Needless to say, I've been dodging unwanted stares, piercing laughter, and oblivious gossip girls for two days. And I owe my newfound celebrity status to some of the most notorious students at Ravenwood High.
The Atomic Five sluts have officially ruined my peaceful existence in this miserable wasteland, and even the incident with Brandon Lockwood has branded me the resident 'retard' of the student body.
An offensive coined phrase that makes even the most intelligent academic professionals look at me through blurry safety goggles as if I have a traffic cone on top of my head. Being invisible is terrible because it means loneliness, but being noticed by over five thousand students has its many disadvantages.
Not to mention batshit crazy stalkers with a free schedule to torment and a cell phone to digitize. Their latest comments range from full-throttle rage to emotional whores ready to pounce at any opportunity.
This morning Donovan Haynes threw his large Algebra II textbook at my head. "Go back to Hubbard's class, retard!"
"Don't talk to her everyone's gonna think you're retarded." Raylon Andrews yelled and whispered to Kelly, staring at me the entire time she said it.
"You so brave," Kelly Reynolds said with a deadpanned look. "now, in this selfie, smile with your eyes like I just inspired you to read."
I rolled my eyes and sat in the furthest corner of condemnation with a scowl that said, 'Don't mess with me.' I wore this look in every classroom, which is filled with the birdbrains of this school. Of course, my thousand-yard death stare soars over the heads of my intellectually challenged classmates, and they call me retarded.
I know this because, in every period, there's always a Dalton Henderson waiting a few seconds until the late bell rings so he can voice his frustration with an audience.
And at this very second, after days of hell I'm finally in the eighth period, the one place I thought was my only safe haven in this hellhole. Then Dalton stands in the farthest corner of the room, just out of sight of the rectangular window carved into the door.
"MM-Man, everyone's gonna think we're stupid because Ebb... she's in our class." Dalton stutters, stomping his feet in the corner.
My attention stays glued to him even as Mrs. Hubbard opens the door. "No, everyone's going to think you're stupid because you can't read a sentence without sounding like Porky the Pig."
"Before you oink the end credits," Roxane dismisses Dalton, glaring at us as she shoves Princess into his arms. "call Sienna, and I bet this slut will race her lame ass straight back to her pissy chair."
What can I say? When it comes to the Atomic Sluts there are five general rules I learned to live by in order to stay off the derogatory, social suicidal nightmare known as The Ravenwood. Otherwise, referred to as a mysterious website controlled by a hellish creature with a lot of screen time on their hands and a serious kink for ruining teenage lives.
Roxane is the easiest mark in her faction of friends since her parents frequently abandon her to travel the world. Leading to a lack of parental guidance which means she needs more common sense to be anything but a doormat. Roxane is always disposing of talents in hopes of being the greatest at something. Anything. So, as long as I've known Roxane Banks, she's always achieved at being the greatest at pleasing others.
RULE #1: KEEP YOUR BURN BOOK CLOSE.
"I'm not the one that pissed in her fairy princess underwear in the fifth grade," I say, standing up. "I guess Tinker Bell got a lot more than pixie dust that day."
"If anyone finds out I'm in the retarded class because of you, I will own your useless nightmares. You won't be able to even crap without my daddy confiscating your toilet." Roxane huffs, digging her pink almond nails into my old sweater.
"Then I guess I'll have to pull my pants down and shit on your dreams," I snatch out of her grasp, "the only way you'll ever become a journalist is when I can see straight out of my ass."
Roxane's countenance rearranges from shock to an icy, cold glare as fear hides behind her pink round-framed shades. "Then prepare to see turds, batch."
"Why do we keep meeting like this?" Brandon interrupts with his signature smirk.
I take a deep breath, examining inches above Roxane's head until Brandon's cerulean blue eyes observe us both with a hint of amusement. My gaze darts to Roxane for a single moment in time, and even though her stance opposes mine, I manage to unearth the genuine emotion behind her blank stare.
She shudders, pushing past me until she reaches the wall. Roxane snatches the math poster above her head, starting an avalanche of special education flyers to crash land all around her.
Hundreds of fiery copper hair strands stand at attention while Brandon stifles a laugh. Roxane huffs, firmly gripping the poster before she curves it around her face and flawlessly stomps to the darkest corner of the classroom. By that, I mean she nearly trips over an entire row of desks, manages to bump into Dalton, and then walks straight into the wall in pink high heels, landing on her ass like a drunk ghost.
