Comfort Zone

You're Practically the Personification of Douchebag

"You arrogant, pompous, stupid, cheater," I whisper-shout as I whack Rhett on the back of the head.

"Ouch," he complains, rubbing the spot I just hit. "I didn't cheat," he protests.

"You didn't cheat," I mutter while shaking my head in frustration. "Rhett, I saw you looking at my screen."

"I did not," he yells indignantly.

"There is no way you could have beaten me without cheating. I had you by twenty points," I argue.

"You are such a sore loser," he says, throwing his hands up in frustration.

"I didn't lose. I was cheated," I shoot back.

"Fine," he says in exasperation. "We'll have a rematch."

"Fine."

We are currently in Graphic design, playing some two person game that Rhett found online. We have to run and jump over all these objects and be the first to the finish line. It's actually really fun. However, it's turning out to be quite the competition between Rhett and I. I'm sure the entire class can hear us arguing, but I'm beyond caring. All that matters is beating him.

We are playing to five and so far we've each won four, not counting the last round (which I totally should have won).

I quickly click the left arrow and press my spacebar, jumping over the final barrier.

"Yes! I win," I shout, trying in vain to keep my voice as quiet as possible in my excitement.

"You sure did, Sweet Pea," he looks up from his computer at me, eyes twinkling in amusement.

I decide to ignore the pet name in my happiness, knowing that complaining won't keep him from using it again. If anything, I think the more I say I hate them the more he uses them.

It's been a week since I first met Rhett and the guy's kind of beginning to grow on me. We only have this one class together, so besides the party, we haven't hung out much outside of school. He keeps saying we will, though, that he's got big things planned for the bet, or whatever it is we're calling it. The "normal, teenage, out of my comfort zone, fun stuff."

A few minutes later the bell rings and we get up to leave.

"I'll see you later, alligator," he says, as we walk out the door and into the crowded hallway.

"Why do I hang out with you?" I laugh, shaking my head.

"Must be my stunning good looks," he suggests.

"Must be," I nod.

"I knew it," he teases.

"Bye, Rhett," I wave, rolling my eyes.

"Bye, sweet cheeks."

I start heading towards my next class as quickly as possible without looking like an idiot or crashing into someone. As I walk I expertly sidestep and swerve my way through the traffic jam of students.

I remember my first day freshman year. I had been sure I would be trampled to death. But here I am, senior year and I have yet to acquire any serious injuries by a stampede of rampid teenagers.

"I hear she is like totally obsessed with him," I pick up on someone whispering behind me.

Ah, if it isn't the lovely phenomenon that is high school drama.

"Why does he even hang out with her? I've never even heard her talk," another voice questions, perking my interest.

"I don't know. She's pretty I guess."