1. Wasn't meant for him
REESE.
My fingers swiftly swipe over my iPad, bringing into view a picture of me and comical, bold letters saying: Vote Reese For SCP.
“I think this looks great,” I say, tilting the screen to Joy, the blonde petite on my left.
As Joy examines the picture, Steve's tall, muscular figure looms over my shoulder to get a glance at my screen too.
“I think it's great,” Joy says.
“I could insert a better selfie,” Steve argues, being his typical self.
I nod, not even considering his suggestion for a second.
I look great in this picture, my mostly wild curls are tamed into a bun behind my head, my eyes look big and bright and my lips are mildly glossed the way I like them with a little wing to my eyeliner.
The picture screams; presentable and humble.
I straighten.
From the other end of the hallway, I spot a crowd, hums of voices and laughter erupting from it.
“What's going on there?” Joy asks but doesn't move.
“I think some couple is breaking up,” Steve says.
He might be right about that. There's nothing that gets this much attention from kids around here more than a breakup and a fight.
I for one I'm not a fan of crowds, I try by all means necessary to disassociate myself.
“Leon is back?” Someone from the crowd says.
That is the only reason that my ears perk up and my feet start carrying me to the said gathering.
Is this his idea of a surprise?
I'm a few feet away, but I can't see a damn thing from where I stand. The murmurs and hums are getting louder and my curiosity can't handle this much peer pressure, so I push through the crowd until I'm standing right in front of the show.
My eyes snap to Leon, his black hair just as I remember it from last year before he went to Boot camp. He is taller, leaner, more handsome and much more built up—
My thoughts are clipped by the deafening, "Whoa!" The crowd spews.
At the same time, my eyes swell, watching as someone's knotted fist flies through the air and lands on Leon's left cheek.
What the fuck?
Since when does Leon Bailey get into fights?
Leon scurries a hand to his cheek, a growl and ‘fuck’ leaving his lips. His eyes are downcast, but I bet there's pain in them too.
Leon doesn't cuss. That must've hurt.
I want to rush across to him, but like many times before, Claire Gall, the knight in shining jerkiness beats me to it. She holds Leon's shoulder and asks if he is alright, loud enough for everyone to hear her bogus concern.
Claire Gall might be one of the few people that I hate. She isn't unlovable per se, but she is obnoxious, and I can't tolerate that.
Well, maybe her being my opposition party on the election thing has something to add to the hate equation.
Claire is asking people to pave the way for her and Leon to pass, and there is the expected fuss after a fight.
Everyone wants to know what exactly happened and why. But some are already leaving, while saving snaps and videos to make headlines this entire week.
I suck in a sharp breath, my eyes scanning around to locate the source of that blow.
Standing a few feet from me is an unfamiliar girl.
It's hard to tell if I'm gapping because she punched my crush in the face and there's a high chance his jaw’s broken or the fact that what she is wearing is downright dreadful.
I never imagined a day when I would see a cringeworthy outfit put together this badly.
My eyes dart to the burgundy All Star Converses that I believe should have white in the rims but are brown. The revolting ripped jeans are folded at the bottom to unveil black fishnet stockings.
The top part could have made up for this abomination, but it's equally a disaster. She wears a long-sleeved, brown cropped top and adds a blue, short-sleeved denim jacket.
Despite the gall regurgitating up my throat, I approach her.
“You can't just go around punching people like that, you know?” I say, glaring.
“Wasn't meant for him, trust me,” she says.
My eyebrows knit at the calmness of her tone, as if she didn't just commit a crime. I watch her inspect her knuckles before she looks at me with stormy dark eyes.
The girl draws her bottom lip between her teeth then shakes her head.
“So, what, you're playing detective?”
My brain scrambles for a reason, but fails as I watch realization click on her face. A second later, she is staring at her phone with a thousand cracks on it.
“You're this girl.”
My eyes squint at the broken screen, but she plucks the phone away before I can make sense of the picture.
“You're supposed to be giving me a tour," she says, "Not playing detective."
I sweep my gaze over her fleeting one.
How did I end up here again?
When I woke up this morning, I felt great.
If someone told me, I would be caught up in this mess, I wouldn't have believed them.
My routine was close to the usual, save for the excitement of the day.
I did a couple of wall pilates because I didn't want to meet mom in the gym. I grabbed Think And Grow Rich, a book recommended by Dad for the week, and slipped into the bathtub.
The book was meant to educate me, but I couldn't get past the second paragraph, so I stashed it for later.
I stood in the mirror, tall, beautiful and excited by the idea of stepping into school and going to the senior block of class or planning my campaign strategy.
At breakfast, I barely ate half my pie, despite how delicious it was. I needed to make sure everything turned out great, so I made a to-do list for the day.
Steve thinks I'm a perfectionist, but I like to think of myself as a person who enjoys order.
Dad dropped the ‘not so much of a surprise’, surprise when he handed me keys to my black, Bentley.
I knew he would get me a car for my sixteenth birthday but still, getting to finally drive it made me tingle.
I knew my day would be epic.
So what in hell's name is this shit?
“So, are we doing this?” The girl asks.
“I’m sorry, do we know each other?” I ask, not able to get past this feeling of familiarity.
She smiles, the expression devilish on her otherwise innocent face. “I don't think so?”
“Mmh,” I mumble to myself.
Maybe I saw her on social media and to be fair, there are a bunch of girls who look like her; dark eyes, long lashes that look almost artificial, a round nose and full lips with a cupid's bow shape on the top.
It gets worse when I add on the brown hair and overgrown bangs. It's every white girl I know.
Except this one needs grooming.
I brush it off.
“I know of the tour, but I didn't think you…" I trail off, short of words — or decent ones, altogether.
Are you in the right place? I want to ask when Curtis Haul pops up.
Curtis gently hits the girl on the shoulder. “Hey, you made it.”
“Yup,” the girl says as Curtis brushes past us like he wasn't here.
“You—” I start, then stop as my blood runs cold, and I feel color drain from my face.
The rest of the noise fades into static, realization dawning upon me.
I remember her. She was at my birthday party two weeks ago and…
Let's just say our interaction wasn't pretty.
I swallow. She smirks.
I know she knows what I know.
“I'm Reese Peyton,” I say, extending a hand, and I'm not even sure what else to say.
The girl hesitates before she pushes hers into mine. I shake it, my eyes snapping to her exposed biceps.
“Kris Jones.”
“Shall we?”
"Whenever you're ready," Kris mumbles with a knowing smile.
Oh, kill me now!
