Don't Hate the Player...Hate the Game
Katie Ashley
Chapter One
As I slowly drifted back into consciousness, my knee jerked upward, banging against the desk. “SHIT!” flashed like neon in my mind, and I had to bite my lip to keep it from escaping out my mouth. Instead, I peered around the room, trying to gage whether the noise alerted anybody to my nap.
Nope. The coast was clear. Everyone else in the classroom looked stoned or spaced out. Mr. Jones, a man who was a cross between Clay Aiken and Pee Wee Herman, was perched on his stool in the front of the room, droning on and on about the evils of Big Brother in 1984.
I rolled my eyes towards the ceiling. Jesus, the man must have a screw loose. I mean, it was the first day back after Spring Break and what was he doing? Lecturing.
What a dumbass.
I could have assured Mr. Jones that no one gave a flying shit about George Orwell. Half the class was still hung over from the previous week’s antics. Even the usual goody two shoes wore expressions of pure boredom as their pens hung in midair over their notebooks.
I ran a hand through my dark hair, hoping to smooth down some of the places that looked like “desk hair’ where I’d been napping. My mouth felt the way I imagined a moldy gym sock would taste, so I rifled through my pockets to find a piece of gum. I chewed on it as I glanced down at my cell phone. No new messages.
Where the hell is Jake? I couldn’t help wondering. Jake Nelson was the biggest douchebag I’ve ever known. He was the prankster who always gave Freshman swirlies in the toilets or shanked them, leaving them bare-assed and humiliated in front of the entire school. He was the illiterate jock who always wanted to copy off your homework or cheat off your test. He was the idiot who could never hold his alcohol and always ended up puking in the back seat of your car before slurring an “I looove you, man!” Yeah, he was all those things and more.
Most of all he was my best friend.
Our friendship was cemented in kindergarten. That’s when Jake decided to duct tape me to my chair before recess. There’s a saying in the South that “Duct tape’ll fix anything.” Yeah, I’m a living testament to that. It will certainly render a five year old captive to a plastic chair until hostage negotiators—or your teacher—comes to the rescue. Once the tape was removed, along with the first layer of my epidermis, I had a new friend.
Years later, the story of how we met was one of Jake's favorite stories to tell. Usually it was right after some hot as hell girl asked about that distorted patch of skin on my right arm where hair refused to grow because the follicles had been damaged by duct-tape.
"What happened?" she'd ask, eyes wide with compassion as she traced the area playfully with a finger. They always hoped for a good story – I'd been burned in a fire trying to save the neighbor's newborn baby, or it was from the time I skidded out on my motorcycle trying to outrun the State Troopers. But like the true douchebag he was, Jake always shot that fantasy down within seconds.
"Dude," he'd say, sloshing his beer out of the cheap plastic cup that seemed permanently attached to his hand from Friday night til Sunday morning.
"Jake…" I’d begin, my eyes pleading with him to drop it and not go there for the hundredth time.
"Get this. I duct taped him to his chair when we were five."
"Jake, shut the f**k up!"
Ignoring me, Jake would snicker. "He like, practically pissed himself he was so scared when Mrs. Cook ripped that shit off."
I rolled my eyes thinking about him. He was supposed to get home from his grandparent’s farm late last night, but instead, he’d sent me a text around ten saying he was blowing off the first day back and would be home around three if I wanted to hang out after school. It was ironic that Jake, the unofficial King of Partying, spent his Spring Break off chillin’ in the mountains among rolling pastures filled with steaming cow patties rather than hitting the sandy white beaches and orgies of Panama City or Daytona. Of course, he always managed to raise some hell while he was away or take advantage of some hillbilly girl high off moonshine.
The last time I’d heard from him was around eight this morning when he’d sent me a cryptic text during first period that read I f**ked up. She’s gonna be pissed! I took it to mean he’d done something stupid to piss his mom off. But after my last few Dude, WTF? texts had gone unanswered, I was seriously beginning to think he was in major trouble—like blue lights and handcuffs trouble.
Suddenly, a voice came over the intercom.
“Mr. Jones?”
“Yes,” Mr. Jones answered impatiently, clearly pissed that the powers that be had dared to interrupt his literary ramblings.
“We need Noah Sullivan to Administrative Services, please.”
At the sound of my name, I shot upright in my chair, straightening my slouching posture. Administrative Services? Once again, SHIT! flashed in my mind as I frantically tried to figure out what I’d done wrong.
“I’ll send him up,” Mr. Jones replied, giving me a disapproving look.
Without a word, I gathered up my books and left the room. Part of me was thrilled to be spared one more minute of British Lit, but at the same time, I was a little concerned that I’d been summoned to administration.
Out in the hallway, I ran into my cousin, Alex. He raised his dark eyebrows at me. “You got called up too?”