ExtraOrdinary

04 | bridget

04 | bridget

My phone dings again—the seventh one in the past ten minutes. Exhaling forcefully, I stand up. My legs wobble, weak from kneeling for so long. I whip out my phone and scroll through the onslaught of texts from Tabitha and Adelaide.

I respond with my locker number, and I toss my phone into my locker. I make room for my schedule and hold it down with matching blue magnets.

The roar of returning students becomes background noise. From what I can tell, it's gossip. I do notice that it seems to revolve around The Chance Olson. I inwardly gag.

Chance Olson, Brimwell's Beloved. Two years ago, when I had passed a magazine stand, I saw his face for the first time. Gorgeous, of course. Silky blond hair I would probably kill for, dazzling green eyes that could stop anyone in their tracks, a jawline that could cut your finger if you touched it. The headline bragged "9 Ways to Get Him to Notice You"—and I instantly hated Chance Olson.

As the years passed, Chance Olson's popularity took off. Everyone between the ages of twelve and twenty-five knows his name now. He graces the cover of every teenybopper magazine. He has standees at the supermarket, telling people that this brand is the BEST and you should buy it and look, it's right over there. He models local fashion trends and is the face of Bankington Private High, the school for the rich and elite and snobbish.

In other words, Chance Olson represents everything I detest: perfection, attention, and the mainstream.

As I pack up the boxes of magnets I didn't use, I wonder what the Great Chance Olson of Little Brimwell has done now to illicit such talk. Maybe he released a perfume or a cologne or his own line of wifebeater tank tops. Snort.

"Bridget!" a voice calls.

I almost jump out of my skin, hand keeping my racing heart inside my chest. I whip around and sigh. "Jesus, Adelaide. You scared the shit out of me."

She covers her mouth, eyes wide. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry, Bridget."

With my soul back in my body, I wave my hand. "No, no, it's fine. Hey, Ade." I pull her into a hug.

Over her shoulder awaits Tabitha. Despite being friends for four years, my skin still crawls when I see her. Her bangs need a trim as they're close to completely hiding her empty brown-almost-black eyes. The bags beneath her eyes are purple against her pale, delicate skin. But, of course, her skin is flawless, because Asians apparently don't have a gene for acne. (I touch the spattering of acne that broke out on my chin just a few days ago and has not left yet.) Tabitha may be a measly five-foot-two but she's five-feet-two-inches of pure ability to see into the depths of your soul. I'm convinced she has psychic precognition too.

"Hey, Tab," I say over Adelaide's shoulder.

Adelaide pulls back and smiles between us. "How were the last few weeks of your summer?"

I shrug a shoulder and lean against the locker next to mine. "The usual. How about you? How was Florida?"

"Hot." She chuckles. Now that I really look at her, her skin is darker, tanner. It complements her blonde hair and brown eyes well. Sun does Adelaide wonders.

I cannot say the same.

"And the grandparents? They still ticking?"

She nods. "It was hard, though, seeing Pabby. His dementia is worsening."

"That's why you went, though, right?" I cast her what I hope is a reassuring smile. "So you can see him and spend time with him before – you know."