Mrs. Hubbard walked inside a few minutes after this awkward stunt, raising an eyebrow at the avalanche of special education posters littered on the floor. She gave a clueless Roxane an exasperated glance before she escorted the poster child to her usual seat then she returned to her office desk at the back of her classroom.
Brandon and I stare at each other for some time before he finally breaks the silence. "Do you think I should tell Roxane Gertrude Banks her name's on the roaster?" He whispers, reading the attendance.
My heart drops inside my chest. "Not unless you want to stay tuned for another vocabulary lesson, but fair warning, this one involves a feisty redhead reading a Sped Teacher her Miranda Rights. And the word of the day is privacy." I whisper, motioning to her desk hidden on the right side of the door.
"I just closed one English dictionary in this class. I am not trying to open another one." Brandon chuckles, the dimples in his cheeks showing.
I force a smile, but it doesn't reach my heart. Honestly, I should be ecstatic to have any conversation with Brandon that doesn't end with a thesaurus. But somehow, when he led me here on Monday, a part of my self-esteem cleaved to the back of my throat.
I couldn't use my superpower against him by weaponizing my words or lecturing him about making wild accusations. I couldn't because his cruel assumption was correct; I do belong here. Out of all the people scattered around this place, he's the one person I never wanted to find out my secret.
Mrs. Hubbard claps her hands together, kicking everyone off their train of thought except for Brandon. His jaw tightens as he observes me underneath his galactic muscles and hypnotic gaze.
He furrows his eyebrows, stuffing his hands inside the pockets of his coffee-brown leather jacket. I watch his mouth open and snap close as Mrs. Hubbard places her hand on his shoulder.
"Alright, class, this is Brandon Lockwood, straight A student at Ravenwood and Cadet Sergeant Major." Mrs. Hubbard announces, making eye contact with the few tardy students entering her class.
She sighs but continues. "Since Brandon's a senior, he's been selected to spend one of his free periods serving as my teacher's aid for the remainder of the year. Please, treat him with the same respect you're supposed to give me."
Mrs. Hubbard nods at Brandon to continue his introduction. "I look forward to creating lasting impressions and building strong connections with everyone here. I can promise you no one has to hide whenever I'm around, and if you don't believe me. I ship out to the army after graduation, so until then, you'll just have to trust me."
My head spins during Brandon's speech about how a good soldier must learn to trust his fellow comrade-in-arms with his life. I'm trying to understand his dedication, but my heart is jumping hurdles inside my chestâone after the other. Even the lines in the palm of my hands are fading into a blur.
I can't lose Brandon.
I can't lose Brandon.
I can't lose my mom.
I mean Brandon!
Suddenly, a perfectly painted mirage threatens to commence before my sight. Usually, I don't particularly appreciate mixing my school life with fiction; daydreaming in public spaces is not an ideal option. My breath hitches in my throat as my hands tremble in my lap. I slowly shut my eyelids, vanishing into another mythical world.
In the blink of an eye, Brandon cups my face in his hands with his infectious, crisp white smile flashing like a dazzling sunrise. He sweeps my waist into his powerful arms, and minutes pass by as he holds me with the strength of a million soldiers in his grip.
My heartbeat calms, the constant shaking stops, the whispers in my head cease, and fear loses its tight rein over my anxiety. An endless white void consumes our embrace into infinity, sucking the life out of all of the lifeless villains on planet Earth. Humanity may have come to a standstill, but we will continue living on as the last of our kind.
Okay, even my imagination isn't warped enough to obliterate an entire civilization just because I wanted peace. I'm not that delusional, although it's no surprise that in the wake of my illusion, the school bell rings, announcing the end of the day.
I glance around the empty classroom, starting from the teacher L shaped walnut desk to the smart board at the front of the room, then finally to the boy standing beside the chair next to mine.
Brandon stares intensely at me before he speaks. "You daydream a lot?"
"Yes," I blurt out, "I mean no!"
"You know, first I didn't notice, but after fifty-five minutes of staring at Dalton, I realized he's not exactly your type," Brandon smirks, folding his biceps across his chest.
Brain. Mind. Head.
Broke. Malfunction. Damaged.
Shit. Feces. Defecating. Lexie's face.
"Type. Breed. Class. Group. Category. Division." I stand up, raking my fingers through my bag, ensuring everything is here. I have to make a hasty getaway before the Queen of Mean rides away in the darkness on her broomstick.
