The Tofino Tally

I puke violently into the dull ceramic toilet bowl as I think of Bray Sterling. I think he often has this effect on women, bringing them to their knees on the porcelain tiles, their hands holding their own hair away from their face as they vomit.

Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome also often has that result, my doctors says. However, I blame today’s sick session on Bray Sterling and not on the disorder my body has developed.

I need to get the memo and not pass out or puke during the caf crunch.

I had wanted to stay home and miss the whole day when I had barfed on my toothbrush first thing this morning, but I would never live my absence down. Friday’s are game days. Not hockey game days, though a hockey game coincidentally also fell tonight. Our school’s namesake, the boys team called the Ucluelet Urchins, are not the high-stakes play-by-play I am referring to. Rather, the famous Friday Caf Crunch.

Ucluelet high is known for it’s stupid, senseless, shit games. I blame it on our boredom. Living in the mainly rainy coastal town of Ucluelet with nothing to do every day all year, you start to make up dumb, drama-filled games pretty quickly.

Every teenager who lives here can’t help but admit, Ucluelet sucks. It’s ideal for a yearly vacationing hiking mom, a boring retiree, or the life of a hermit coastal painter type, but if you’re not any of the above, the “sweet scenery” and “woke waves” get dull really fast. If you didn’t live here and only saw the small town charm and scenic ocean views you would call me a likely nepo-baby and a for sure spoiled bitch. I am actually the opposite, so far the opposite that the school board could decide to put a picture of me in an English textbook as a contrast to a nepo-baby. Students would probably draw flies coming off of me on the starchy greasy pages. A spoiled bitch lacking the spoiled part. Bitch, I had plenty in stock.

I don’t mind having to work for what is mine, it just gets under my skin that my actually, like actually, nepo-baby classmates won’t have to strive for a pay-check a day in their lives.

While I spend my weekends and whenever I can spare a shift at the whimsical coffee-bar meets bookstore run by two pretty close to hippie lesbians, my classmates spent their days “chilling”.

Even though there was fucking nothing chill to do in Ucluelet.

I guess vandalism. Maybe getting high. Spending your nepo-parents money.

And the Tofino Tally.

A prime example of rich kids having no discipline and too much libido. With summer fast approaching, and the excruciating absolutely nothing to do along with it, I know it will be happening again. The only question is when are the organizers going to pick this year’s contestants?

I have tried to pretend I don’t care. Unfortunately, I have always experienced a severe fear of missing out, even though I’ve convinced myself it’s just two weeks of sunshine and STDs. Now, if Bray got an STD, I wouldn’t need a Christmas gift come December. His dick he couldn’t help but share with the entire student body becoming diseased would be present enough.

I heaved into the porcelain bowl again, hoping it would be the last time. I needed to get to the cafeteria before the bel-

RINGGGGG.

Fuck. I need to get to the cafeteria now. I wipe my mouth with my wrist, and check my face in the mirror. Luckily I had skipped the makeup step today, so there wasn’t much to mess up. I swiped beneath my eyes, wiping away the involuntary tears I had shed, and splashed water on my face so fast I’m pretty sure it spilt all down my front.

Shit. It was a white shirt.

It was fine. I haul my backpack onto my shoulder and grab a mint and my lip balm from my jeans pocket. Popping the mint in my mouth and applying a thick layer of balm on my lips, I knew that no one would know I had spent the last period violently voiding my stomach. I look a little worse for wear on my average day, I am sure I appear just like the typical frizzy haired, academically-fucked Elizabeth.

My slightly too-big sandals click aggressively down the hallway, I shove my way through the hoards of high schoolers. Since when was I the height of a grade eight? 5’4 is a very distinguished measurement that should belong only to post-pubescent seniors, not those little boys.

Maybe this is why Bray calls me short. Or maybe it’s because he’s actually-probably-definitely a descendant of the Nephilim. God really needed to make some better calls when making my bully a daunting six foot four inches.

I plow through the doors to the cafeteria, slipping over my two big strappy sandals that my mom claims are “all the rage” right now, despite finding them in clearance.

My arms propeller violently. I swear, we’re talking grade three cartoon level windmill motion with my arms as I head toward the floor. I promise to myself, if I hit those tiles in front of surely every other senior in this cafeteria, I will start crying. Not out of pain, but out of outrage that the linoleum was there.

It’s been one of those days.

