Chapter 13
Nervous is a severe understatement.
I've thought of it until I could no more. Unnecessary thoughts and reasons why they made a big deal of it and why I have to care. I thought myself into oblivion and the justification box is drier than a desert.
Monday arrives too soon for my liking and as I pull into the parking lot, I notice that a silver Dodge Challenger is parked in my usual spot next to Brent and Blake's cars.
The bell hasn't gone yet. Students are still arriving. The popular clique is still gathered around their cars.
Blake is leaning against the hood of his Mustang GT.
His arms are wrapped around that girl he was with last Friday.
By the looks of it, he might keep her as his plaything for a few more days before he grows fed up and starts hunting again.
Brent is out there too, near his GMC Sierra with Katy hanging all over him.
They're engrossed in idle conversation with some guys from the basketball and football teams who are there with their girlfriends.
When they notice my car slow down, their side-long glances aren't as inconspicuous.
This is deliberate.
I'm more focused on figuring out who the Challenger belongs to and after a moment, I spot the pipsqueak hiding in their ranks.
He's a second-year student and a member of the basketball team who has been hanging around the juniors and seniors all year to bump up his status.
His talent is underdeveloped, and he spends most of the time during games warming the bench.
During practice, he often gets yelled at by Coach Hodge, and I personally took him under my wing to help him get better.
He's under the illusion that kissing the popular clique's ass is going to guarantee his continued place on the team and bump up his popularity status.
Fool.
There is always a scheme lurking in the background with these guys. There's always a method and a motive to keep their social status and importance at this school intact and they'll sink anyone who doesn't fit the mold.
Finding a spot next to a black SUV, I pull in and get out, meeting Sky's confused gaze over the hood of the SUV. He looks across the parking lot to my usual spot, raising a neat eyebrow finding that space occupied.
There's a silent question that lingers.
"Don't ask," I mutter, locking the door and plugging in my headset.
Rock music blasts into my ears as I cross the parking lot, then the street separating the lot from the school's yard and join the other students heading up the steps.
It's the start of finals week and today I have three exams carded. English first, and I'm not looking forward to it. My mind isn't where it should be.
A sour feeling rolls around in the pit of my stomach, a sense of foreboding that it would be a bad day. It's been there since I opened my eyes, and it hasn't eased. It's something I can't dismiss, something I've learned not to ignore.
I've been here ten minutes and have already been put into a foul mood because of my 'friends' pettiness. On top of that, I'm feeling particularly under the weather.
I feel drained, more so than usual, the feeling of fatigue stirring a possibility I don't want to entertain.
Reaching my locker, I ignore the stares and whispers. They've seen the clips Carter posted but their collective reaction spins a different tale. I know it has something to do with the popular clique because I've witnessed this type of scenario in the past.
It's the start of social warfare between them and their chosen victim.
I keep only what I need in my bag and slam the locker shut.
Their messages come rushing back. The warnings. The not-so-subtle threats. The comments from Blake.
Part of me hopes I'm overthinking. Hopes they'll drop it altogether but it's not like them. It's not like Blake or Katy to leave someone alone until they've had their fun ruining someone. It's not like Brent stop them until he's satisfied.
But speak of the devil, and he shall appear.
Brent and gang show up, Blake taking front and center to intercept my pathway. Without a word and irritation gnawing at me, I step away, scrolling through the calendar on my phone to double check my day's schedule.
Just like I thought. There is a reason for that sour feeling.
I'm booked for an appointment today and I'm not looking forward to it.
Blake intercepts my path again, and I immediately turn my phone away.
I want none of them to know.
He's taller and that irritates me more than him trying to get a reaction out of me. My tolerance snaps, giving way to pent-up irritation. It takes on a life of its own at the amusement on his smug face. A scowl forms on my lips.
"What?"
Blake holds his hands up, smirking as he does. "What crawled up your ass? I was just saying good morning. What? You're cranky because you took it up the ass?"
