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Authors: Roxanne St. Claire

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Family, #General, #Social Issues, #New Experience

Don't You Wish (7 page)

BOOK: Don't You Wish
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I stole eighteen hundred dollars’ worth of stuff from a store? Why?

“You guys,” I say, shaking my head. “I … I …”
Am rich
. Seriously, sickeningly loaded. Why would I steal?

But something stops me. The look in their eyes. The air of expectation. The thrill of getting my name whispered in awe by the nobodies, and having a groveling boyfriend who looks like a rock star.

This is living the flawless life, right?

Anyway, it’s not real. It doesn’t matter. This doesn’t count.

“I like the bracelet,” I finally say.

“Yours.” Bliss grabs the bangle and hands it to me.

Jade takes earrings while Bliss digs into a bag so designer I don’t even know where to look for the label.

“You have Brighton in first period English lit,” she says. “So you can be late.” She pulls out a jewel-encrusted case and pops it open, revealing three perfectly rolled joints. “I need to chillax before chem.”

I feel my knees weakening. I’ve seen pot, smelled it, but never smoked it. And I sure as heck don’t know anyone who has the nerve to light up in the bathroom.

“Oh, for Chrissake, Ayla,” Bliss says, her Caribbean Sea eyes narrowing as she fingers a joint. “I know you said you weren’t getting high at school, but that doesn’t mean
we
can’t.”

Next to me, Jade stiffens. “C’mon, Bliss. Ayla is entitled to not get loaded.”

“And act douchetastic with the invisibles,” Bliss adds with a smirk.

The
invisibles
. That’s what they call … us.

“It’s okay,” Jade says, waving a hand like she can make the discomfort in the little stall go away. “She can throw a bone to the kids once in a while.”

“Not if she wants to stay A-list, she can’t,” Bliss fires back, like they aren’t totally talking about me in the third person.

I snag the joint from Bliss’s fingers, unwilling to walk the path to unpopular. “Puh-lease. I write up the damn A-list every morning.” Rolling the white stick, I launch an eyebrow north. “And you better be nice, Bliss-full-of-yourself, or you won’t be on that list tomorrow.”

“Bliss-full-of-yourself!” Jade giggles and points at Bliss. “Owned! And with a nickname worthy of my approval.”

“Owned” is right. My head feels light, like I’m drunk on my own coolness. Did I just shoot down a popular girl and threaten to delist her? God, I love this dream life.

Bliss forces a laugh as phony as her blue contacts. “And I knew ‘Straight Ayla’ wouldn’t last when you gave her
that
name last week, Jadie. Here, let me light you.”

I put the joint to my mouth, not worried about choking
like a noob. Because evidently, I can do anything in this life, including smoke pot in the eleventh-grade bathroom and dis the coolest girls who’ve ever even talked to me.

“Hey!” A voice comes from the door before we light. “Verderosa’s coming!”

Instantly Bliss whips around and flips the cloth cover over the jewelry on the toilet, folding it like a pro and dumping the whole thing into her bag. Jade pushes me out the stall door, muscling past me to twist on the faucet and pretend to be washing her hands.

The door pops open, and a teacher type marches in, her eyes sharp. “What’s going on in here?”

My heart, trained for years to fear authority, squeezes. My fingers do the same over the joint.

“Pee and poo, Mrs. Verderosa.” Bliss beams with a smile of pure innocence. “What do you think?”

“Get to your classes,” she says, pointing to the door.

Jade just tsks and strolls by the woman without making eye contact, and Bliss does the same. Mrs. Verderosa is staring at me. The joint crumbles in my damp palms, and my heart is back in high, high gear.

“What do you have, Ayla?” Her gaze slips to my hands.

Oh, dream. Why did you go here? I close my eyes, certain that when I open them I’ll be back in bed, awakened by my galloping pulse.

No such luck. “Nothing, Mrs. V.”

She tilts her head with suspicion and holds out her hand, palm up. “Give it to me.”

One hand is holding drugs. The other, stolen jewelry. Slowly I raise the bracelet, praying it’s the lesser of two evils.

She barely glances at the jewel-encrusted bangle. “Nice.”

“Thanks.”

“A gift from your father?” There’s some serious nasty in the question.

“From … a friend.”

She puffs air out of her nose, like she has no doubt what this “gift” is. Contraband.

