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Idiot Goldman

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Warning! This book contains bxb themes and far too much sass to be healthy. Read at your own discretion!

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I wasn't really planning to stay after class longer than was necessary, but being as Ms. Dailey had just posted the list of our finalized lab partners on the door, I had no choice but to wait for an opportunity to see who I was stuck with for the rest of the semester. As I sat in my seat and waited for the throng of impatient classmates to clear up, I could only hope I wasn't paired with one of the mean students. Morgan Cook and his best friend Nate Anderson were in this class after all, and if I was paired with either one of them, I was positive my year was going to be hell.

Once there was a little more breathing room by the door, I got up from my seat and slung my backpack over my shoulder. I still had to peer over a few heads, but it didn't take too long to locate my name on the list.

Elliot Goldman.

Flicking my eyes to the corresponding name, I was relieved to find it was neither of my tormentors.

Jordan Hughes.

He was new this year, if I recalled correctly. All the way from New Hampshire, or something like that. I'd noticed him in a few of my classes.

Though he'd only been here for a week or so, his steady climb up the social ladder was painfully evident. Before we knew it, he'd be a regular at the popular table, and he'd probably end up tormenting me just like the others.

'Twas the cycle.

With a heavy sigh, I hiked my bag further up on my shoulder before heading back to my locker.

It was finally my favorite time of the school day: the end. Now I could go home and spend the night bingeing on Netflix and Pizza Rolls.

Exchanging my Chemistry textbook for Calculus, I quickly zipped up my backpack and slammed my locker shut. Unfortunately, it wasn't quick enough, because as soon as I passed by the bathroom, three of my least favorite people popped out to say hi.

Morgan Cook.

Nate Anderson.

And Cole Decker.

"Aw, where does little Idiot Goldman think he's going?" Morgan taunted as he saw me pick up my pace.

I cursed under my breath and tried not to acknowledge them, but Nate slipped his finger into one of the straps of my backpack and pulled me backwards.

"We asked you a question, Idiot," Nate said as he crossed his muscular arms over his chest. I guess that's what you get when you play football nonstop for four years.

He and Morgan were both running backs, while Cole preferred to be on the soccer team. Unfortunately, that meant the odds of actually being able to outrun them were pretty slim.

"Mars," I deadpanned, mentally cringing when I realized I'd just made it worse.

"You think you're funny, Goldman?" Morgan pushed me into the lockers, ironically making me hit my funny bone and temporarily lose feeling in my arm.

"Quite," I responded and cringed again. Why does my defense mechanism have to be sarcasm?

I braced myself for the hit as Morgan drew back his clenched fist. He only got one jab to the stomach in before Cole called out in a hushed whisper, "Teacher!"

"We're not finished with you, Goldman," Morgan growled in my face before releasing me and disappearing into the bathroom with the rest of his friends.

I sighed in relief as the P.E. teacher, Mr. Mason, approached me from down the hall.

"Afternoon, Elliot," he greeted with a polite smile as he passed me.

"Afternoon," I responded before following after him by a few paces. There was no way I was sticking around for when those boys came back out of the bathroom. "What's on the agenda for P.E. tomorrow?"

I'd somehow skirted around doing P.E. for three years, but now I needed half of a health and wellness credit to graduate, which meant I was stuck in class with all of the athletes that needed to fill a credit hour. Joy for me.

Mr. Mason turned to look at me and slowed a little so I could walk beside him. "Soccer drills, probably."

I internally groaned. It was just another opportunity for them to trip me and play it off as an accident.

"Don't worry, Bud," he clapped me on the shoulder, mistaking my dread of the people for dread of the game. "I'm sure you'll get the hang of it in no time."

"Yeah, I guess," I played along. I wasn't actually that bad at soccer. My dad and I used to play all the time. At least until I sprained my ankle and he got that promotion at work. Now he was too busy to do much of anything but work, eat, and sleep.

I could probably make the team if I wanted to, but I wasn't very keen on suicide missions.

"Cheer up, kid," he chuckled as he stopped outside his office, "You'll be fine."

"Thanks, Mr. Mason," I smiled politely as I exited the building and began my slow walk home.

Now I had several things to look forward to tomorrow. Wasn't that just peachy?

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