Chapter 6: Who you are

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Chapter 6

Who you are

>>Carter

‘Dear Reality,

I’m a freshman girl that loves sports, has a lot of friends that are guys, but not at this school, and is considered either a tomboy or lesbian to the other girls at Newton High. I wanted to join the girls’ basketball team… but I don’t want to be known as the ‘Tomboy’ for the rest of my high school life. I already had that title in Elementary school, and it was terrible, my nickname was ‘The Man.’ I actually want boys to be interested in me… but I’m afraid they’ll think I’m too masculine or something for them. I have two application forms. One for cheerleading… and one for the Girls Basketball team. Which one should I sign up for?’

From: #HeatsFanForLife

‘What a traitor.’ I thought as I finished reading this question.

 I can’t even answer this girl right now I swear! Is she seriously asking me this right now!?

“Carter is something wrong?” Genevieve asks looking over my shoulder to read the paper in my hand. I quickly removed it from her view and stuffed it in my pocket.

“Nothing.” I assured her. I’ll answer this question when I’m alone.

“Oh okay. Well let’s go.” She said as we walked towards her next class. Stopping in front of the Chemistry Lab, she loosened her grip on my arm and turned to face me. “You have Lunch next too right?”

“Yeah.”

“Meet me by the Café then?”

“I don’t eat there.” I shrugged. Why would I? I’ll just look like one of those poor saps  that don’t have friends, and eats by his lonesome self at a clear table.

No thank you.

“Well where do you eat?” she asks raising her brows in question.

“I eat with Mrs. Jazz in her class.”

“Who?”

“The English teacher Mrs. Jazlynn? Ring a Bell?” I say ringing an imaginary bell above her head.

“Oh! I had her sophomore year! And she's..... well. She’s nice.”

“She’s not a dessert. Don’t call her nice.” I deadpanned. Calling someone nice just sounds like you’ve tasted them before, it’s weird. “She’s class AJ room 12. I’ll meet you there.”

“Aww you invited me!” she coos, opening her arms for a hug, but I ducked under her arms, making her grab unto nothing but the air around her.

“Okay. Don’t hug me without permission please.”

“I can live with that.” She says the same time the school bell rang. “I’ll see you there. Laters.”

“Laters.” I repeated, making my way to a class where no one can mess with me thanks to the teacher.

Mr. Hale, the literature teacher, was the definition of was a wrestler should look like. The man should be on the field playing quarterback for the Denver Broncos, not teaching high school at the ripe age of 25. Heck, he’s good looking enough to be an actor. Man if he wasn’t a teacher and straighter than a skyscraper I’d attack him like he’s the last piece of dessert on earth.

“Mr. Hale!” I say dramatically walking through the door. “Your Mistress has arrived!”

“Carter go to your seat.” He sighs not even bothering to look up from checking his papers.

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