Atlas Grove, once a dancer with dreams of dancing under the stars, now lives petrified in the shadows of abuse. To escape her living nightmare she must keep her head down and work hard, being her senior year this is her last chance to get out. Altho...
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I re-read the essay question for about the one-hundredth time trying to wrap my head around what it's actually asking me about The Great Gatsby-
'Does the novel critique or uphold the values of the Jazz Age and the fears of the Lost Generation?'
I've written just two paragraphs before becoming increasingly stuck... it also doesn't help when Blaze has been poking my foot and throwing things at me for the past half hour.
"I'm bored Butterfly." He whines rolling onto his back, picking up a football and throwing it repetitively in the air, the thud of the leather against his callous hands' pounds around his bedroom. I ignore him and focus back on my essay, the words jumbling in my mind as the thudding grows increasingly more irritating.
"Blaze why aren't you doing your essay?" I huff turning to face him, his lips turning up ever so slightly at the corners. He's laying on his side, propped up by his massive bicep- black ink nearly blending in with the comforter, shirt riding up around his waist with his jeans hung low on his hips. His shirt rides up a little and I have to avert my eyes from looking at his toned navel. He shugs turning his head to meet me with mischievous eyes.
Despite being one of the smartest students I know he always leaves his homework until the last minute, he'll even end up taking my notes if he fell asleep in class- not that I don't mind but he's too smart for his own good. It triggers me how he can write the most amazing essays twenty minutes before class, having taken no notes, and get an A but I end up stressing the whole weekend trying to maintain my A!
I stare back at my paper with my small, smudged handwriting on and huff at the question again, driving my hands into my hair. I just can't focus today.
Blaze suddenly tugs on my legs making me squeal as I move across his bed towards him, my poor essay being left in my wake.
"Blaze!" I whack him on the leg, his deep chuckle resides through me and his hand runs up and down the back of my calf making me shiver, "I need to finish my essay." I groan trying to hide my smile.
"Nope you need to leave it for a while, you've got time and besides you can't seem to focus right now." I can hear the smirk in his voice as his thumb draws circles on my thigh. My skin pebbles under my skinny jeans.
"Oh... I wonder why that is. It couldn't be because a massive oaf has been distracting me for the past half hour. An oaf with the attention span of a three-year-old." I poke his cheek watching his hand shoot to his chest in mock pain.
"Who are you calling an oaf!" His eyebrows pinch together in faux upset.
"An attractive oaf?" I counter with a small giggle.
"Well, that's an oxymoron if ever I heard one." He sighs looking at the posters that plague his bedroom walls. His room's not gaudy like average teenage boys, it's relatively tidy, smells pretty good, has actual books in it and doesn't have a stash of porn magazines or topless posters.
