Between the Lines

- 2 -

                                                                  Braden

Impossible. What a totally impossible chick, I think as I follow Kendal into English.  I tell myself that I hate her. I mean, I seriously should hate her, because she clearly despises me. We've gone to school together since seventh grade and still, she screws up my name, every time. It has to be on purpose. She doesn't smile if I smile at her...or notice how I turn into an idiot when I try to talk to her.

I wonder how many chicks pick up on that at all. They always complain about how stupid guys are, and maybe we are, but that's pretty much only because when we talk to someone we like...we turn into idiots! If we talk to dudes, we're fine. Put us in front of a girl, and our brains sizzle like bacon.

What the hell did I even just say to her? Something stupid. Doesn't matter, really. May have told her I'd knit her a douche bag for all the good anything I say has ever done. Can you knit a douche bag? Who the hell would I ask that to? Never mind.

The hell with it. I should quit even trying to talk and just be happy to watch the sway and curl of her jeans when she walks in front of me.

When I find my seat, as hidden as possible in the back of the room, I try hard to fold into myself and disappear. Every day is like this now since...well...since I screwed up. I hate thinking about that, though. Makes me feel even stupider than usual because I seriously didn't need to print a short story from online and turn it in with my name on it.

I can write pretty good...well?...good? What-the-hell-ever! Point is, now I'm sitting with an 'F' in a class I have to pass to graduate. Mrs. Buchanan said she'd consider taking my final writing assignment as the total grade for the class, which is great, if I write something spectacular, and really damn bad if I write just fairly good...well?...whatever.

"You're going to love your final writing project," Mrs. Buchanan spits out and annoys me even more than usual today. More than annoys, actually. She sickens me. It's not just the old lady caked-on makeup. It's not just her hair that's so badly colored that it looks like a freakin' wig. It's not just the simpering giggle she has when she's berating someone. It's not just any one thing. It's all things. That plus the little spit pockets in the corners of her mouth. They're like little spit missiles and someday they're gonna fire out and bring someone down.

 "I really mean this," she goes on, "because it is completely unlike anything you have ever done before, and if you want a passing grade," here she shoots a momentary challenging look my way. I lower my eyes and keep listening for my only hope of graduating. "You'll give this your all."

I hate her. I hate her so damn bad I could choke her to death with a knitted douche bag. What the hell is a douche bag? Who cares, the concept makes me smile a bit, but only momentarily. Because then she explains this great new writing adventure. The "project" is completely unlike anything because of three reasons.

One, the writing assignment is to be all dialog. Completely. Not one word that is not in dialog, and it must convey a story with all the elements we have practiced this year. Freakin' impossible. Mostly because I don't think I remember what we were supposed to have practiced. Some I remember, like I remember that if I copy off of Dane's vocab tests, I can usually score a "B", but the rest...ummm...not so much.

Two, it is a paired writing assignment, and based on our individual talents, she has paired us with someone completely different in style and writing discipline.  Which brings in number three.

Three. My partner is Kendal, girl of my fantasies and nightmares who hates me, taunts me and will likely do the whole thing on her own and pass it off as a paired project.

If I let her.

It would be easy to just let the queen of perfectionism do the whole thing and I get credit for it. And I like that part, 'cause like I said, it's easy. But Buchanan would totally know. I'd fail for sure, and Kendal, well, I don't know if it would negatively affect her at all, but it kinda puts pressure on me that feels at least as urgent not to let her down as it is for me to pass.

This. Cannot. End. Well.

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