I'm over high school and the stupid social hierarchy that comes with this fucking school.
Tired of keeping up appearances when ultimately, it won't matter in a year or two when I leave this place.
I take his derogatory comment into stride, an obvious jab at the fact that most of Carter's friends are gay or otherwise bisexual.
Their sexual orientation has never been a reason for Brent and Blake's dislike, I don't think.
"Listen, Dalton." The impatient edge elicits surprised reactions except for Brent and Blake. The former is content to glare holes through my existence while Blake maintains that shit-eating smirk. "I'm not in the mood. I have bigger things I need to worry about."
Blake chuckles. "Oh, I bet. One weekend and they turned you. I wonder what Sasha will think when she finds out that her so-called boyfriend is sucking cock behind her back."
His words leave me stunned as I sweep a glance over the faces of the popular clique.
The key players of that group have followed me to my locker.
Brent maintains his lack of reaction. Katy mirrors him.
Blake's fling rolls her eyes, wearing the type of laughing smile that's meant to be 'cool' but is truly malicious. Pipsqueak can't even look at me.
I know what they're doing and there's no one to blame but myself for feeling hurt or disappointed at how they're treating me. It's my fault for holding them to a higher regard than they're worth.
Still, Brent's silence slashes like a red-hot knife. We haven't been close for a long time but now it just feels like I'm completely losing my best friend.
"You need therapy, Dalton. Seriously, look into it."
I turn to leave but Blake has other intentions. He's the one avoiding me from leaving. He won't let me go because it's all part of his sick, twisted little game. His grin is almost sinister.
"Wait, wait. Hold up. Look," he starts, holding up his hands as if waving the white flag, "it's just a joke, bro.
I know we came off harsh over the weekend and I admit," he drawls with the worst display of sincerity I've witnessed, "some of the things we said were uncalled for.
I apologize on behalf of our friends. "
Blake gestures to the group but I don't acknowledge them. I keep eye contact and raise my eyebrows.
I must have 'Idiot' written across my forehead.
"Whatever you say."
"Come on, Jace," he tries when I walk around him, going as far as to restrict my movements completely, slinging an arm around my shoulder.
It's all I can do not to shove him away.
"We're cool, right? It was just a joke. Don't take it to heart.
" He pulls me into a playful chokehold but all it does is irritate me.
I don't have that kind of friendship with him. We've never been that close.
"Sure. Now please, let go of me." He hears the despondency and thankfully lets me go. Without another word or acknowledgement of the group behind me, I slip away and head to the classroom where the English exam will happen for third years.
Inside the classroom, it's one of the few that have been refurbished with individual desks and chairs. The seats are arranged in alphabetical order, pieces of masking tape stuck to the top of each desk with the initial of our first name and our last name spelled out.
I search for J. Connor.
I know they won't leave me alone. But at least for this exam, they won't speak to me. They're all seated somewhere behind me and the teacher, Mr. Lynch, overseeing supervision is already present, writing on the whiteboard the start and end times.
The bell rings, and people start coming in as I mindlessly spin a pencil between my fingers wondering if I can power through the test. The exhaustion weighing me down has nothing to do with my weekend away from home.
A yawn bursts free just as Sky and Carter walk in.
They both walk by searching for their seats. Carter bumps my shoulder with his knuckles as he goes in a sign of good luck. It's Sky who stops, steals the pencil from my hand and scampers off before I can grab it back. He settles into a chair two seats to the left, one row behind me.
Blake, Brent, and Katy enter after a few others do. The latter two found their seats while Blake lingers near the front, chatting up a girl who swoons at his attention.
Egh! She could do better.
Observing the three of them act like the weekend never happened, like the confrontation didn't happen and Blake's poor attempt to pull the wool over my eyes fills me with outrage. I'm disgusted with myself that I was once so desperate to fit in I was willing to toss my principles.
The teacher distributes the booklets, and I grab another pencil along with a pen. The paper's made up of two components: an essay portion where we have to write three essays based on texts we studied for the year, and a multiple-choice section.
