French class in late September had me feeling some type of way. It was my first hour and with it came the temptation to skip class to go get coffee – an awful habit Laramie had gotten me into just a few days after her first panic attack of many. Part of it was that this classroom in particular was always freezing cold and no matter what I wore, I never seemed to be dressed warm enough to fix it.
As usual, we didn't even accomplish anything in class that day. I spent the entire time texting Laramie a conversation that looked a lot like this:
LARAMIE: ya but if i skip ballet oksana will kill me. and by kill me i mean chop me into little pieces and roast me in an oven and force you guys to eat my remains
ARIA: ok but what the hell lar, what have you been watching? please do not tell me you watched that documentary on albert fish for the third time this week.
LARAMIE: ya i did and you can't stop me. (here was a little devil horns emoji that won't translate over into my word processor) u wanna skip third and go get something to eat?
ARIA: mmm.... idk dude, seminary is like the one thing keeping me grounded rn
LARAMIE: jesus will forgive u
ARIA: haha yeah right.
LARAMIE: lets just go.
And so we made a beeline out of the door at the end of second hour, meeting each other in the school's commons area, and busted it as quickly as we could out of the vicinity. Next thing you knew we were both sipping on coffees though our orders were different and taking artsy snapshots of one another on each other's phones.
Instagram was an art of the modern-day high schooler. To perfect one's feed meant using the same filter with a varying array of self-portraits, pictures with friends, landscapes, sunsets, and candid shots. It was a complicated process that Laramie and I found ourselves enamored with. It helped me keep track of the happier moments of my life, which I enjoyed – and honestly, Laramie probably just liked gazing at pictures of herself with her long dark hair slicked back in French braids and her glasses on, looking like one of those Parisian writer girls you always saw on fashion blogs.
"Sam is such an ass," she muttered as she peered down at her coffee cup. She'd ordered a super dark espresso, as black as her hair, as scalding as the things she'd say to him. "Seriously, I catch him glancing over at me during class and I'm like don't even try this right now."
I leaned back in my chair. "Do you think he's into you?"
"Nah," she replied, but paused for a second before continuing, "I don't know, maybe. Does he seem into me?"
"I haven't noticed him do anything that would make it seem like he was dying over you or anything, just that he likes to flirt with you," I shrugged as I said this and looked down at the picture she'd just taken of me. It was cute and I was quick about posting it to let everyone know how big and bad I was for skipping a class, even if it was release time seminary, which might have been making matters worse for skipping a church class.
Laramie looked at me with a little bit of indignation. "Actually, now that I think about it, there's no way that kid's into me. He's so freakin' rude to me."
I sighed. "Reminder. You literally wrote him a note yesterday that said 'Samuel could take nine inches if he wasn't such a bitch about it'. Your words, not mine."
YOU ARE READING
Two Of Us
Teen Fiction"You can't escape me," he breathed into my skin with his nose dragging across my throat. He elicited a hot breath. "I'll be with you forever." The populace of Century High School seems pretty convinced that Aria Maree Kensington has it made. She has...