"Hold it, Merriam," Brandon stretches his arm, blocking the exit, "that was the after-school bell. Your ride stormed off twenty minutes ago, but you could persuade a handsome teacher's assistant to give you a ride home.
"Why? Reason? Purpose?"
"In exchange for a dialogue outside of Merriam Webster." Brandon smiles, taking my backpack in his hand and throwing it over his left shoulder.
I follow Brandon as he walks through the hallway, high-fiving every sweaty boy littering the school grounds after football practice. His grin pierces the egotistical all-star athletes; even the antisocial emo kid gives Brandon a bro hug.
The cheerleaders, on the other hand, flip their hair and push their boobs up in tribute to the hottest boy at Ravenwood High. Their long, false eyelashes flutter in the sunlight like two long-legged spiders sitting on their glittery faces.
Brandon expertly dodges the secondhand clique of Plastic girls after each one takes turns seductively catcalling him, only to be rejected. I hide the smirk playing on my lips when he calls my name each time he walks away from the jocks, emo heads, and even the scream queens. But my skin still crawls the second another mouth snaps open in astonishment, just like all its predecessors.
At this point, I'm going through the motions because all their stunned glares make sense. For starters, I'm not precisely Brandon Lockwood material, and as I near seventeen years, my body is still equivalent to a twelve-year-old child. Plus, I dress like a Cosby reject, and despite not being the only student enrolled in Learning Strategies, I'm the sole heir of the retards.
So I would unhinge my jaw to the pavement, too, if I saw Brandon opening the passenger door of his black Mustang for someone like me. "Gratitude," I mutter, frowning as I dangle my feet over the floor of his car.
Brandon walks around to the driver's side, closes the door, and shoves his car key in the ignition. "Put your feet down." He commands.
I look down at the glove compartment, pulling my legs closer to my chest while Brandon leans back in his seat. His hand drums against the steering wheel before he shakes his head, flicking his signal light on before he swerves out of his parking spot. Brandon pauses at the school entrance after I point to the direction my house is then he drives out of the parking lot.
When he's out of sight, my body slams forward, nearly hitting the dashboard. I reach for the grab handle, watching in horror as Brandon races down the narrow street.
"What are you doing?!" I yell through the vibrations of his engine.
"What, no synonym?" He questions with a calm demeanor.
I rapidly breathe in and out, pleading with God to get me out of this cute lunatic's car. I never thought someone so tempting could be so extremely petty. He's the freaking male version of Alexis, only more crooked. Isn't he enlisting in the army?
What kind of Cadet Sergeant Major is he anyway?!
"Dude, this is a Ford Mustang and it's an antique," I pull a face as my life flashes before my eyes. "I didn't want to get thrown on the side of the road because I put scuff marks on your precious, but after this, I'd rather take my chances on the streets!"
"Ebony, it's a car, not a damn evil enchanted ring. Now relax." Brandon declares, going 50 miles over the speed limit.
"Okay, I'm relaxed, chilled, cool as ice, coolin' with Jack Frost. . . now slow the hell down!" I scream.
Brandon quickly decelerates, stopping at a fork in the road as the air returns to my lungs. "Which way am I going?"
"It won't be Frosty," I lean in closer, "no, where you're going, that smug ass smile will burn right off your face."
"Are we looking at the same fork in the road?" Brandon questions, raising an eyebrow.
"1701 Easy Boulevard," I mutter, dismissing Brandon altogether.
I point to Ventura Lane, the route to the far right leading to the more quaint side of town with the less expensive houses. The left road leads to a life far outside my dad's salary and Jesse's babysitting gigs. When I was growing up, my mom and I would yearn for our dream house with an oceanfront view on the rich side of town, Sunnyvale Boulevard.
We wanted to live where million-dollar modern beach houses sat next to the shore, divided by acres of private land. Sunnyvale may have the beach to themselves right now, but we kept a promise about crossing the poverty line one day.
Every time I pass these two roads diverged into two separate worlds, I remember how she used to drive me around to scope out our future in Sunnyvale. The difference is she's not here anymore, and I'm not searching for nirvana because I'll never find it without her. Brandon cranks up Imagine Dragons on the radio, driving down a series of long, winding streets before he reaches Ventura.
The second his car drives on the pothole-infested road, he doesn't have to read the numbers plastered across any of the houses. And I don't need to show him which one belongs to my dad because the moment Brandon turns on Easy Boulevard, the further he drives down the road, he comes closer to a two-story light-blue house engulfed in flames.