I sit down in the only empty desk in the classroom and the stupid skater next to me rams his freaking skateboard into my heel. “Ow!” I yelp. He pretends to cough to cover a laugh and the teacher eyes me with irritation. “Is there a problem, miss?” he asks, sighing. “No,” I say sweetly. He nods and turns around, continuing to write on the board. The skater smiles at the board and I keep my gaze forward as I sneak my foot into the space between us...onto the skateboard...and... “Ow!” he screams. I smile as the teacher turns around, angry. “I don’t know what’s going on over here, but it needs to stop now.”
“Sorry,” the skater says in a slightly British accent. British? A British skater? I didn’t even know that was possible. I walk out of the classroom with the strap of my bag across my chest and the skater walks up in front of me, blocking the staircase. “You’re a feisty one, aren’t you?” he says in his Brit way. I smile-once again-sarcastically and say, “Thanks for noticing,” before shoving my way past him and hurrying down the staircase. He puts his hand to his mouth and whistles and I trip on the last stair, startled. He laughs as I keep my gaze on the ground and hurry out of the staircase and into the busy hallway.
“I’m Russel, by the way,” the skater says as he sits down across from me at the lunch table I am reading at. I put my book down, “You think you’re real slick, don’t you?”
“Slick? I’m not sure I even know what that means. And it’s not because I’m British, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve lived here for about nine years and I’ve yet to hear someone say ‘slick’.”
“Well you have now. Do you think that just because you have a British accent, you can charm me or something?”
“Usually works. Skateboard helps too.” I roll my eyes, fold the page of my book, and stand up, slinging my backpack around me again. “See ya, Russel.”
“Some other time, then!” he calls out as I walk away. I wave at him without looking back as I walk to the building my next class is in.
I sit at my desk and write notes about Kinetic Energy. Ths kid behind me pokes me in the back and I groan inwardly. I don’t turn. He pokes me again. I still don’t turn. He pokes me a third time, “What do you want, James?” I hiss. “Do you have a pencil?” he asks. I close my eyes. It is fifty minutes into class. We have been taking notes this entire period. He can not be serious. I furiously unzip my pencil pouch and pull out a dull pencil, throwing it at him. “Thanks,” he whispers. I roll my eyes and turn back around. James has liked me since seventh grade. He will never understand that I will never like him back. The door slings open, letting a ray of light into the classroom. Mr. Jones swivels to see who has interrupted him. Thomas slugs into the room, smiling sloppily at Mr. Jones. Everyone around me rolls their eyes, but I can’t help but grin. Thomas is the most sluggish, sloppy, slacking, stupid guy in the whole school. But he has the most gorgeous face in the world. His eyes in themselves are enough to make me swoon- light blue-green with gold flecks. His lips are full but not huge, and he smiles loosely, easily, lazily, like he’s the happiest guy in the world. He always looks like he just woke up from the best night of sleep ever known to mankind. Messy and slouching, but grinning from ear-to-ear and somehow shining in that ‘I’m completely satisfied’ way. “Thomas,” Mr. Jones hisses through his gritted teeth. Here’s the thing: I’m probably the only person in this entire school, (except Laylee, Thomas’s adopted sister,) who doesn't think that Thomas is a total jerk. The rest of the world sees him only for who he looks like: a guy who doesn’t try hard for anything but still gets everything he wants. His grades are insanely low, of course, but somehow he never fails more than one class, (the maximum for not being held back,) and his grades never trouble him- or his parents. College has never-and will never-phase his mind, and his parents don’t care. He’s filthy rich, and it seems they don’t expect anything education-related from him. His sister, on the other hand, is going to be valedictorian of her class. She’s the smartest kid in her grade, and she works harder than anyone else in the entire school. People wonder how in the world they could possibly be related.
The answer? Like I said, she’s adopted.
I’ve liked Thomas since tenth grade, when we had three classes together and he talked to me sometimes, (while I was trying to get my work done, usually, but whatever.) Thomas walks over and sits in the empty seat next to me.
I swear, I didn’t plan this.
I continue writing notes. “Hey, Venice,” he says. I blush, (bright red. Very bright red.) and reply, “Hi!” in an all-too-squeaky voice. “Hey, so, I’m having this party at my house on Friday night,” I really need to be focusing on what Mr. Jones is saying right now, (my grade has gone down to a B-), but I can’t help but listen now that he’s said that. “I was wondering if you wanted to come,” he says. I smile and nod, blushing even brighter. “Cool,” he says, “Invite anyone you want.” He turns away from me and starts doodling on his binder. He doesn’t even try to look like he's taking notes. I’m not sure if I should be horrified or impressed, but I decided to be impressed because the horrified slot is already pretty much filled by every other kid in the classroom.
Thomas jogs up to me after school, “Hey,” he says, “Hi,” I reply again. “So, anyway, the party’s at seven, and-you know my address, right?” I nod, and then realize that I shouldn’t have, because he never gave it to me. (I have it, he just never gave it to me. I am not a creepy stalker. I just like to have it in case...in case of situations like this. Shut up. Don’t judge me.) “Cool,” Thomas says, and I smile. “Hey! It’s Thomas, right?” a slightly British accent says from behind Thomas and I. I turn to see Russel walking up. “Oh, hey...” Russel pauses, trying to remember my name, “you.”
“It’s Venice.”
“Oh. Hey, Venice. Cool name.” He smiles at me and I roll my eyes. He turns to Thomas, “So, Thomas, I heard there’s a party at your place on Friday night?” Thomas nods, eyebrows raised. Most people wouldn’t be asking about a party that Thomas throws. Most people would be avoiding it. Russel raises an eyebrow also, “Am I invited?” Thomas looks confused, “What’s your name again?” Russel laughs, “It’s Russel. I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m new here.” Now it’s my turn to raise an eyebrow, “You too?” Russel looks at me, “You’re new? Huh.” He looks befuddled, “Weird. Seems like you already know everybody.” I laugh, “That’s because I do. I went to a different school, but the same neighborhood, and we all went to the same middle school. We all know each other. I also went here sophomore year.” Russel nods, “Oh, right. That makes sense.” He turns back to Thomas, “So, what’s your address?”
“Oh, yea,” Thomas says. He pulls a pen out of his bag and writes it on a random piece of notebook paper. “Here,” he says, handing it to Russel. It’s probably the first time I’ve ever seen him nervous. Like I said, people don’t generally ask to be invited to Thomas’s parties. And Thomas knows I like him, (well, maybe he doesn’t know I...like like him, but he knows I don’t hate him,) so he's used to being treated like a normal human being by me. This guy, on the other hand... Russel smiles, “Thanks, man. See you there, guys!” He smiles and waves, walking off. Thomas runs his hand through his hair, his eyebrows furrowed. “Well that was weird,” he mutters. I laugh, “See you later, Thomas.” He smiles at me, “Yea, see ya, Venice.”
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