Two Years Later.
August POV.
My mom always wanted a kid with one of those comically long names. She got that wish earlier than you're technically supposed to.
I was born when she was fifteen. The man responsible? He actually stayed with her, believe it or not. Then he got arrested. Drug dealing and assault; that's all I know about it. Ma wouldn't tell me the details.
And so here I am. Augustus Antonne Chaquille. I prefer August. Don't ever call me Gus, please.
I stare at myself in the mirror. Dark skin; like, the espresso color on all those tone charts. Short blonde dreads so faded they're starting to look brown. Need to re-dye that. I flick my Purple Rain t-shirt. Black cargo pants and purple Jordan airs.
Ma always says I'm a handsome little heartbreaker. It's kinda embarrassing; and honestly...
I sigh. She's completely right. Maybe minus the heartbreaker part, but I guess that's what a man's supposed to be.
The heartbreaking thing, it's kind of like a right of passage at school with the popular kids. I'd consider myself one. Is that a cocky thing to say? Maybe. Do I care? Yea, but we're gonna pretend not to.
I lift my shirt for a sec, just to check. No abs yet. Should've done more practicing over the summer. This year'll be the one though, you'd better believe that. I drop the fabric back over my flat stomach, pick up my bag, and head to the living room.
Ma watches the news with a real bored look on her face. I try to sneak past her, but I swear that woman has a heat radar or something. She turns to me, smiles, and then forcefully yanks me down for one of those unnecessarily long series of kisses on the cheek. I stifle a groan.
"I'm gonna be late," I complain.
"They won't miss you," she pats my dry cheek.
"I'll miss the bus," I continue as she digs for something in her purse. I let out a sound of protest when she pulls out a thing of Vaseline.
She clicks her tongue as she slathers some of the stuff all over my face, "You look like a ghost! Maybe if you listened to me, I wouldn't have to do this!"
When she finally finishes, I once again attempt sneaking away. She pulls me right back.
"Ah, ah, ah! Let me see those dimples first. Then you can go."
"Ma—"
"Cheese!"
I let her see those dimples. She pinches my cheek 'endearingly' before finally letting me grab my bag and leave. I don't think I've ever been so excited to go to school.
Actually, never mind. Can't believe I even thought that.
The very second I step outside, Tj grabs my bag and slings me around with it. I shut my eyes so it doesn't make me so dizzy. When I'm steady again, I reopen them and get a great view of his stupid crooked grin that makes his eyes scrunch up so much I'm still not sure if he can see while doing it.
He slaps me on the back as if the previous show of violence wasn't enough, "AC, AC, AC; how you doin', brother?"
"Why?"
Tj laughs, "I was feelin' it. Now, show me to the bus."
"Dude," I snicker, "you forgot again?"
He nods. "Why else would I be asking? Lead the way."
I roll my eyes and reposition my backpack as we begin walking to the bus stop. Tj, or Terrance junior(he would kill me if I said it out loud), babbles along about last year's basketball season. I don't really watch that kind of stuff. Don't really get how people can get so deep into it. Actually playing the sport is fun though. I plan to join the school's team this year.
We make a turn just as the bus is pulling up, forcing us to book it as fast as possible if we don't wanna be left behind. And we don't.
Me and Tj practically trample each other as we scramble inside. The driver glares at us, frowning sourly like this job doesn't pay enough for him to deal with this.
The ride isn't too long after that. Saint James High School, because a middle school wasn't enough, accepted me this year for free. I didn't get separated from my boys though, since apparently no one though to get new kids from any other neighborhoods in California.
They claim it was a charity move to let more young minds bloom. I think it had more to do with the staff wanting less pathetic sports teams outside of tennis and golf. Rich people, man.
Now they've got about forty extra kids looking like one of those skin-color Crayola packs walking around their polished halls, using their crisp black lockers, taking their fancy focused classes, and eating their prestigious food. All to win some championships.
I'd make a snarky comment about the fact that they chose our ghetto ass street for that, but I don't think it needs to be said. One kid they chose is borderline illiterate, but hey. Guy's got a mean three-pointer.
I proceed to walk into a 6'3" toddler. Aka, the guy with the mean three-pointer.
"Ow," I say automatically.
Tj snickers from five lockers behind, which is where I'm supposed to be right now. Guess my legs were on autopilot a little too long. The giant I smacked into huffs because I definitely messed him up putting his combination in.
I wince in sympathy. It's a real problem to mess him up when he's putting in a locker code, since it takes him on average around the entire changing period to open the things. "Sorry."
