High, @((Y^!@ Allyvia [any book recommendations TXT] 📗

insisted she was ugly, really was beautiful-- crazy, huh? 

 

But then... something changed. Amy couldn’t place a finger on it, but one day she woke up, and got irritated when Matt kissed that little freckle on her shoulder he claimed to love. She woke up, and hated when he wrapped his shoulder around her every chance he got, as though claiming her. 

 

 Amy had always loved Nix. Despite how she felt about Matt, her heart sped up and her palms sweat and she couldn’t stop smiling when she was around Nix. Nix had been her best friend before Matt had been her boyfriend, but Amy found herself wishing she could change that. She found herself wishing Matt was her best friend, and Nix was her boyfriend. Was that really such a bad wish...? Nix was gorgeous, Amy was gorgeous; Nix was comfortable with Amy, Amy was comfortable with Nix. Perfect match!

 

“Pst,” Leah Hopkins hissed, derailing Amy from her thought train, Leah’s blond ponytail falling over her shoulder as she leaned closer to Amy. Although Leah was a cheerleader, she never wore the uniforms to school, instead throwing on Juicy sweats as though it was 2006 all over again.  

 

Amy, sighing and rolling her eyes, leaned in closer, grateful Mrs. Lang was on another ‘pity-my-pathetic-cat-filled-forever-alone-life’ rant roll so she wouldn’t get in trouble. 

 

Leah, her eyes lit with excitement, hurriedly whispered into Amy’s ear, her breath hot and rank from the tuna salad she had for lunch.

 

 “You won’t believe it! Mr. Grimms is retiring,” Leah quickly explained. When talking to Leah, it seemed as though everything she said was exciting, thanks to her use of exclamations and  eyebrow spasms. 

 

Mr. Grimms, the creepy drama director who always smelled like boiled cabbage and cigars, was nothing to get excited over. He was fat-- hammy, with sausage link fingers and dimpled knuckles-- and overly sweaty. 

 

“So...?,” Amy trailed off, bored as she began examining her pale pink manicure. Her nails were like little seashells-- so perfect and tiny. 

 

 “The new teacher, Mr. Barrow or something, is hot! I mean, he is fireman hot! Principal Tate was giving him tours around the school during lunch!” Leah beamed. Amy frowned. 

 

How did Leah know this? More importantly, how did Amy not know this? Furrowing her brows, Amy leaned back in her seat. She had spent all week trying and failing to gather the courage to ask out Nix. Well, ‘only-as-friends’ she’d insist-- although he’d simply have to have her after she convinces him to sneak out of the boring art gallery opening her mother was in charge of, and drive him to the abandoned boardwalk, where all the kids would go to party and hook up and get drunk; she had spent so much time planning she hadn’t even gotten a chance to catch up on everything. 

 