I’ve come to terms with the tears I will most likely spill when I’m face-down on the ground. I am okay with crying in front of my classmates, I had a good long run. Almost made it publicly-tear-free to graduation.

Except I don’t ever get horizontal, and instead end up slightly off my axis, hoisted into some muscular arms that are wrapped around my lower back. My nose buried in a broad rock solid chest smelling sharply of sea, ice-rink, and sunscreen.

The contrast of the scent combo always messes with my senses and takes me out of myself for a second. I realize a second too late who this particular combination belongs to.

“Falling for me already, Lizzy?”

Oh my fucking god, I wish it had been the floor.

Only one person called me Lizzy like that, with that perfect mix of taunting, disdain, and grit. Funnily enough, no one called me Lizzy before I met him. It was Elizabeth, I preferred it that way. And then I started at Ucluelet high and he uninvitedly barged into my life with his Lizzy this Lizzy that, and because he’s him everyone followed suit. No one does anything different than a Sterling.

But Bray Sterling? No one would dare be different than the cocky classmate blueprint. He wrote the handbook for all high school boys everywhere, Douche Bag 101. All those maddening 5’4 grade eights? He’s their idol.

“No, me and the cafeteria tiles actually have a friends with benefits situation going on right now and you are really inserting yourself.” I fake a pitying pout for him.

“Well we know how good I am at inserting myself. Don’t we?”

The pout slips off my face and a smirk onto his. I have never slept with the hockey edition ken doll in front of me, but he knows witty jokes from his crude mouth set me off my axis.

I walked right into that one, I swear if Bray actually put his wit to something useful besides lunch break banter he might actually go somewhere. Maybe… Probably not.

A gagging sound interrupts my disgusted expression targeted at Bray’s proud one.

The perpetrator speaks up, her voice loud and authoritative, “Bitch, get your head in the game.”

I open my mouth in fake hurt, holding a hand to my chest as I glare at my best friend, “Excuse me?”

Abigail is mean, but unlike me in grade eleven, she has a smart mouth and knows I hate getting called a bitch by anyone. I am a self declared bastard but that didn’t mean other people had to call me out on it.

“Not you Liz,” even she had naturally copied the Sterling namesake in her own way, “I’m referring to Mr. Baywatch.”

Mr. Baywatch is actually one of the better nicknames we use for Bray.

Bray slouches back against the wall, acting as if the caf crunch won’t start in mere minutes.“Abigail, my head is in the game.”

“Oh really? Which one?”

The chorus of laughter in the cafeteria makes a small accomplished smile show on Abigail’s face. She’s loud and lively, and though she will deny it until the day she dies, she loves to create some soap opera worthy tea and please a crowd.

Bray doesn’t cower, I don’t think I have ever seen the boy back down. A small cocky smile graces his lips. You would never laugh at Bray Sterling, but if you’re laughing with him, it’s different. Even if some uneducated newbie were to cackle at his expense, we all know he has the power to flip it so everyone’s laughing at the fresh meat before they even know what happened. I’ve been the unaware new kid, and I know exactly how it feels.

But Bray does know when to shut his mouth in front of Abigail, he doesn’t have a death wish. At least not when it comes to her.

“You didn’t win anything.” I tsk, referring to his crude innuendos cut short a second prior.

He grins gleefully before I turn and follow Abs to the far side of the caf.

“Oh, but I’m about to.” He calls after my back.

That fucker. I go to turn abruptly, but Abs hands catch my shoulders before I can face him again.

“Babe, this is war, flirting with the enemy is not going to get us anywhere.”

I open my mouth abruptly to tell her off, but her fingers jab against my lips, effectively shushing me.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You weren’t flirting, you were arguing.” In the loose way Abigail says it I know she’s only repeating my prior words back to me and not believing them.

We’ve had this conversation too many times to count.

Her eyes shift to from my eyes to my general appearance, “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

“Yeah, I got sick, but I’m fine.”

She knows better than to question or to hover over me and my daily health struggles. I am the type of girl who will mean it when I say I’m fine and will tell you when I’m not. Abigail knows that.

“Kay, plan of action is simple. Annihilate him. He’s been getting a little too cocky lately, you need to knock him down a notch.”

I crack my neck from side to side, doing a brief side lunge. I said the games were stupid, I never said I didn’t get into them.

Abigail is openly starring at my butt as I stretch briefly, limbering up my muscles for some sprinting and jumping.

“Are those pants new? They make your ass look really good.”