"No worries," he says too casually to be banging on the door at the same time, "I learned the numbers this year!"
"I don't think that's how you put them in," I point out. And I'm a little scared he's planning on breaking the whole thing down until he finally starts twisting that little knob.
After a good minute of turning, he actually opens it. "Wow. Good on you, Demetri."
"I know! You want me to open yours?" He asks, proudly swinging the locker door open.
"I think," my eyes narrow as I take in the state of the complementary school supplies inside, "I'll be good."
Then the first bell rings, and I remember how good it'd be if I could make it to class on time. Demetri expresses his agreement with a line of curses so wild it makes you think he might not be as clueless as he lets on.
Luckily Tj only bullies me a little bit, and me and Demetri hurry into our first periods grinning at each other. We beat the late bell by two minutes.
As I settle into one of the last open seats, I am heavily disturbed. I count at least six guys wearing those dumbass sport shorts, you know the ones, and of course none of them actually match their tops.
But it still makes me happy this school waited until high school bring us in. From elementary to middle, this school system has this terrible uniform with pants or disturbingly short shorts for the boys and knee-length skirts year round for the girls.
I don't know how these rich kids managed.
They chat like they were never separated over the summer and suddenly I'm feeling kinda out of place. None of my immediate friends, or any friends really, are in this class. Only a couple people who were also there when I signed up for basketball tryouts before the year started.
Keep in mind, those are the same people who scoffed at me, the 5'5" new kid hotshot, when I walked up to the stand. I've never been a shy guy, but that day was definitely one of my worst.
The teacher walks in and everyone goes silent. Then at least three-fourths of the class either rolls their eyes, slumps in their chairs, holds their heads in their hands, groans, bangs their heads on their desks, or some mixture of those options.
"What's goin' on?" I mutter to myself, but the girl next to me must've heard me. She turns to me with the most dejected face I think I've ever seen on a white girl. I'm serious.
"That's Ms. Tibbles," she whispers as if that should explain everything. When I continue staring blankly, she sighs. "The tenth graders warned us about her at the induction ceremony. She assigns a semester-long group project on the first day of school."
I join my classmates in their agony. Ms. Tibbles, whose name I will choose to ignore, rolls her eyes right along with us.
She smiles halfheartedly. "Now, now; it's only the first day of school. Welcome to chemistry, everyone."
A good amount of kids make snarky remarks about that. A boy in the front row raises his hand.
"Can I go home?"
Even I snicker a little. Ms. Tibbles sneers at us. "No, Mr. Kennedy. But I'm sure you'll be happy to know I taught your sister two years back so I won't be tolerating your nonsense. And if your father is anything like he was back with her, I would stop it all right now if I were you."
"Um," Mr. Kennedy says.
"And I am sure your classmates won't mind if I cut straight to the chase then? Because of you, sir." She looks back up to all of us. "You will all be given a partner today to work with on a project for the rest of this semester. Only the best will be accepted. Think of it like the science fair, but for half of your overall grade."
She looks absolutely delighted to watch our faces go slack. She grabs a stack of papers from her desk and drops them all on Mr. Kennedy's. I can't see it from here, but I can feel the grimace.
"Pass these out for me?" She says it like a question, but we all know it's more of a command. The poor guy stands up without breaking eye contact. He looks like he's holding back the nastiest retort, but he keeps his mouth shut and just starts passing out papers. People nod to him as he walks past like he's some kind of hero.
"What you are currently receiving is your syllabus and basic rule packet, as well as a more detailed explanation of your project. I want the syllabus signed and back by next Monday..." I stop listening eventually.
She just drones on about rules and the dress code that can be watered down to "don't show up literally naked, and if we see you with anything other than hair on your head you will be crucified." Then school chants for some reason, and more stuff about the dreaded project.
And I know I should be listening, but cmon. I'm about to fall asleep here. I can miss a half-baked frat call or two. But of course I soon begin to realize that she's getting back to the actual class, and assigning partners.
I sit up straight and look around hopefully. Maybe I missed a guy or two that I know. I'd work with a girl, but that would be kind of strange, I think. I clearly hope wrong. To my dismay, not even the judgmental kids from signups are open anymore.
Soon the teacher lands on me, asking who I want to partner with, and I panic a little. Then when I don't say anything, she asks something else. It's a simple question, but one so absurd that it interrupts my thoughts completely, like a tiny pin popping a balloon and startling a crowded room.
I blink. "Uh— what?"
Some kids laugh. Ms. Tibbles frowns at me. "Are you okay working with Marky?"
