Seventh Sense

f o u r || made of matches

To the side is Christian Serratos, who plays Jess (even though she's a small part of the chapter, I had no one else...)

“She’s gonna burn herself down.”
–Debby Ryan, Made of Matches

            After that day, I started skipping math class. I ask Mr. Wallace for the lesson plans in advance and turn in the work after school. I have no shame in admitting that I’m avoiding Sara and Nathan. I might end up doing something I’ll regret. Sara’s in my gym class and last week, she “bumped” me. She claimed it was an accident, but the nasty bruise on my lower hip told differently.

            Mom threw a fit, threatening to call the Pozens and giving the “Sara girl” a lecture about being a jealous bitch. Her words, not mine. Eventually, she calmed down and we talked about it civilly. However, she still wanted to call the Pozens. I didn’t stay to find out what happened; all I know is that Sara’s under punishment and she hasn’t bothered me since.

            “Apparently, Sara’s planning something,” Jessica notifies, joining me in the library for first period.

            She sits across from me, on red bean bags littered without rhyme or reason. There are also stains on the bottom of the chair that no one talks about.

            “What?” Jessica knows about the hip thing. Sara can get away with almost everything. If she’s planning something, it’ll be low key and probably painful for me. Throw in a dash of public humiliation and you get Sara’s formula for revenge.

            “I don’t know. That’s just what people are saying.”

            “That’s great, Jess. Thanks for being specific.” I open up my science book as she informs me of gossip I don’t care about.

            “Nathan found this other girl… I don’t know her name, but she’s pretty, I guess. Dark brown hair?”

            That narrows it down, I mentally quip. “And I care because?” I think back to the girl who had her claws all over him. Poor soul; no sense of ownership. Not that he’s mine to own either, but I’m not going to let that bother me.

            We lapse into a comfortable silence. I try to study for second period and she abuses the library WiFi. After ten minutes, I set down the book, my head already spinning with flashes of diagrams and definitions I have no hope of understanding.

            “I just want to finish the year with half decent grades alive. Do you see my struggle?” I interrupt the silence, even though it’s pretty comfortable.

            “Yes!” Jessica makes an exaggerated “hallelujah” motion with her hands.

            We giggle over random topics, studying now forgotten.

            The bell doesn’t ring inside the library. When my timer goes off, I pack up things at record speed and rush off to science class. I can’t be late; not every teacher is as lenient as Mr. Wallace.

             🌌   🌌   🌌

             “Pierce, you just cost the whole team! That’s it; get off the field!” Just my luck; the football coach is my gym teacher and we’re doing football. Did I mention that this woman is a spitter?

            I question if the reason why her head is so droopy is because all the makeup weighs it down. Maybe the reason she never plays with us is because she’s afraid her face will melt off. Five bucks says it will.