The exam isn't difficult. I take the first fifteen minutes to browse the booklet, making notes to shape my answers in the margins as I go. I tackle the multiple-choice first and it takes me about thirty minutes to complete it before swiftly moving onto the essays.
Everything is running smoothly, and I don't even think about my 'friends' or their bullshit apology. Still, I know I'll have to watch my six.
The exam is two hours long. There's about forty-five minutes left.
Halfway through the second essay, I'm sitting there, staring at my right hand.
The pen is haphazardly trapped between my middle, pointer, and thumb fingers.
The sentence I stopped writing is cut off, a pen mark straying and cutting into the line above it, disfiguring the last letter in the word.
My fingers refuse to budge. I glance the words I've written, noticing how the last couple of lines are partially distorted, handwriting messy and almost illegible. Mild panic grips me, setting a fast course as my heart starts to beat hard. I raise a finger, poking at my right forearm.
There is no feeling there.
Shit!
The panic mounts. If I fail this exam, I'll have to sit it for summer – the lessons, coursework, final. Midterms and coursework only account for so much and I don't want to repeat it.
Removing the pen, I take a deep breath and check the time on the analog clock. There's still time. If I overcome this, I'll be able to finish the paper.
Few pairs of eyes follow as I stand and walk to the front. I ignore it in favor of making it to the bathroom in one piece.
Mr. Lynch looks up at my approach.
"Mr. Lynch, may I have the bathroom pass?" The man doesn't say anything, simply gestures to the pass resting at the corner of the desk.
I head for the closest boys' bathroom one corridor away, check each stall for occupants and lock myself inside a stall once I'm alone. Putting the toilet lid down, and with shaky breaths, I sit, my mind blanking.
From there, the panic attack comes full-blown.
Profound anxiety takes hold of me, my heart beating a mile a minute, shoving all logical thoughts into a deep, dark corner far away from my reach. Thoughts I try so hard to escape – daily – come rushing to the forefront in its place.
Denial.
I don't want to believe that this is it, but the signs are all there. How can I ignore something I knew would eventually happen? Now that it is...
Maybe I'm panicking for nothing. There's still the appointment and I can't be sure of anything.
But as seconds tick into minutes, and those minutes turn into fifteen. The panic surges leaving me gasping for air.
Leaning forward, my condition worsens as sweat coats my forehead, trickling down the side of my face, my armpits slick with perspiration. I crumble to my knees, crashing to the floor, hitting the tiles with a thud, the stall door rattling under my weight.
Sluggishly pulling my body into a sitting position, I slide to the side continuing the war for control. For calm – a calm that ceases to exist the longer I fight.
Shutting my eyes and bunching my fists, I try to feel something in my right arm – to will the sensation back. I punch and pinch barely managing to strangle the suffocating cries.
Gasping turns into heaving and a churning sets a course through my chest and stomach.
Bile rises, hot, acidic, and disgustingly bitter as shit.
My face scrunches and I raise the toilet lid, hunching over it and unloading my guts.
Everything I consumed that morning comes spewing out, choking me, and burning my nostrils as the tears push to fall faster without stopping.
The regurgitating continues until there's nothing left but dry heaves, my abdomen stiff and throbbing on the edge of cramping.
Certain nothing else would leave my stomach, I slowly lift my head, breathing heavy, shallow puffs.
The smell of acidic upchuck threatens another round so I quickly flush it.
It dawns on me in that moment that instead of bracing myself with just my left arm, I'm also using my right.
Slumping against the stall, I poke my forearm, relief gripping me tight at the sensation there.
I could feel.
The relief is overwhelming, and the panic gradually dissipates after another wave of tears streams down my face. I feel like Jell-O on the washroom floor, my nerve endings in my legs are shot, my hands – my entire body – carrying a noticeable tremble.
