Living With The Bad Boy [COMPLETE][VERSION ONE]

Chapter 27

So for the next seven days I do absolutely nothing besides learn Connie's cherry scone recipe, lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, definitely not stress about the amount of homework I'm going to have when I get back to school, lie down some more, be completely ignored by Jase, and paint my nails so many different times that I think they might honestly kill me. My mother wants me to stay home again by the time next Wednesday rolls around, but I've convinced her that I missed enough already, and so we settled on a compromise- I'm allowed to go to school for half the day, as long as I leave whatever class I'm in the second my head starts to hurt. So me and my fuschia-colored nails now stand in front of UVPHS, wondering why the hell I wanted to come back here. Maybe it was all part of the concussion. But now, as I stand here staring at the brick building, all of the stares and whispers and burning papers and bad memories of the last time I went in there it contains, I dread stepping inside more than anything else. I look back at Jase, in the parking lot talking to his friends, but he doesn't even look over at me. Well, fine then. Amazing. I don't care anyways, I decide, shaking my head, a cascade of cherry-red curls falling onto my shoulder as I do so. And then I open the door... and I'm back inside.

I guess I underestimated the power of teenagers' short attention spans and the UVPHS rumor mill, because when I walk through the hallways, I don't hear any whispers, see any side-eyes or fake pity from the girls, guys looking me up and down and winking at their friends. I'm back to being invisible again.

Though, maybe too invisible. Mayah doesn't even look up from her friends when I call her name in the hallway, or in the cafeteria. She even gets up and moves tables when I sit down next to her in Precalc.

Though that screams 'hatred' a little bit more than invisibility.

Mrs. Meyers finds it necessary to show us a 30-minute video on imaginary numbers, and my head starts to throb, so I decide to leave (yes Mom, I'm being a good child).

Directly down the hallway from the precalc room is the bathroom. I'm considering going and splashing some cold water on my face, which for some reason feels like someone just took a blowtorch to it, but this is the ancient, 50% of the time out-of-order bathroom that no one goes in at our school- unless you're one of the rich girls snorting coke at lunch- so I walk past it.

At least until I hear a small sob emanating from the room.

"Hello?" I say quietly, stepping in. It's probably nothing, just some girl PMSing, but ever since my freshman year when a girl almost overdosed on Vicodin in the school bathroom, I've decided it's better to be safe and interrupt someone who wants to be alone than risk something actually serious happening. Plus, sometimes people just want an ear to listen. They just don't know how to ask.

"Go away." I can see the outline of Louboutin heels from under the stall door, but it's the voice that makes me realize exactly who I found crying.

Chrissa fucking Thompson.

"Um... Chrissa? Is everything okay?" I ask, knocking on the stall door. It's too late to turn back now.

The door flies open and a very upset Chrissa peers out. Her usually immaculate mascara and eyeliner are now smudged all over her face (and I mean all over. Even her forehead isn't safe. I mean- how does that even happen?), her eyes are bloodshot, and her face is blotchy and red. "Who the hell are you and how do you know my na-" she asks as she steps out, though her words fade as her eyes connect with me, growing to the size of saucers. "Please tell me I'm imagining this."

"Afraid not," I shrug, leaning against the wall. "What's wrong?"

"You." This time when she says it, it's accusatory, and she's literally pointing her finger at me. "What the hell did you tell him?"