“Focus in, Abs. Now is not time to talk about my clothing choices, but how sweet it’s going to be to see his stupid smug face crumple when I leave him in the dust on those tables.”

“Okay, who’s cocky now? I said annihilate him, as in win. Thinking you’ll have a window to ‘leave him in the dust’ is a bit delusional. He is a full foot taller than you.”

“Exactly, it’ll slow him down,” I say between deep calming breaths.

“Um, okay. Forget stride length and all that propaganda.”

“Yea-”

“Lizzy, are you going to get your ass over here or are you going to spend the rest of the break doing lunges?” Bray calls out with his hands cupped around his mouth, which is really kinda stupid because the cafeteria isn’t all that big.

I blow out an exasperated breath, ruffling the curls falling over my face, and saunter over to get on the table in the far back before him.

“It’s called warming up. Maybe you would know if you were, like, an actual athlete?” I say, knowing it’ll piss him off.

We both know I’m trying to get under his skin when I start saying he’s not a real athlete. I’m pretty sure he has more muscles in his calves than my entire body. I am uncoordinated and un-athletic, but I am competitive. Meanwhile Bray is captain of the hockey team and actually getting us on the map this year.

He gets up on the table with ten times more agility than I did. I don’t know how a boy that large can move with such grace, in or out of skates. It feels like a paradox.

We both get ready to sprint the short distance to the end of the table and jump with the signal.

“Well, can’t have a fan questioning my captaincy abilities,” I role my eyes as he drones on, “You’ll have to come to the game tonight, I insist.”

I am just about to rudely decline when Abs distracts me with a her fingers counting down from five, an airhorn poised in her other hand. Before I can take bray down a notch, he shuts me up with his comeback.

“Maybe I’ll score a goal for you, baby.”

Fuck no.

If me questioning his athleticism is a quick way to get under his skin, him calling me baby is a surefire way to get under mine.

The airhorn sounds.

Why does this stupid Sterling always seem to get the last word in?

He sprints into action, and I’m delayed a second processing his illegitimate offer.

Crap.

It’s okay, it’s just a stupid game to make our miserable lives a little less boring. I don’t need to freakin’ beat my fellow classmate at making it to the other side of the cafeteria by sprinting across the lunch tables, jumping between them. I don’t care about playing my eighteen year old’s self’s version of the floor is lava.

That’s all lies. I desperately do.

Bray looks back, smirking at me. I stumble over my uncoordinated limbs, attempting to catch up. I gain on him enough that I can yell at him and he hear me.

“You run like a girl,” I yell, the words feeling weird on my tongue.

“Shut up, I’m a feminist.” He yells back, slowing slightly to shoot me an insufferable tilt of his lips.

I take my chance and pull his shoulder, which has gotten closer to me with his yell, back. He looses his balance for a quarter of a second, but that’s all I needed to get ahead.

“So am I. That was for feminism,” I call.

He takes a turn propelling his arms trying not to fall. He catches himself. I didn’t think he would actually fall, I’m not the hulk, the only reason I could make him loose his balance was because he was on one foot about to jump.

He sends me a self assured grin, that makes me want to gouge my eyes out, before I turn back to complete the final sprint.

I hear his breathing behind me, but I’ve gotten just enough of a gain to win, possibly. Like it’s not completely far-fetched that I could make it to the last table before him.

Playing dirty is great, it put the odds in my favour.

The last table is not far, only one more jump. I sprint victoriously, preparing to gloat my ass off to Bray. He’s never going to live this down.

And then, Mr Maynard, our principal, steps in between me and my winning streak with a disappointed expression on his face.

My shoes make the loudest squeak known to man as I stop suddenly. Bray stops beside me a quarter of a second later.

“Crap,” he murmurs, “I knew the airhorn was a bad idea.”

Yeah, no joke. I was wondering who put that in Abs hands.

“Mr Sterling and Ms Cadence, get off of the tables where we eat,” He spits disappointedly.

Abs sounds the horn by accident, making Mr Maynard, and everyone else, jump out of their skin.

Mr Maynard sends a small glare her way, but we all know she’ll get off the hook easily. Being a shoe in for her year’s Valedictorian is like a get out of jail free card…

“Someone hand over the damn air horn!”

…and Bray and I were about to be locked up.

Author’s note 𓇼 hope y’all enjoyed the kick-off to my adult romance straight out of a reality tv show