I wipe my brow, grimacing at the sweat there. I contemplate calling my father and telling him about what had happened. He would no doubt come pick me up and drive me straight to the hospital, moving up the appointment time.
But I don't want to scare him more than he already is. He and Mom have been dreading this moment more than I have.
With all feeling returned to my arm, my panic subdued, I saunter out and brace myself against the sink.
My legs are wobbly. My thigh and calf muscles scream from the strain.
I'm trembling everywhere but I fight through it, washing my face, rinsing my mouth, holding my jacket and jersey under the air dryer to get rid of the sweat.
It takes minutes before I'm ready to leave. My clothes back on, thoughts of the pure terror that gripped me during that episode sitting quietly on the back burner, I leave the bathroom.
My mind still isn't at ease, and by now, the English exam is over. That means I would submit an unfinished paper.
By the time I return to collect my belongings, Mr. Lynch is stacking the exam booklets inside an empty classroom. His focus disappears behind concern when he sees me enter.
"Jace. Are you okay? You look pale."
Of course, I look pale. I just puked my guts out, but Mr. Lynch doesn't need to know that. Other than my parents, Coach Hodge and Principal Dalton know the truth. It's crucial that they do so they're not thrown into chaotic panic if something happens to me on the court or at school.
Forcing a grin so fake that I am sure Mr. Lynch sees right through, I say, "Bad stomach." He doesn't seem to buy it, but he makes no move to prod further.
Mr. Lynch stands straight. "You didn't finish the exam. You know what this means, right?"
"It's okay, Mr. Lynch. I don't mind repeating for summer," I say, grabbing my stuff from the table. Mr. Lynch watches as I do, and I can tell he knows I'm not well. My body still trembles, and my strained movements and pallor are a dead giveaway.
Mr. Lynch sighs. "You're an excellent student, Jace. Your term grade so far has been exceptional. Perhaps, I can work something out with the dean and allow you to complete the exam so that you won't have to bother with summer."
"You can do that?"
"I can try." His words bring a wide grin to my face. The man has no idea how grateful I would be if he manages to pull this off.
"Thanks a lot, Mr. Lynch."
Bidding the man goodbye, and him wishing me luck on my other exams, I head out, return to my locker, and grab what I need for a last-minute cram session for the next one. I spend that hour in the library in a secluded corner, away from the rowdy whispers of the popular clique.
Why are they even here? They're not studying – well, maybe Brent is.
Blake and his new fling are already at the handsy stage. Katy is busy texting, but she often tries to get Brent's attention to show him something. I can tell he's growing frustrated. Brent's never fucked around with his studies.
Thankfully, Sasha and Ashton join me soon enough.
The next exam rolls by without a hitch. When that one is over, there's a spring in my step. I completed the entire booklet with ten minutes to spare.
Then lunch comes, and with it, the beginnings of a headache. Figuratively speaking.
I'm in the lunch line with Sasha when she suddenly huffs, passive-aggressively dragging her tray along, casting me a side-long glance. She softens so sweetly when she catches my concern.
"Something wrong, babe?"
Sasha ruffles her dark curls, breathing deeply. I know her well to know that someone's pissed her off. Sasha Vernon is a sweet girl. She can be the best friend you'll ever know and the worst nightmare to someone who has bad intentions.
"Are you sitting with those jackasses today?"
Wow.
She dials back, offering up an explanation. "Brent's bitch called last night at fucking midnight and started saying a bunch of bullshit."
"Like?" I don't find her anger amusing. I never have. It upsets me whenever she's upset, and I'm suddenly invested in learning as much as I can.
"Ugh! She thinks she's so much better than us just because she calls herself the 'Queen B'. Like, who gives a flying fuck?" she rants, aggressively taking an unnecessarily large bite out of a cupcake. She chews furiously as we move along the line.
"What'd she say?" I ask cautiously. Sasha's mood turns sour bordering on volatile. When she gets angry enough, her left eyebrow twitches involuntarily, and her pretty features scrunch in an unpleasant sneer leaving little to speculate about her lividity.
