All of It Read Free

probably because she’s been blessed with the IQ of an avocado and has nothing else to offer. Turns out teenage boys are into dumb blondes. Who knew?
    Boys can be so stupid.
    Predictably, she always treats boys badly. She chews them up and spits them out. In her world, guys are disposable. She’s never come remotely close to gaining my respect. I’ve always hated her. Not that I’m jealous, I’m not. I don’t have time for jealousy. It’s exhausting and pointless. Chloe is just … mean.
    “Sorry to keep you waiting,” I apologize quietly through gritted teeth. The good mood John blessed me with thirty seconds ago is long gone. I clear my throat and add, “Especially given the stellar choice of company.” I’m not sure he even hears me.
    But he does. Dimitri simultaneously steps back from Chloe and turns around to face me. He’s clearly not annoyed by the interruption. This both surprises and relaxes me—a little. Chloe leans to the side to glare at me. If looks could kill I’d be struck dead where I stand.
    “I was beginning to think you forgot about me,” he says, relief evident in his voice.
    “No such luck, Texas Ranger,” I mutter.
    “Bye, Dimitri,” Chloe says in a pouty voice, batting her eyelashes. She brushes up against him like a goddamn cat as she walks by.
    Head down, eyes focused on rifling through my bag looking for Dimitri’s schedule, I shout at her in my head as she walks by. “Slut!” I want to scream. God, I’d love to punch her right in her pretty little face. Just once. I’d never do it of course; I don’t have it in me. My body, though physically suited, is pacifistic. My mouth, on the other hand, though not prone to pre-emptive strikes, defends stupendously when provoked. Lucky for her the two don’t work in concert.
    “Just a bit of advice,” I mutter. “That sort of physical contact with Chloe Murphy should require a full body condom, lest you contract something extremely difficult—if not impossible—to get rid of.” I can see the corner of his mouth rise as I continue the mad search through my bag.
    After several seconds of watching me aggressively attack my book bag’s contents he says calmly, “Photography.”
    “I’m sorry, what?” I ask though I’m not looking at him and I’m not listening either … obviously. I’m still focused on the stupid whore. And it’s distracting me from the task at hand, finding his schedule. I’m annoyed with myself at this point. I hate feeling unprepared and unorganized. “Oh, here it is,” I say as I look up at him, pulling a folded paper out of my bag and waving it in the air.
    He looks at me patiently, the small, amused smile on his face as he leans toward me and whispers, “My next class. It’s photography.”
    I unfold the paper and scan my finger down the page. It’s not until I see the words on the paper that his words finally register in my head.
    “It’s photography,” I whisper. My face blisters red. “I’m sorry.” I don’t know if the words are even audible, but I catch his acknowledging, forgiving nod out of the corner of my eye. I can’t look up at him. I can be such an ass sometimes.
    I turn and he walks closely at my side. I don’t mind as much this time. We don’t say anything as we walk out the doors and across the courtyard. He opens the door for me and follows me into the art building.
    “Thanks,” I whisper. My face is still blazing and I can’t look at him. “The photography studio is the third door on the left.” I point down the hall and turn to exit.
    I run all the way to French class. The bell rings just as I reach for the door.
    “Excusez-moi, I’m sorry,” I say quietly to Madame Lemieux. I seem to be saying that a lot this morning.
    She smiles back. “Bonjour, Veronica. Take your seat.” She gestures to the empty seat near the center of the room.
    This is my third year of French with Madame Lemieux. A foreign language is required for college admission, which is the