Hopeless(8)

I laugh. How could I not laugh at that? “Sure. But if the book sucks, we’re re-evaluating the friendship.”





Turns out, Breckin was my saving grace today…and he really is Mormon. We have a lot in common, and even more out of common, which makes him that much more appealing. He was adopted as well, but has a close relationship with his birth family. Breckin has two brothers who aren’t adopted, and who also aren’t gay, so his parents assume his gayness (his word, not mine) has to do with the fact that he doesn’t share a bloodline with them. He says they’re hoping it fades with more prayer and high school graduation, but he insists that it’s only going to flourish.

His dream is to one day be a famous Broadway star, but he says he lacks the ability to sing or act, so he’s scaling down his dream and applying to business school, instead. I told him I wanted to major in creative writing and sit around in yoga pants and do nothing but write books and eat ice cream every day. He asked what genre I wanted to write and I replied, “It doesn’t matter, so long as it’s good, right?” I think that comment sealed our fate.

Now I’m on my way home, deciding on whether or not to go fill Six in on the bittersweet happenings of day one, or go grocery shopping in order to get my caffeine fix before my daily run.

The caffeine wins, despite the fact that my affection for Six is slightly greater.

My minimal portion of familial contribution is the weekly grocery shopping. Everything in our house is sugar-free, carb-free and taste-free, thanks to Karen’s unconventional vegan way of life, so I actually prefer doing the grocery shopping. I grab a six-pack of soda and the biggest bag of bite size Snickers I can find and throw them in the cart. I have a nice hiding spot for my secret stash in my bedroom. Most teenagers are stashing away cigarettes and weed—I stash away sugar.

When I reach the checkout, I recognize the girl ringing me up is in my second period English class. I’m pretty sure her name is Shayna, but her nametag reads Shayla. Shayna/Shayla is everything I wish I were. Tall, voluptuous and sun-kissed blonde. I can maybe pull off five-three on a good day and my flat brown hair could use a trim—maybe even some highlights. They would be a bitch to maintain considering the amount of hair that I have. It falls about six inches past my shoulders, but I keep it pulled up most of the time due to the southern humidity.

“Aren’t you in my Science class?” Shayna/Shayla asks.

“English,” I correct her.

She shoots me a condescending look. “I did speak English,” she says defensively. “I said, ‘aren’t you in my Science class?’”

Oh, holy hell. Maybe I don’t want to be that blonde.

“No,” I say. “I meant English as in ‘I’m not in your Science class, I’m in your English class.’”

She looks at me blankly for a second, then laughs. “Oh.” Realization dawns on her face. She eyes the screen in front of her and reads out my total. I slip my hand in my back pocket and retrieve the credit card, hoping to hurry and excuse myself from what I fear is about to become a less than stellar conversation.

“Oh, dear God,” she says quietly. “Look who’s back.”

I glance up at her and she’s staring at someone behind me in the other checkout line.

No, let me correct that. She’s salivating over someone behind me in the checkout line.

“Hey, Holder,” she says seductively toward him, flashing her full-lipped smile.

Did she just bat her eyelashes? Yep. I’m pretty sure she just batted her eyelashes. I honestly thought they only did that in cartoons.

I glance back to see who this Holder character is that has somehow managed to wash away any semblance of self-respect Shayna/Shayla might have had. The guy looks up at her and nods an acknowledgement, seemingly uninterested.

“Hey….” He squints his eyes at her nametag. “Shayla.” He turns his attention back to his cashier.

Is he ignoring her? One of the prettiest girls in school practically gives him an open invitation and he acts like it’s an inconvenience? Is he even human? This isn’t how the guys I know are supposed to react.

She huffs. “It’s Shayna,” she says, annoyed that he didn’t know her name. I turn back toward Shayna and swipe my credit card through the machine.

“Sorry,” he says to her. “But you do realize your nametag says Shayla, right?”

She looks down at her chest and flips her nametag up so she can read it. “Huh,” she says, narrowing her eyebrows as if she’s deep in thought. I doubt it’s that deep, though.