The Opposition

Chapter 8: Carter

"You are fucking illiterate." And I spoke too soon.

Annoyance tenses my jaw. "I'm a bibliophile."

"Fuck off. No bibliophile can't tell the difference between two authors."

What is she on about?

We're sitting at a horseshoe table with a huge piece of chart paper laying diagonally on it. The page reads "Favourite Jane Austin Quotes From the Semester" in thick red marker.

"'I make so many beginnings, there will never be an end.' That sounds like an Alcott quote. Well, not sounds; it is an Alcott quote."

"Fuck," I mumble. I'm starting to get tired of always messing up in front of her. Can she just fucking fail? Once?

She spins the paper towards her, crosses out my loopy black writing, and begins scribbling a quote of her own. "And this is why I'm going to secure English top of the class." Oh, here we fucking go.

"Oh, fuck off. You are not. And even if you did; I have history."

"What makes you think that?"

"You don't even know who the first US president was."

"I do to!"

I smirk, "Okay, who?"

"George Washington."

"And who told you that?" I'm smiling now. A full bright smile. I'm sure my dimple is showing.

"Oh, give it up. Either way, art is mine."

"That's funny. Trés drôle."

She slaps her hands on the table in outrage, rumbling up the paper. "You are an awful artist."

"Oh, come on. I did a great job." Of course, she's referring to the time we were paired up for portrait art. She was certainly unhappy with the quality of my drawing of her.

She walks over to the chair I've plopped myself in and gently pulls the hair on the back of my head so I have to look up at her. She leans in, "I think we both know I don't look like that."

I visibly swallow.

I take my chance. "Why are you going to the dance with Ty?"

Her eyes widen slightly, but she hides any other indication of surprise. Instead, she smiles. "Moment of weakness."

"Okay," I stretch out the word. "Why are you still going with him?"

"Why not? He may be a dick, but he's not bad looking. It's embarrassing because he's actually just my type. And I don't want to slap him all the time. Ana and Angie are going to the dance. So, why wouldn't I just go with him? It's not like it actually means anything," she rambles on.

But I'm not listening to her. "What do you mean he's just your type?"

She's blushing. "Shit. I mean like physically. He's tall and muscular. An athletic build."

"We literally both do track," I mumble. I don't know why I feel the need to justify to her that I am just as much of an athletic build as fucking Tyrone.

"Yeah, I know. He's just always in the gym lifting and, um, it shows. I don't know why I'm telling you this. It's stupid. If you even utter a word of this to Ty, I will kill you. It doesn't matter, I'm going with him tonight and then he can fuck off."

That's when it clicks. I don't have a date. I really thought Sadie wouldn't have one either. Not because she can't get one, but because she didn't seem interested. Shit. I can't go alone. And since when did Ana have a date? I'm trying not to show the panic on my face as I continue to write on the large piece of parchment paper. I need a date.