"Bitch wants to talk about how things are going to be different from now on and they can't allow the 'losers, nerds, and fags,'" she pauses, making air quotations to highlight the point of Katy's phone call, "to think it's appropriate to disrupt the social hierarchy.
Fancy words from an idiot with one braincell.
Anyway, she made a huge proclamation about setting the standards straight and ensuring that anyone who opposes them get what they deserve.
That bitch went on to say," she pauses again, doing her best impersonation of Katy Durnst, "'So, remind your boyfriend who made him popular and that hanging out with a bunch of weirdos won't be tolerated. '"
She's so spot on with the impersonation that I crumble in laughter, pulling her into a hug if only to remain standing.
"It's not funny," she reprimands into my chest. "Ugh!
I swear, they're intolerable with how egotistical they are.
Why do they give a damn about who you hang out with?
" Picking up her tray as we reach the end of the queue, she balances it in one hand while biting into what's left of the cupcake.
"Anyway," she continues, muffled, "that's why I'm pissed. I'm not sitting at their table today."
At our usual table closer to the center of the cafeteria, our delightful friends are gathered around.
It's exclusive to anyone else we might typically hang out with as it's reserved for the more intimate circle: Brent, Katy, Blake and whoever he's hooking up with, myself and Sasha. Ashton, too, if he wants to join.
Brent pays no one at that table any attention. He's focused – attention divided between his phone and lunch. He doesn't budge when Katy asks him to look at her for a photo.
Blake has his arms around his new fling who is sitting on his lap and he's in plain view of Alexa Peters who's doing her best to ignore him though he keeps glancing in her direction.
Scumbag. She's too pretty for him anyway.
Ashton is also there. His headset is plugged in while he idly scrolls on his phone. Parking Spot Thief is also there, awkwardly eating in silence.
"You're not thinking of going over there, are you?" Sasha queries. Annoyance pinches her pretty face into something less pretty – but pretty all the same.
"You're not going to let Ashton suffer, are you?"
Her nose scrunches in disapproval, but she's wavering, wanting to honor our friendship. We don't leave each other hanging out to dry.
"Besides, wouldn't it be fun to ruffle their features? You don't have a problem with it, do you?"
"Honestly, I wouldn't give a damn if you befriended that guy who farts a lot in science. Anybody is better than those a-holes."
I chuckle, nudging her with my shoulder. "You're taking this too personally." She scoffs like it's the most absurd thing I've said.
"How can I not? Do you realize the implications of what she said?
You need to be careful. I know you like Carter and his friends but they," she gestures to the popular table, "for some reason really hate Carter's friends.
They don't like it that you were with them.
You know how they can be, so it's best to be safe. "
"All the more reason we should go over there. Besides, I'm not about to make Ashton suffer just because they have a problem with me."
Sasha purses her lips, contemplating the sanity of going over there. She wavers with a defeated grunt. "Fine!" She holds her head high, straightening her shoulders. "Let's go save our buddy."
Quietness douses the lunchroom as we walk over, mumbled conversations and hushed whispers merging together in the background. The lights grow noticeably brighter, a chill blankets the cafeteria. It's been a little more than a week since the rainstorm and by the looks of it, we're in for another.
Our approach catches the table's attention.
Brent and Katy look up, and Pipsqueak lowers his head, unable to meet my unimpressed, hardened stare.
Idiot.
He has no idea what he's gotten himself into by befriending these people. They'll eat him alive and spit him back out if he isn't careful.
"Out of my seat, Pipsqueak." It's not a suggestion, or a request. I want him out of my seat. Pipsqueak nods, scampering away.
His movements catch Ashton's attention forcing him to acknowledge the table and he lightens up seeing us there, all too happy that he's no longer alone.
Blake finally lets his new fling breathe on her own, sliding a daring glance to the blonde, freckle-faced girl sitting two tables away.
