She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not(2)
For thirty minutes, Ms. Moyer explains the goal of this assignment, and my panic rises with each word. Spend time together. Depend on each other. Get to know one another. Dear God. Assignment? Please, this is more like a life sentence. In what world do teachers pair students up and encourage them to play house?
“It’s not playing house,” Ms. Moyer says. I snap my head up, and realize I’ve spoken aloud. I never speak in class unless it’s to answer a question asked directly to me. Now, all eyes are on me, and I feel a small, cold line of sweat trickle down my back. This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen, and it’s no one’s fault but my own.
“It’s learning to live, Miss Russo. Don’t you agree that we live better when we have relationships to live for? When we understand our goals, and who will be there to help us achieve them?”
My stomach seizes into cramps, and my throat closes tight, but I don’t move a muscle. Please, dear God, don’t let those be tears that are building—don’t let me cry in front of everyone. I want to stand and walk out, or—even better—stand and tell her that no, I don’t freaking believe that because some of us have to learn to live in this world alone through no choice of our own. But… I can’t.
Making a scene—any kind of scene—means eyes would follow me. I don’t want or need that kind of attention. Instead, I nod. Ms. Moyer looks at me, her eyes widening a fraction as if she just remembered my file—a file she’s surely seen. A file that tells her I don’t have anyone to live for, or be supported by, and I haven’t for a really long time.
Chapter 2: The Life Sentence
Gage
I am not a combative guy. It’s not really in my nature. My motto has always been, do what makes you happy, don’t hurt anybody else, don’t take things too seriously, and be nice. Live and let live, ya know?
My current partner does not seem to live by the same sentiments.
Prickly. It’s the best word I can use to describe her—other than gorgeous, but seriously, even the big brown eyes and mass of waving brown hair cascading over slender shoulders toward what might just be a pretty nice figure can’t compete with the cold shoulder and “hands off” posture.
We’ve been sentenced to a life together for the next five weeks—which shouldn’t feel like an eternity, but the girl next to me is making me rethink just how many days that actually is. Ms. Moyer has called her out on her attitude, and though she appears to want to rage at the woman, she’s now silently fuming. Admittedly, the fuming is a little better than the angry muttering, and not just because it adds a nice hint of pink to her sharp cheekbones.
Honestly, this is one of the easier assignments I’ve ever been given, and I can’t quite understand why Miss Snooty Pants over there is complaining. We have a teacher telling us to hang out, get to know each other, make a budget, and go grocery shopping… for a grade—how hard can it be?
When I try to make light of the situation, and tell my dearest partner this, she rolls her eyes and begins scribbling notes onto our handout.
“That’s exactly the kind of attitude I would expect from someone like you.”
Like me… If there’s a hot button I have, it’s that statement right there.
Want to get to know me? Go for it. Say my name, stop me in the hallway, ask me a question, sit with me at lunch, hit me up on Twitter. Do any of these things, and we can talk. But, don’t hear my name and make assumptions, thinking I won’t call you on them. Even nice guys have their limits—it appears prickly-pants has just made me reach mine. In record time, too.
“Because you know me so well?” Like I said—not usually combative. But her assumption that she can group me with others she assumes are like me, and write us all off as useless, has my shoulders tensing and my hackles rising. This girl—she looks at me like I’m slime on the bottom of her shoe, and treats me even worse. We’ve been partners for approximately thirty-five minutes, and she’s hated me for all of them, but she hasn’t once introduced herself.
That—that pisses me off, enough I’m going to make sure she feels like shit for it.
Sticking my hand out, so she has no choice but to stop talking and acknowledge it, I raise an eyebrow when she glares at me, leaving my outstretched hand in her face.
“Gage Christensen. Despite your all-knowing attitude about me, I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
Her eyes are so slitted, I’m surprised she can see me out of them. “Kennedy Russo—and we have met before. Freshman year, biology. We had the same class.”
“Were we lab partners?”
“No.”
She tries to take her hand back. I hold onto it, perversely satisfied, when her eyes widen and she yanks even harder. Please. I’m 6’3”, and a hundred and seventy pounds. She’s maybe a foot shorter, and an easy fifty pounds lighter—she’s not winning this battle.
“Did we ever work on a project together? Sit at the same lab table?” I prompt. Her face pinks just the slightest a bit more underneath her beautiful olive skin, the first indication she might be feeling something else along with angry. She shakes her head no. “So, we had the same class, but we never spoke. Am I reading you correctly when I infer that you think, just because we were in the same room together for nine months, we’ve met each other? Enough for you to pass judgement, and decide you know who I am?”