"My intentions would be simple," he says with a deep, heated gaze, his warm breath fanning across my face.
He slowly moves himself even closer to me so that our bodies are mere millimeters away from touching, causing breathing to become a chore. "M...
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It was an exceptionally dreary Friday with dark clouds hanging low in the grey sky. Small raindrops swirled on the bitter wind, clinging to my clothes and hair as I entered Goldcrest High School on this bleak October morning, grateful for the shelter of windbreaker.
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Wielding my hot coffee in one hand and my AP Calculus book in another, I dropped my bags in my locker and headed to class as quickly as I could, not particularly in the mood to run into any familiar faces this AM.
I follow Haven into the small, fluorescent-lit classroom without any unwanted interruptions and slid into my desk at the back like it was any normal day. But it wasn't just any normal day. Today, after school, I would be going to...
Soccer tryouts.
Soccer tryouts was one of the most stressful days of the year for me, even more so than midterms or final exams. I wasn't quite sure why, though I felt this weird sort of pressure to make it on the team. Somehow, it seemed like playing honored my dad's memory. Soccer was one of his most favorite things in the world. Without fail, he took mom, Haven and me to every single one of the Brixton King's home soccer games, and we'd all sit right at midfield, cheering as loud as we could.
Even though I was only 4 at the time, I still remember the year that Italy, the country of his ancestry, won the World Cup - I remember seeing my dad jump and holler and run around, celebrating with so much joy that it infected the entire household for days on end.
I didn't care how silly it sounded, or how much time it took up. I had to make the team and I had to play - for my dad. I wished, more than anything, that he could see me play, cheer me on from the sidelines, give me advice on how to better my game. I wanted to make him proud, and making the team helped me feel like I was somehow.
Right as the ear-splitting screech of the starting bell rang through the air, Layla Wright strutted through the classroom door in clicking tan leather thigh-high boots, a white skater skirt and an extremely tight long-sleeve nude crop top. She shoots me a too-sweet smile as she spins on her heel to gracefully sit in the chair of the desk at the front center of the room.
"Yesterday's test scores are coming your way," Mrs. Bridges, our AP Cal teacher, drawls as she begrudgingly stands from her desk and beings passing out our graded papers. "Look alive."
Haven and I exchange a nervous glance from across the room. AP Cal is the only class we have together, and I know how much of a struggle it is for him. He never wants my help, though. Must be a guy thing, like not asking for directions and only looking at the pictures in instruction manuals.
I have to say, I'm pretty impressed that Mrs. Bridges got all of our tests graded in one night. Sure, there are only 15 of us in the class, but still, she usually takes several days, sometimes a week, to get our scores back to us. Even though she teaches Advanced Placement, she's not a particularly motivated teacher.
