, yeah, underneath the hair and the fake tan, she was kinda plain. Why?"

Heather sighs loudly. "I don't know. I'm drunk, and I'm kinda h.o.r.n.y. I was hoping you'd describe her wet s.h.i.+rt in detail."

"Okay, I'm going to get ready for work now. Sleep it off, 'kay?"

"'Kay." She giggles. "I love you, Jule! You and your abnormally large head."

I hang up with her, throw out my fish sticks, then me and my abnormally large head go upstairs to get changed.

I work at the Carson Rec Center, which is convenient since it's only a couple blocks from my house. I can either bike it, or walk, depending on my mood. Another good thing is they have a very relaxed dress code, so my jeans shorts and bright blue t-s.h.i.+rt are perfectly acceptable attire.

I work from four to nine, Monday through Friday. My job consists mainly of answering the phone, checking sports equipment in and out, and lots and lots of filing. It's easy, if monotonous work, and I enjoy it. The best days are Mondays and Wednesdays. That's when the Jubilee kids come, and I get to escape from behind the desk for an hour, and dance with them.

Jubilee is this awesome program for kids with Down Syndrome to come together and socialize. It's run by the fantastic Eileen Worth, whom I have officially adopted as my third grandmother. The kids range in age from five to thirteen, and I love every one of them. Especially Sierra, the twelve year old cutie with bouncy brown hair and gla.s.ses, who usually spends the majority of the time with her arms wrapped around my waist.

We've just finished an intense game of Duck, Duck, Goose. The kids think it's hilarious that Zool is always the Goose. I'm Zool, by the way. Micah was the first to p.r.o.nounce my name that way, and it just sort of stuck. I'm pretty sure Zool is the name of the drooling monster/dog thing in "Ghostbusters." I like it.

The phone rings, so I rush over to grab it, dragging Sierra-who is still attached to my waist-behind me. She's shorter than me, but weighs more, and I almost stumble several times before I reach the counter.

"Sierra," I say after I hang up with the concerned mother who wanted to know if her son was still at the courts (he had just left). "You're hugging the stuffings out of me!"

She just giggles and squeezes me tighter, burying her face into my side. I can feel her gla.s.ses digging into my skin, so I try to adjust her so they don't break.

"Sierra, let go of her," her mother calls.

"It's okay," I say quickly. "I know what she wants. You want to dance, huh?"

Sierra peers up at me, her scrunching her face adorably. "Okay. Yippee!"

Laughing, I squeeze her back. "Okay, go sit down with Miss Eileen and the others for circle time. Then we dance!"

"Yay!" she cheers, and finally lets go. I suck oxygen into my deprived lungs.

I walk her over to where the other kids are sitting, then I head back behind the counter to do some filing for a few minutes.

"Hey, Juliet!"

Startled, I look up to see Brayden, one of the regular basketball players, walking up to the counter. He's got a ball under one arm, and he's holding a long-stemmed rose in his other hand.

He plops the rose down on the desk with a grin. "This is for you," he says a little bashfully.

I'm more than a little surprised. "Uh, thank you. But what for?"

His smile gets bigger, but he doesn't say a word. He turns and walks back out, dribbling the ball with expert ease.

Weird. I pick up the beautiful red rose, and sniff it appreciatively. I'm in the middle of a sneeze when another kid I don't recognize comes sprinting in, carrying another rose. He drops it in front of me, and runs back out.

This happens again and again, with different kids-now throwing the roses at me-until I've got eleven long-stemmed roses on my desk, and a couple of scratches on my face. When Jeremy, a skinny boy with braces comes skidding in with another one, I ambush him, grabbing him in a headlock so he can't run away.

"Okay," I say. "What's going on here? Where are you guys getting the roses from?"

Jeremy giggles his pre-p.u.b.escent head off while trying to wiggle away. "I don't know! It's from some guy hanging around the courts! He said he'd give us money."

Cackling, he jerks away from me and runs out the door, almost cras.h.i.+ng into Kathy, the rec manager, who's just walked in.

"Oh, my G.o.d, Kathy!" I rush up to her, eyes wide. "We've got to call the police! Some weirdo out there is trying to give the kids money!"

Kathy starts laughing. "Calm down, Juliet! It's just Johnny. He's outside waiting for you."

I gape at her, adrenaline still coursing through me. "Johnny? What...oh, G.o.d, I'm so sorry! I don't know what he thinks he's doing..."

"It's fine, he cleared it with me before he talked to the boys." Kathy's eyes dance. "Now why don't you go out there and thank him for the beautiful flowers, and the romantic gesture? I've got the counter for a few minutes."

Great. I smile weakly at her. "Thanks. I won't be long."

"I won't blame you if you are. That boy is seriously cute." She winks at me, I'm going to kill him.

I stomp out there with murder in mind, but when I spot Johnny standing at the edge of the basketball court, my heart melts just a tiny bit. He looks so uncertain-and surprisingly sober-as he steps forward to meet me.

"Hi," he says quietly, keeping his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans.

"Are you crazy?" I hiss, glaring up at him. "This is where I work!"

He smiles charmingly. "Yeah, sorry. I figured it was the only place you wouldn't take a swing at me."

"Well, you thought wrong," I growl, clenching my fists.

He p.i.s.ses me off my bursting into laughter. "Sorry," he says, seeing my expression. "But every time you do that-it's so funny. It's like watching a chinchilla get mad."

"What do you want?"

Johnny sighs and looks down at the paved court. He's standing just outside of the glow of the lights, so I can't really see his expression. "I wanted to ask you how your day went," he says finally.

"Oh, it was loads of fun," I say, pus.h.i.+ng a stray lock of hair behind my ear. I fold my arms over my chest, and it's a defensive pose, but I can't help it.

Johnny immediately steps closer to me, his features hardening. "Someone give you a hard time?"

"What, you didn't get a report from your boys?"

"Teeny," he says warningly. His cerulean blue eyes are intense, refusing to let me look away.

"It's nothing," I say airily. "I get mistaken for a s.l.u.t and a b.i.t.c.h all the time."