Alexa is dressed in a tomboyish flair today: white jersey tucked into her skinny jeans, halfway concealed by an oversized black hoodie, and sneakers.
To top off her aesthetic, a black cap with the letters 'JFPS' for the town's police service are embroidered over the front in white thread, blonde locks curled to perfection cascading from under it.
She notices his staring – the goading and his persistent desire to get some kind of reaction. She gives him one, stuffing the last of her burger into her mouth and standing. As she walks off, she meets his eyes just to flip him a manicured middle finger and a triumphant grin.
Blake shifts in discomfort, looks away and back to his own group of friends.
I truly don't understand what game he's playing with Alexa – the same girl he has feelings for. What I know, though, is that the longer he continues this way, the harder it will be for him to salvage any relationship with her.
"Not going to sit with your new friends?" he jokes, hoping to recover from the failed attempt to get a desired reaction from Alexa.
Brent hasn't said anything. He's gone back to whatever he's preoccupied with, but he's listening.
"I thought you said we were cool, or did I misunderstand?" My tone is flat, and my low tolerance for bullshit resonates. Blake's bravado vanishes in favor of his scowling and barking.
He's not only mad that I'm confronting him. He's upset about Alexa, too.
"I was only joking. What? You're going to get offended over everything we say now?"
"No. But it irritates me that someone called my girlfriend at midnight because they have a problem with me." I look Katy in the eyes dead on. Sasha grows quieter at my side.
"Why didn't you contact me directly? Or did you know that I'd ignore you, so you decided to harass Sasha?"
Katy scowls, her fa?ade giving way almost as soon as those words leave my mouth.
Sasha tugs my sleeve, discreetly telling me to let it drop, that confronting them is a dumb decision.
While it may be true, I'm not about to let this go.
It's better to cut the problem at the root and I definitely will not tolerate them dragging Sasha into their petty feud with me.
"Jace...what're you doing?" Sasha warns, wary of a full-blown confrontation that might escalate.
"No, I'm not going to let this slide." I have yet to look away from Katy. "You have a problem with me, Katy, you say it to my face. Don't involve anyone else because I don't have the time or patience to deal with this mean girl shit. Have I made myself clear?"
Katy's jaw drops in shock. She's unable to accept the way I've spoken to her.
She hasn't done much to gain my respect in the first place.
She's always been a spoiled brat who twists and perverts the truth to get what she wants, never one to take accountability for her own actions unless it's to besmirch someone's reputation.
Before her father walked out on her and her mother, it was tolerable to a point, but now she's unbridled in her nastiness.
"Don't talk to her like that. You've got no room to speak after hanging out with those people," Brent threatens, his voice loud enough that it cuts through the mumble chitchat around the cafeteria, bringing the room's collective attention onto the popular table.
Almost immediately, he starts to backpedal.
Whispered speculations spark among the onlooking cafeteria crowd because it's rare that we disagree or argue in public. He's like me, in a way. Neither of us are big on public confrontations. We'll only be in those situations if we're pushed to the point of no return.
But no one at this table, other than Ashton and Sasha really know me. I'm not who people at school think I am. These past weeks I've felt more myself than I have in years and I'm tired of pretending to be someone I'm not.
The sudden incessant need to question why I do anything to associate with this group weighs me down like shackles strapped to my ankles at the bottom of the ocean. The circle of friends I keep has nothing to do with my skills as a basketball player. It has no bearing on my capabilities as captain.
It's all me and my will to do what's necessary.
I'm realizing too late that I don't need to change myself for anyone.
The hurt I feel becomes overshadowed with disappointment. Brent has never been the malicious type.
Though I'm sure he has his own secrets to keep, he's never been so horrible or belittled people different to him until high school started. With no end in sight to the drastic, uncharacteristic turn of behavior, I'd quickly started distancing myself.
I don't think it was his growing reputation at school, initially. But something changed him so profoundly that he still refuses help, even a friendly heart-to-heart chat to vent about what turned him into this hateful person.