“That’s about a week’s salary for me,” she says. “So if I were you, I wouldn’t lose it.”

Then she turns and walks away.

Seriously? I breathe again, swamped by relief. Slipping the bracelet on and stashing the joint in my bag, I saunter across the bathroom, sparing a look in the mirror. Nothing’s changed. I’m beautiful, I’m cool, and apparently I’m invincible.

I wink at my flawless reflection and head to the hall. There, Bliss grabs my arm. “What the hell was that flutey girl’s name?”

“Candi Woodward,” I answer, barely thinking about it, even though a truly popular girl wouldn’t have bothered to remember the name.

“She’s dead to me,” Bliss says.

“Why? She’s the one who warned us.”


After
she told Verderosa we were in there, getting brownie points from teacher, props from us. Does she think we’re stupid? Snitches get stitches.”

“Whatever, Bliss.” I dismiss her with the same ease I did in the bathroom and walk past her, instinctively knowing that maintaining the upper hand with Bliss is key to my success.

“Hey,” she calls, snagging my bag to stop me.

I flatten her with a contemptuous look.

“Gimme my joint back,” she says, but the bite is gone in her voice.

“See you at lunch,” I reply, heady with the charge of power.

She backs off. “Sure.”

Holy crap, this is amazing. I can snuff out bitches and outsmart teachers. Could this possibly get better?

I head down the hall to find out.

CHAPTER EIGHT
 

When I open the door to English lit, the teacher’s back is to me as he writes
symbolism
in red marker across the whiteboard. Every eye in the class turns to the door, and there’s a rumble of comments ranging from “You’re toast” to “Of course
you’re
late” to “She’s wearing
Juicy
?” from two brats in the back.

The teacher, Douglas Brighton, according to the nameplate on his desk, lets out a put-upon sigh.

“I have rules in this classroom,” he says without turning.

I search for an open seat, but the only one is in the dead center of the class, requiring me to struggle through a maze of tightly cramped desks and chairs to get to it. But some girl instantly shoves her seat forward, and another guy inches his desk to the right so I can sail through.

Make way for royalty.

Damn. Back at South Hills High I would have had to beg, plead, and humiliate myself for some space. No, back at SHH, I would never be late for a class. Especially not because I was in the bathroom talking trash, doing drugs, and taking stolen jewelry.

“I know this is first period,” the teacher continues, his marker still squeaking on the board. “And I know you all need your precious sleep, and I know that most of you stayed up until two on Facebook. However, every one of you knows how I feel about first period tardiness. My class is not an excuse to sleep late.”

I’m
almost
to the open seat. One more kid, this one wearing some kind of brimmed fedora hat, has to move his chair.

He just stares straight ahead, chin on hand. Jerk.

“So this will be your only warning,” Mr. Brighton says. “Next time—” He snaps the marker top and turns, beady eyes narrowed through John Lennon round-rimmed glasses. Instantly his face softens. “Ayla.” He shakes his head, a genuine smile dawning. “You’ve never been a morning person, have you?”

I go with it. “I rock after lunch, though, Mr. Brighton.”

Everyone laughs like I just said the wittiest thing.

“Mr. Zelinsky, please let her through,” he orders Hat Boy, who gives his desk enough of a pull for me to shimmy between it and the seat in front of him. My backside grazes his desk, and one of the boys in the back mumbles, “Nice view, huh, Charlie?”

I expect color to rise to my cheeks, but my face remains
cool as I level the speaker with an icy gaze. How fun is this? I don’t blush in this dream!

The recipient of my dirty look, however, doesn’t have such good luck, as he brightens while the kid next to him—oh, it’s my boyfriend, Ryder—leans over and grabs the heckler’s T-shirt.

“Shut up and move so she can sit back here,” Ryder snarls, then turns and completely annihilates me with a sexy smile.

I glance at the pack of cool kids in the back—you don’t have to know them by name, they’re the same in every school, real or imagined. Two pretty girls are doing some hair twirling and boob adjustments, and there are a couple of jocks, and Ryder. That’s where I belong, I just know it.

“Please, Ayla. Take a seat.” Mr. Brighton might be running out of love for me, so I slide into the closest desk with a quick shrug toward Ryder, who suddenly looks confused. Like he’s not sure if I’m blowing him off or not.