I can tell she and a bunch of other kids are giving me a nasty one over, probably already summing me up into that nasty little box of dumb nasties, so I try to answer fast. But cmon. Marky? Is that a science thing we're researching? Some kind of bacteria?
"Are you going to answer the question, or just stare at me? Are. You. Okay. Working. With. Marky. Wu?" This time she points very helpfully to the kid she's talking about.
I quickly turn to where she's pointing. Two rows directly across from me, there sits a guy in a generously oversized hoodie and casual trousers. One of the only kids in here whose style doesn't seem to be the exact same Barbie or Ken doll. He has his head down, so all I can really see of his face is his mop of messy black hair.
"Sure." I shrug, just trying to get out of this secondhand embarrassment.
It'll probably be fine though. I think I heard a little about that guy, just never his name until now. Apparently he's just a nerdy Asian dude, plus a huge target for harassment around school. Never knew why, but that sucks for him. This'll be an easy A.
Then he peeks up at me, and the look on his face alone changes my mind. He glares at me with the creepiest, smuggest smile I've ever seen, probably planning my murder or something. Before I can ask otherwise, the teacher moves on with grouping. So I'm stuck with him.
I don't know why she didn't ask him if he's okay working with me. I don't know why I didn't wait wait a little longer to make my decision. I don't know why he's still staring at me with those soulless eyes.
But I do know that Ma would whoop my ass if my first big project turns out a flop, so I will make the best of this. No matter how freaky my partner is. That I'll have to work with everyday.
But at least he's not wearing the sports shorts, right?
Ms. Tibbles finally lets us start when it's five minutes until class ends. I take the initiative and walk to him—Marky, I mean. I sit down backwards at the desk in front of him since the girl who sat here already left with her partner.
I crack a grin that I really hope doesn't look nervous. "Hey. I'm August."
Marky's brows sink down to a more natural position, and I'm actually just now realizing that they've been up this entire time. His weird not-happy-not-sad smile stays the same, but he still doesn't say anything.
"Sooo," I try to make small talk, "Marky? That's an... interesting name."
He seems to ignore me this time. Apparently the pencil he's absently flipping is much more entertaining than anything I have going on.
I scoot the chair a little closer and instantly regret it when he very slowly looks back up at me. For extra creepiness, there isn't even the slightest head movement. It's just his eyes that creep up, staring at me with that passive aggressive look.
I scoot back.
It's the first period on my first day and my partner is already going to murder me. I'm gonna need an extra padlock or three for my door.
The bell rings and I make my escape. Next period is algebra, which has always been my worst subject. Surely no other teachers would assign work on the first day, right?
I was right, thank god.
The other freshmen teachers are humane enough to let us get used to everything before they melt our brains. Now it's lunch, and apparently Tj and Demetri's days have been better than mine so far.
"Your mom packed your lunch?" Demetri asks, watching Tj pull like eight wings out of his bag.
"Yea. I'm a seasoning kind of guy." And that's all he needs to say for us to understand completely. School lunches have never been good, but I think this place is setting some records. Also, I have no idea what kind of meat I'm eating right now.
"Do you think rich kids eat horse?" Demetri pipes up as if he read my mind.
I make a face and set my fork back down for good. "Do you think rich kids eat people? Because I got a guy to report if I go missing."
He leans forward, already invested. Tj raises a brow so I know he's listening too.
"Do either of you have Ms. Tibbles?" I figure it'll give more context if they do.
"I'm taking physical science," Tj says through a mouthful of chicken that's so seasoned I can't even see the actual meat. That's a no. Demetri nods though.
"Okay so you know how she assigned those semester group projects?"
"The what?"
Ooh, afternoon class. Whoopsies. "Don't worry about it. Point is, my partner is insane. I can already tell. He looked at me like he wanted me dead, and he didn't talk once."
"Point him out?" Tj suggests, so I do. He recoils. "Good lord, does that guy bathe?"
"He didn't smell," I defend for some reason. "Wha'ddu you think?"
I turn to Demetri. He just winces in sympathy and goes back to eating his horse. I try to do the same, but, well, ew. Also, I have this nagging feeling that I'm being watched. I piqued this kid's interest and now I'm gonna pay the price.
That's usually around the time I should be turning around and finding something nasty behind me, but that only happens in horror movies. That's not what this is.
Surely.
2857 words.
How do you guys feel about August?
I wholeheartedly apologize for using the mirror trope. I just didn't wanna have to use another POV. But hey, this book is fun and non-stressful!
Also holy crap, a regular word count??
—Jaz