♫ Super Rich Kids - Frank Ocean, Earl Sweatshirt
You know, I've never had any qualms with Wilcrest's 'no hats in the building' policy—until today.
Because today would be a really great day to sport a hat.
Speed walking to class, I lower my head, sulking as I try to make it to class before the bell sounds. Having waited until the last possible second to enter the building, I'm now pressed for time.
But, I figured, I'd rather be late than allow any of Wilcrest to comment on the monstrosity atop my head.
After an hour of sobbing into my shower while Naila attempted to comb out the knots, my mom finally came home to my rescue.
She wrapped me up and consoled me while we dumped an entire bottle of conditioner onto my head. Five hair masks later, we managed to salvage most of it.
Although, the texture is that of coarse hay—and the color still piss yellow.
The classroom door of first period comes into view like a saving grace just as snickers begin to flood down the hall.
Stepping in front of me, I look up to see none other than Emma McKinney—a big wide smile plastered across her face. Shaking her head she says, "Wow. You really want to be me that badly?"
Ignoring her friends' giggles, I run a hand over my crunchy hair, wishing I could just wipe it away. My eyes dart to the side to avoid her face as I mumble, "No, I don't."
But that is a lie, isn't it? Emma McKinney and her stupid perfect blonde head is the reason I'm in this mess. It only makes me hate her more.
In a huff, I brush past her and storm into first period.
................
Hours later and the burning sensation in my scalp has come back with a vengeance. Slumped into the back row of Algebra, I whack a hand against my head trying to relieve some of the heat and itch.
It becomes unbearable; my hand shoots up into the air. "Mr. Fisher? Can I use the restroom."
The elderly man looks over his glasses at me before giving a quick nod.
Like The Flash, I shoot up from my chair darting out of the room and down the hall. The only thing on my mind is sticking my entire head under the bathroom sink faucet, try to alleviate some of this burning.
Rounding the corner, a slender body catches my attention—stopping me in my tracks.
Jack Moody, dressed in dark pants and a blue hoodie, glances over his left shoulder before throwing open the exit door. Bright light from outside floods in before he disappears out behind it.
Where is he going?
My curiosity overrides the pain in my scalp, so my legs change course, carrying me over to follow the mysterious boy.
Swinging open the heavy cream door, my shiny black loafers step onto the sidewalk. I take a look around: an empty parking lot surrounded by a row of trees—but no Jack Moody.
I start walking to my left, about to round the corner when a voice calls out, "Hey."
My head swivels around to meet Jack, slumped onto the grass back resting against the brick school building—a single cigarette placed between his fingers.
"Jack—hey," I say in a chipper tone, happy to have found him. I hadn't spoken to the boy since the night he drove us all home after I accidentally flashed him in a Burger Shack parking lot.
"You smoke?" I ask arching a brow, staring at the lit cigarette in his hand.
The boy looks up at me, squinting from the sun beating down on us. He offers a shrug, putting the small white cylinder to his lips, taking a puff in before exhaling a cloud of smoke.
For some reason, that makes my stomach flip. He's so hot.
Still staring up at me with a craned neck he states flatly, "Your hair looks like shit."
The comment burns at my cheeks, and I would be offended, but he's not necessarily wrong.
Accepting defeat, I plop down into the grass beside him. A hum of the air conditioning unit next to us fills the air.
"Can I take a drag?" I ask hoping I used the right verbiage I've only heard from old movies.
Jack's eyes narrow at me. "You smoke?"
"Oh, yeah," I lie. "Big smoker."
He doesn't look convinced but passes it to me anyway. I turn it around in my hand, admiring it.
"What were you thinking anyway?" he asks with a crinkled nose. "With your hair, I mean."
"I was thinking I wanted to be blonde," I mumble before placing the cigarette between my lips taking a long inhale.
That seems to confuse him as he turns to me and says, "Why? Your old color suited you."
The smoke hits my lungs and, combined with the shock from his compliment, I snort out a cloud of smoke, hacking as I try to suck fresh air back into my body.
Jack shakes his head at me. "You're like a walking disaster."
A bit embarrassed, I stare down at the grass between my crossed legs.
But then a sharp elbow nudges me in the side. Looking up, Jack Moody offers me a lopsided smile. "At least you're not boring."
My cheeks must flush a deep red at his roundabout way of a compliment. It's nice to know he doesn't totally hate me—especially after the way his eyes flashed with anger as he seethed stuffing me into the passenger side of his car Saturday night.
See, Jack Moody is incredibly forgiving—just one of the many qualities I love about him.
With a smug smile, my body lurches into another fit of coughs. When I catch my breath, I groan leaning my head back against the brick behind me. My hair crunches at its surface.
My eyes wander back to the cigarette I am fiddling with in my hands.
It's short and fat, paper starting to ruffle at one edge. It doesn't look quite like the cigarettes in the movies. "Did you make this yourself?" I ask confused at its homemade appearance.
He tilts his head at me. "Uh—yeah? I rolled it," he explains plucking it from my hand before taking another puff. Jack pauses to stare at my blank expression—confused, because why wouldn't he just buy it at a gas station like everyone else.
"You know this is a joint, right?" he says dropping his head to stare straight into my eyes. They widen at his words.
"Wait—that's weed?" I squeak.
"Uh—yeah, I thought that was apparent?" he says to me staring down at the substance.
I just smoked weed with Jack Moody.
"Right," I say in a shortened tone. "It's just the kind I normally smoke looks different, is all."
Jack eyes me suspiciously but then shakes his head, passing the joint back towards me.
Bad Idea.
I've never smoked weed in my life—but then again, I just did, didn't I?
I snatch the joint from him and take another long inhale, immediately coughing it all back up. My eyes burn at the foreign substance. But once I gather myself, I pop my head up to Jack.
"Oh, hey!" I say. "I forgot to tell you, I got our history project back. You got us a B+, that's great!"
He nods his head at me. "Nice—I got mine back this morning for English. You got me a D."
Frowning, I slump back down, but then reluctantly meet his eyes with a sheepish smile. "Oh, sorry. I wasn't really resonating with Steph Curry," I offer as my excuse.
Although, I had received the same grade over mine on Ross Lynch, so I know the subject matter wasn't the real issue. I'm just not much of a writer.
Jack shakes his head at me once more, a small smile on his lips. I find myself wishing it would stretch a little further—showing off all of his teeth. But, it fades away quickly.
"I should get back to class," he says standing up from the grass. He brushes at his pants before extending a hand down to me.
With a smile, I grab onto it. His hand is cold. Surprisingly, because it's actually quite sunny and warm out today. He gives me a tug, pulling me up to my feet before he starts to walk towards the door.
Awkwardly, I stand frozen, unsure what to do with the joint still in my hand. Luckily, Jack turns noticing my predicament and walks back to me, snatching it from my grasp.
He presses it against the brick, extinguishing it before flicking it off into the far grass.
"Come on," he motions with his head and I follow him back towards the door. My body feeling suddenly light and airy, I giggle walking behind him as we step back into the halls of Wilcrest.