Which is just laughable, considering he is el major hottero, as Lizzie would say. She’d obsess over his every move, cataloging his colors (yellow on Monday, red on Tuesday), analyzing his every syllable on Facebook. And probably never get the time of day from him. And now he’s worried that I’ve dissed him.

Ohmigod, this is so much fun. I can barely keep from laughing out loud, looking around and taking it all in. But instinct tells me I shouldn’t.

Still, after I get situated and the chattering stops, I can’t resist one more silent message to Ryder, a raised brow that just says
Maybe you’re not worth fighting for
. It has its intended
effect—he narrows his steely eyes and gives a stone-cold-sexy look of determination.

I ignore the little shiver that runs through me and turn to face the teacher, who’s straight out of “English teacher” central casting, with a ponytail and a blue denim button-down.

“What are the chances you’ve completed the reading assignment I gave you three weeks ago?”

A collective groan confirms that the chances are zero, making Croppe Academy no different than any other school.

“Look at the person next to you, right now.”

Everyone does, and my gaze lands on the rim of the hat.

“Now take that person’s hand.”

More groaning, and some laughter, a few outcries of “gay” and “retarded.” I reach my hand, but that boy is tucked low into his seat, long legs extended. His face is in shadow, some dark hair curling out around his neck. Guys who wear anything but baseball caps are complete wannabes; that law has to be universal no matter what world I’m inhabiting.

Still he clenches his jaw, refusing to look at me. I try to imagine myself in his shoes, which, sadly, isn’t hard. How would I feel if I had to reach over and hold hands with Courtney Nicholas’s boyfriend du jour? I’d want to crawl into a hole.

I’d be sympathetic to his situation, except he lost me with the hat and attitude.

“Whoever you are holding hands with is your partner.” Mr. Brighton walks down the aisle between the boy and me. “Mr. Zelinsky, do you have a problem?”

The kid just closes his eyes, then reluctantly takes my
hand. His palm is warm and surprisingly dry. If the situation were reversed, my sweat glands would be set on Drench.

“I’m working under the assumption that at least fifty percent of you have read the book. So we’re having a pop quiz on it right now, and you get the benefit of a partner’s help.”

The resounding “Get out!” and “No way!” makes everyone drop their partner’s hand, including Zelinsky and me.

“I understand if you have a good reason to be behind on the reading.” Mr. Brighton tilts his head toward me. “Ayla, for example, was busy with her father during the dedication of the new gymnasium and indoor swimming pool he had built.”

He
did
? Way to go, Dr. J. No wonder the teachers tiptoe around me.

As Mr. Brighton returns to the front of the classroom, I lean a little closer to Zelinsky. “What book?” I ask him.

He slides a look at me, and for the first time I can really see him. Deep, dark eyes, clear skin, a recent first-time shave over a squarish jaw.

“You don’t even know what book he assigned?” he asks in a shocked whisper. “Man, you’re dumber than I thought.”

I give him a hard look, the same one that worked on Bliss.


Lord of the Flies
,” he says.

“Seriously?” I ask. He rolls his eyes, and I resist the urge to grab his shirt in my enthusiasm. “William Golding’s
Lord of the Flies
?”

“No, Justin Bieber’s version. Did you read that?”

I want to give the bird to Hat Boy, but I’m too happy that my Day of Good Fortune is holding steady.

“I need three symbols in
Lord of the Flies
,” Mr. Brighton announces. “And their
meaning
, people. You have fifteen minutes to talk to your partner, craft some answers, and write them out. Scores count as a quiz grade. Fifteen minutes.”

He punctuates that with a dramatic twist of a white kitchen timer.

“Did you read it?” I ask Zelinsky.

“I had something else to do.”

Hat shopping? I’m about to tell him it’s his lucky day, when my Fendi bag vibrates, and I pull out my iPhone.

Ryder: Don’t forget about me.

“Okay, everybody. Push your desks together and work!”

Zelinsky moves his desk with little enthusiasm, then pulls out a piece of paper. “So we’re burned,” he says.

Of course no one would expect Ayla to have read the book. I put my elbow on his desk and sneak a peek under the brim of the hat. “I read it last year,” I tell him.

His eyes widen, well beyond surprise and deep into incredulity. “You
read
?”

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

Then he shakes his head, wheels visibly turning as his features show doubt. “Why’d you read it last year?”

Because every sophomore in South Hills High AP English had to. “Extra credit.”

BOOK: Don't You Wish
12.59Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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