Pumpkin Spice with Two Sugars

Not so Secret Secrets

I've just about decided how I want to leave my mark on the school. It's my senior year. And I'm unusually happy. People must suspect something. My ex-best friend walks by with her straight platinum blonde hair and scoffs at me in the hall. "What?" I call after her. "I can't be happy I haven't seen you today?"

She slowly stops walking and her head tilts. She looks ticked as she turns around to confront me, her caked on makeup slowly disappearing under her mask of hate. "What did you say?" Tiny little baby steps; that's all I can think as she walks towards me with four-inch high heels. Impractical, or what?

"I'm pretty sure you heard me the first time." I pause and smirk while she twitches. Not many people stand up to this witch, and a crowd is gathering. I can see her Louis Vuitton purse jerk, her forty-something necklaces clang together. Her uncomfortably tight, pale pink shirt is barely staying on via her bra, which I can see clearly through her light shirt. Rock and Republic jeans are hanging on her butt so low, you can see the bow at the top of her 'sexy' thong. I don't know how I was ever her best friend. The changes she's gone through in the past two years make her completely unrecognizable. And not for the better.

"Well, no one will see you after I'm done with you." She turns on her heel and walks away.

Of course, I can't let her have the last word. "Hey, Monica!" She doesn't turn around, just merely stops and shakes her hair. "Have you heard anything from your dad yet?"

She takes a very deep breath, but it only lasts a couple of seconds. Her dad left her and her mom on the streets, last time I heard. Her chunky heels do a full one-eighty and she's now staring at me. "No, he hasn't, Sin." That's her stupid nickname for me. "Go worship Satan somewhere else."

Oh ho ho, she's crossed the line. "Monica, did I ever tell you the story of the girl who 'got' an abortion? It's about this girl, we'll call her M. So, M likes fooling around with her boyfriend, right? And one day," I pretend to forget, so I can drag out the story. "They go too far. M is scared she's preggers. So she goes to the doctor and finds out that she is." I pause to let this sink in. "Then, because she doesn't want her mother to know, she fakes being sick so she can stay home a day and go to the abortion clinic." She's fuming now. The bell rings, but nobody moves. They all want to hear how the story ends. "Anyway, long story short, she gets the abortion. And yet, something's wrong. Because, if I recall last summer correctly, I remember hearing a baby crying in her house. And I'm pretty sure that her mom is way too old to have a kid. So, what do you think? Did she fake the abortion to stay with her 'perfect' boyfriend? Or did her mother have a miracle baby?"

The entire crowd is stunned. I'm staring Monica in the eyes the entire time I say this story, and with each sentence, I take one step closer to her. I'm only inches away from her face, and suddenly I'm slammed against the lockers. "You evil little b-" I'm not a fan of cussing, so I'll spare you the details. But it goes something like, "You, evil, little witch, you don't know who the heck you're talking to. You enjoy ruining people's already screwed-up lives with idiotic lies? Like I would get pregnant! Zac uses freaking protection every time! You're just jealous 'cause he doesn't screw you like he does me." She yanks my head back against the lockers and I smile. I got the reaction I wanted. "You wish you had your own little pimp to fool around with, slap your butt every once in a while." She laughs a one syllable laugh and goes back to being serious. "Let me give you some advice, Sin. You mess with me again, and you won't live to even twenty." She leans in close so I can smell her sickly sweet strawberry lip gloss.

"You want my Zac?" She pauses, just like I do, for dramatic effect, but I do it so much better than her. "Come get him. He won't even give you a second glance. So try it. I dare you." She flips her hair out of her eyes and walks off, heels clacking away. The majority of students disperse among the hallway, heading to their classrooms, even if they're already late.

Some nerd walks up to me and says, "Um, are you, um, okay? Th-that looked, painful." He finishes his two sentences in a rush, like he's scared he'll stutter again if he doesn't hurry.

Just hearing him, I feel instant remorse. He must be harassed by her, too. "Yeah. I'm fine." I avoid his eyes as I fix my shirt and adjust my hair. I walk off without another word.



~



I'm in the middle of cracking my neck on the seventy-first day of school, counting down the days, and am called on to give an answer. "Seven." I call out, even though this is Language Arts 59. The number is low because I don't try to do anything about my grades. I don't do my homework. I pass all my tests, and I mostly get A's, but I don't turn in my homework, so that's mostly why I fail my classes. Of course, I have C's in all my classes but one, which is an F, but here, if you've got mostly C's, you pass. Tremaine High School is weird like that.

My teacher looks at me like I have a second head. "Where did you get seven?"

I'm caught off guard. You're not supposed to challenge one of my answers. Did this person not pay attention at all to teaching class? I pause, looking at the sentence. Sphinx of black quartz, judge my vow. What the heck is that supposed to mean? I count the words, and coincedentally, it's got seven words. "There's seven words."

"That's not what I'm asking." The class snickers and I look up at the teacher. He seems decent enough. Like one of those teachers who actually cares about the students, and is friends with them on Facebook. His hair is combed, but it doesn't do much because he has unruly curls; his eyes are a soft blue; and his body's tan and muscular. Honestly, the scenery isn't too hard on my eyes. But dating teachers is a huge no-no, because they either pass you if you make out or do it or something, or fail you if you refuse to give them the upper hand.

"Well, then, what are you asking? Because as far as I'm concerned, I can't answer a question I don't know."

He looks at me with fire in his eyes. Apparently, I can't talk trash to him. I see the plaque on his desk and see that his name is Mr. Solomon. "I'm sorry, Mr. Solomon. I get bipolar some days. What was the question?"

I see him take a mental deep breath and repeat the question to me. This is the first time he's ever talked to me, so I suppose he's justified my attitude in his mind.

This time, my answer's 'sphinx.'

And it's right.