Squeak

P. E.

Erik

Seriously, Helen. One more incident and Erik will have to go to military academy. I mean it.

Those two sentences and the cafeteria full of witnesses were the only things keeping me from beating Tucker with his blue plastic lunch tray until it snapped and disintegrated into several pieces. I'd take one of the shards and repeatedly stab him until his intestines spilled onto the blue and white checkered tiled floor littered with unrelenting scuff marks.

Charles' threat didn't scare me. As much as Charles hated to admit it, I wasn't going anywhere, no matter how much he huffed and puffed. My mother offered to rent an apartment for me as a way to "help keep the peace," but I refused. I couldn't allow Charles to get too comfortable. I had to be on his ass like a never-ending nightmare until my father returned.

Tucker's boisterous laughter quieted as he peered at Jezebel as she cleaned the mess. I examined him as his face tinted pink at the sight of Jezebel on her hands and knees. Tucker couldn't be more of a fucking cliché and a pussy. I didn't have to wonder why Tucker never made a move to make Jezebel Holmes his. He was stuck in the "what would his family and friends think" mindset. From the frequency and escalation of Tucker's behavior, I'd have to say he had a crush on Jezebel for years, probably as far back as middle school. The true tragedy was that Jezebel was completely unaware of how much power she held. She could dog-walk Tucker if she wanted to. He'd eagerly run behind her with Golden Retriever energy with his tongue lolling out, begging for treats in the form of her undivided attention. I would never allow Jezebel to have that kind of power over me.

Truthfully, she already does. She hasn't said a word to me, yet I'm thinking of ways to end Tucker before he can cross the stage and accept his unearned high school diploma.

Jezebel finished cleaning the mess, dusted off her dress, and left the cafeteria with her head down while clutching a gold cross around her neck–a neck I wouldn't mind wrapping my fingers around. I wouldn't stop squeezing until my fingerprints were visible from space. It could be 100 degrees outside, and little Miss Jezebel Holmes would wear a scarf to hide the evidence of my "love."

I spent the remainder of the lunch period fielding advances from girls who couldn't hold my interest and a few bold dudes who never had a chance. I had never in my life had to work so hard at being unapproachable. Despite the perpetual scowl on my face, people flocked to me like fruit flies to rotting strawberries.

I checked my watch and had 15 minutes to spare until the alarm shrilled, ushering in the next period. I tossed my trash and dialed my father's cell phone number. Inmates weren't allowed to have cell phones, but my father wasn't any inmate. He was Jacob King.

"Hello, my beautiful son. I've been waiting for your phone call. How is your first day of school going?"

My hand tightly clutched around my phone. I missed him more than I cared to admit. He was the only person who truly understood and loved me for exactly who I was. There was no judgment in his eyes or disappointment in his tone whenever I did something "wrong." I was always met with a warm smile and 'I love you, my beautiful son.'

"There's this girl."

"Oh? I'm listening."

"I...I think I'm in love."

***

P.E.: it is the bane of my existence.

I didn't hate P.E. because I was terrible at sports. I was the epitome of physical fitness and was typically the fastest and most agile on the court and field. The coaches would beg me to join their teams. They'd go as far as to pop up at the house to convince my parents what a good opportunity it would be for me. It was the same song and dance; promises of play time, scouts, full-ride scholarship, and perhaps if I were lucky enough, I'd be drafted to the NBA or NFL. They were kindly escorted out every single time.