Love Letters From Hell

05 | nice one, zahed

I'm beyond thankful when she finally drops my arm though, to throw her arms around the green-haired girl. I think it's far too hot for hugging but I keep quiet. I'm fine as long as no one tries to hug me.

Before I could even learn the green-haired girl's name, she speaks, eyes trailing me up and down distastefully. She's so short, I note. She's even shorter than Kajal and I'd mused about how Dima had chosen Tinker Bell as a girlfriend when I first met Kajal. "You brought Fakhoury's daughter."

That's enough for my cool look to harden into a glare. I stare down Green Powerpuff Girl.

I'm not the tallest, constantly reminded of this as I spend more and more time near Shankar, not the toughest either. But I could take her. Pipsqueak.

I wait patiently for her to open her mouth again.

However, Kenna proves to be good at damage control, throwing a glance between my glare and Buttercup over here's twist of lip, she pulls apart from the hug and slaps her hands on the small girl's shoulders. "This is Mira," she introduces.

Behind me, I hear Aryan, who I had wilfully forgotten was there, shuffle on his feet and clear his throat. He moves until he's near my side and I resist the urge to shift away.

But Buttercup is looking at me. If private school taught me one thing, it's to refrain from showing too many emotions around potential enemies. And it's clear as day, from the near disgusted glow of her gaze, that Buttercup doesn't like me.

I want to say I'm surprised, even offended, because I'd never spoken to her in my life. But I know better. This is how people are.

This is why the schemes and parties of the UCLA student body never interested me. I'd had Dima. I didn't need anyone else.

But I'm standing in this parking lot, all by myself, and all I can do is glare back. Dima wasn't here.

Aryan cocks his head at Buttercup. "I heard there was booze."

At the sound of his voice, about three heads stick out from one of the SUV's. A bright-faced, familiar-looking boy grins at him. "Is that the Aryan Shankar I hear?"

The Aryan Shankar. I resist the urge to laugh.

Kenna does it for me though, even going so far as to slap her knee. "Yeah," she says between breathless laughs, "the Aryan Shankar. You can't miss that accent, luv."

Aryan tosses her a disinterested look.

The familiar boy stumbles from the trunk of the SUV, and, as promised, in his hand he clutches a half-drunken bottle of Smirnoff.

His eyes pass over me as he steps forward and it's then I remember him. Right, Parker.

Almost on cue with my realisation, he claps Aryan on the shoulder, sloshing vodka onto the asphalt. "Ry, bro."

Again, the nickname amuses me. This time, when I attempt to conceal my mocking smile, I catch Kenna's eye and she's full on grinning at the dumb nickname.

They don't do the testosterone handshake this time though, considering Shankar still had a handful of schoolbooks.

Parker grabs half of the books, biceps flexing with the movement. More vodka splashes onto the floor. I worry he'll drop the books as he goes, but he's pretty coordinated for someone who's tipsy at noon.

"You good, Mira?" He asks as he passes me by, as if we're the closest of friends.

Aryan brushes past me. "She's good." He drops the books into the SUV. "Not like she had to carry her own books or anything."