Amy waved off Leah, as Mrs. Lang began crying-- honest, salt-water tears Amy had no idea how to well-- and excused herself for a moment. Amy glanced over at Leah once more, trying to recall anything about a retiring Mr. Grimms and a new hot teacher. Had the infamous Amy Herring really lost her touch when it came to gossip? 

 ~~~

 Nix stood in front of Lucy’s locker, his heart beating madly and his palms beginning to dampen his jeans as he wiped them on his thighs repeatedly. He held Lucy’s journal in one hand, a noose in the other. He knew, after admitting he had purposely taken her journal, he’d never have a chance with Lucy; coming clean about everything was basically romantic suicide. 

 

 When he saw her walking down the halls, he wanted to run. She walked alone, like usual, her eyes focused on the old, worn Chuck Taylor’s on her feet. When she looked up, when her eyes met his, her face scrunched up, reminding him of a newborn the way her face collected color and her eyes crinkled into little half moons. 

 

“Hey,” Nix began, awkwardly holding up a hand in greeting before placing it at his side a little too quickly. He cursed himself and his reputation when people began giving him odd looks as he waited in front of her locker. 

 

“Hey...?” Lucy quizzically looked at him, as though trying to decide if he had ran over her dog or something, when she caught sight of the journal in hand. “Oh, I’ve been looking everywhere for this! Where’d you find it?!”

 

When Nix didn’t answer, and instead shoved his hands into his pocket after an ecstatic Lucy Edwards claimed her journal, Lucy knew something was off.

 

“I... uh..., well, I kind of took it. I mean-”

 

“You took it?! What the... why,” she cried, her voice something between an angry whisper and a confused hiss, her brows furrowing to form a crease. Her brown eyes were wide with something like hurt, although Lucy knew what to expect from people like Nick Keating and Amy Herring.

 

“I... I thought they were your History notes,” Nix insisted, even though he knew she was smarter than that. Lucy looked enraged. He watched that little girl, eyes narrowing, lips pursing, as she balled her fists repeatedly. 

 

“What? You... you read it!? Did you show anyone,” she hissed, glaring up at him. Nick obviously didn’t understand how important this notebook was to her. She confessed everything into it, and he had betrayed that confidentiality by sticking his big nose where it didn’t belong. 

 

“No! No, of course not,” Nix insisted, his hands raising as though to shield himself, as though he were afraid she would hit him. 

 

 “Why don’t I believe that,” Lucy barked sarcastically, before turning on her heel, only to realize she needed to get to her locker. She felt her cheeks heat to a possible face-melting degree before she practically shoved Nix out of the way. 

 

“Wait! Lucy, please, can I just... can I explain? We could meet at Steam, after school. I... I just need to explain,” Nix insisted, her back facing him as she opened her locker, frustratedly swinging it open to it slammed into the neighboring one.  

 

“Please,” Nix tried again. Lucy was quiet for a moment. It was no secret Nick’s family had... financial troubles. Although the pretty-yet-rugged popular boy somehow managed to float mainstream, Lucy was always alone. Maybe, she thought to herself,  maybe she could pay him off.  But she soon dismissed that idea, figuring she’d be no better than Amy Herring. Finally, she sighed. 

 

 “Steam. Four-thirty,” she sighed in defeat, before gathering the last of her things and slamming her locker door shut.

The Apology

 

 

Amanda Nichols had never had a sip of alcohol in her life. She had never smoked a joint, or popped a couple of those tablets that were passed around at Jessica Hayes’s parties. She had never had sex, or sold vital organs to serve some deadly addiction. Bulimia wasn’t some crime; it was a way of life teens were committing to all over America. Nowadays, it was almost normal. Having bulimia didn’t exactly make her an Indie-500 speedster of the typical five-six, tan, blonde, seventeen year old cheerleading American teenage world.

 

Amanda knew she was boring, more boring than most girls anyways, but didn’t mind. That banality she possessed kept her out of trouble, which was more than she could say for Kingsley Abrahams.

 

  Principal Tate had personally asked Amanda-- considering she was a chairman, or in this case chairwoman of the student council, co-captain of the cheerleading team, homecoming princess, honor roll student, and daughter of Henry Nichols, the man who donated a quarter of a million dollars every year to the school since Amanda’s older sister Samantha graduated from Hamilton High-- and she simply couldn’t say no.

 

Amanda sat in the library, waiting for that stoner to arrive. When he did finally arrive-- book bag slung sloppily over his shoulder, papers falling out; hoodie reeking of pot; hair tousled and falling into his eyes-- Amanda felt her stomach drop like someone had just fed her cinderblocks.  He looked buzzed-- his eyes bloodshot, green bits of weed stuck between his teeth-- and Amanda knew this probation/possible-hell was going to be miserable.

 

“Mandy Pandy,” he grinned, the right side of his mouth drawing into this lazy smile that made Amanda grimace, “I’m stuck with you as my warden?”

 

When Amanda didn’t respond, and instead rolled over a cart of returned books, Kingsley grinned. “Hot. You gonna put me in handcuffs and shit?”

 

“You’re funny, Kingsley,” Amanda said dryly, her hazel eyes meeting his blue.  He had sleepy, bloodshot eyes, heavily hooded and fanned with dark lashes. Those dark, thick brows bunched together like creeping caterpillars. Amanda had to look away from keep from blushing too hard.

 

“I try,” Kingsley shrugged, laughing. He watched those manicured fingers gently stamp each book, stacking them neatly on the cart like some sort of one woman factory. As stoned as he was, he couldn’t help but wonder how impossibly delicate this girl was. Maybe not emotionally-- emotionally, Amanda Nichols might as well have been a steamroller-- but her fingers looked so light, like butterflies and other girly shit.

 

“Hey, Kingsley, are you going to help? Or should I just call Tate and tell him this is a waste of time,” Amanda snapped, glaring at him from across the table. Kingsley rolled his eyes.

 

“Jesus, Amanda, who shoved a cork up your ass? We have two-and-a-half hours to do nothing but shelve books. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get something from the vending machine,” he smiled, as nicely as he could manage, reaching across the table and twirling a curly strand of her high-ponytail. Amanda, frowning and slapping his hand away, crossed her arms in front of her chest.

 

“For your munchies,” she cried, trying her best to sound mean and hurtful. Kingsley only smirked.

 

“You know it. Want any Ho-Ho’s... well, besides Amy Herring,” he winked, before drumming on the tabletop dramatically and jumping from the table. Amanda, her mouth open in shock, glared at him as he left the table. She could not believe him! This was his stupid probation session, and yet she was the one re-stamping books while he went and stuffed his face with diabetes wrapped in Hostess packaging.

 

Frustratedly, Amanda kissed her teeth, before following him. Knowing-- or at least hearing about-- Kingsley, he’d probably try to make a dash for the nearest exit or bathroom, although the latter probably contained some sort of painkiller/inhalant/junkie-contaminated needle. As she stormed out of the library, her white cheerleading shoes squeaking loudly against the glossy linoleum floors, Amanda found herself trying to chase after Kingsley. For  a stoner who supposedly ‘didn’t do gym’, Kingsley was surprisingly fast.

 

“Kingsley,” Amanda cried, craning her neck to catch sight of him. She stood, alone in the hallway, the dim hallways making her look like nothing more than a silhouette.

 

Admitting defeat, Amanda turned, sighing. Her heart almost stopped in her chest when she realized Kingsley was standing right behind her, a Hostess cupcake in hand, a large bite taken out of it. Just the sight of that cream-filled crap made her stomach lurch. Kinglsey chuckled when catching sight of her disgust, and pat her head as though she were a dog.

 

"Try to keep up, princess. You've got tweny-nine more days of this," he grinned, before handing her his half eaten cupcake and sauntering into the library as though nothing had even happened.

 

~~~

Holding a coffee