"That's what this is about?" They all glare at me with such raw disgust that it cuts me to the quick, but I hold my ground. "Cool, my ass. I seriously don't understand what your problem is."
"They're not good people, Jace," Blake replies, almost pleading. The fact that he opened his mouth for a second time since I sat down, irritates me more than usual.
"But you're somehow better company?" I return. "Shall I remind you of the disgusting things you said to me this morning? And don't tell me it was a joke. You meant every word."
Blake couldn't say anything. Better than he doesn't because my tolerance toward him is only so much.
"Jace," Brent says, "don't do this. Don't choose them."
It's almost a plea. The most desperate I've heard him sound in a long time as if he's truly torn by the idea that I'll sabotage our friendship. There's not much of a friendship left between us at this point, so it makes no difference whether I stay or go.
"No. I'm sick of you. Sick of this group and everything you stand for, everything you do. I don't want to be associated with people who live for hurting others."
"You'll regret this." There's the underlying threat of retaliation in Brent's words, hidden beneath the disappointment he looks at me with, and the unmistakable flash of hurt.
"Maybe. But it beats living with a guilty conscious over the innocent people whose lives you ruin for a laugh."
Rapping my knuckles against the tabletop, I give the terrible trio a cheeky grin. It's all the confirmation they need that I won't yield no matter how much they retaliate and that I've made up my mind.
The period of falsity in my life is over. I'm getting rid of the poison.
With nothing left to say, I head out to the picnic area outside the cafeteria. A cool breeze hits me in the face, ruffling my clothes as I step out. The sky is overclouded and fattening with gray, blends of charcoal, and scarce patches of tainted white which are disappearing with each minute.
Most of the tables are empty. Almost everyone is seeking refuge inside the school buildings anticipating another inevitable rainstorm.
Under the closest tree, Carter and his friends are crowded around a bench.
They don't seem to mind the cool breeze tainted with the promise of a coming storm.
Of all five occupants, Sky is first to take notice of my presence and without interrupting Asher and Carter's conversation, his intense gaze carries a single unspoken question.
I shake my head. I wonder how he'll react if he learns that I'm cutting ties with the popular crowd.
Ashton and Sasha join me minutes later, their animated conversation not once stopping. They're excitedly gushing about the confrontation, relaying to me the trio's reactions since I walked out.
Katy's in a tantrum over the way I 'disrespected' her.
Blake is supposedly in a foul enough mood, sprouting off nonsense about making me pay and that I must learn a lesson.
Brent hasn't said a word since I left the cafeteria, but I can't imagine he's doing much better. We were best friends once, practically inseparable until life happened, pulling us in different directions.
"I'm not afraid of them."
"We know, buddy," Ashton returns, wearing a proud grin; proud that instead of dismissing and letting slide the very thing I dislike, I'm now refuting it.
"Just be smart about this," he adds on. "You know how they are so, don't be surprised if they pull something before the week is out."
"Guess I'll be watching my six, then."
"Hey!" Sasha pipes up, her sudden enthusiastic tone eradicating the tension. "How about we catch a movie after school before we hit the books?"
"As long as you two don't get all lovey-dovey. I hate feeling like a third wheel," Ashton pleads which suddenly gives Sasha the bright idea to get him a girlfriend before the end of summer.
I want to tell her it'll be a waste of time. While Ashton's admitted to having crushes in the past, he's made it explicitly clear that he's not interested in a relationship for the time being. He has this idea of becoming so successful that his future wife won't have to worry about a thing.
"I won't be able to go with you." Their conversation screeches to a halt as they wait for me to elaborate. I don't give them much, but "There's an errand I have to run."
"Have to?" Sasha prods.
I nod, reiterating that it's not a 'have to' errand but more of a 'need to' type of thing.
She doesn't question it or read too much into it. She shrugs and tells me to call her later on, trusting me completely.
While those two will be goofing off, I'll be in the hospital and in wait for news I already know will be dreadful.