Chapter 2: Locker Troubles

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I shift in the passenger seat of Gracie's car, trying to get comfortable.

I'm still for about three seconds before I shift again, ignoring the way Gracie is looking at me out of the corner of her eye.

Five seconds pass and I shift again.

"What's the freaking matter with you, Cass?"

"What?" I ask, turning my head to look at her.

"Why in the world do you keep moving around? What's wrong?"

I shoot her a pointed look, rolling my eyes when she shrugs as if she's not sorry for what she said.

"Nothing," I say in response to the questions she asked.

"Cass."

"Yeah?"

She shoots me a hard look and I sigh.

"Fine. Don't you..." I trail off, searching for the right words.

"Don't I what?"

"Are these jeans supposed to be this uncomfortable to wear? Every time I sit down, they're way too tight, but when I stand up, they want to act like I magically lost five pounds in three seconds, and don't even get me started on this fucking shirt, if you could even call it that, I mean, why the fuck is it so small? I can feel air hitting my belly button and the sides of my body and let me tell you, it is not pleasant. And this flannel is doing nothing to keep me warm. It's the middle of fall for fuck's sake, why could I not wear a goddamn hoodie?"

I'm a little out of breath when I finish, and amusement is all over Gracie's face.

"You done?"

"I think so," I nod. "Just had to get it out of my system, I guess."

I'm wearing the black ripped jeans from this morning, a white crop top that says, 'Fxck off', which I love—the design, not the shirt; I wish I could burn this dumb shirt—a red plaid long-sleeved flannel shirt, which Gracie told me to leave unbuttoned even though it's seventy fucking degrees outside, and a pair of red converse.

"Oh," I say, sitting up straighter in my seat. "And why are these shoes so tight? I swear, my fucking ankles are going to detach from my legs after I take these bear traps off my feet. And please remind me again why I had to leave my hair down?"

I irritably tuck a few strands of my dark brown hair behind my ear.

"One, it's not that bad, stop being dramatic, and two, I'll tell you when we get to school."

I sigh, now regretting the rule I put into place in freshman year: Gracie cannot say more than one sentence at a time on the way to school because, even though I love her, it's way too early for her never-ending monologues at seven in the morning.

Every other second of the day is fair game, which means she's most likely going to be chewing my ear off as soon as we step out of the car.

That's just the way it is with Gracie; if left unchecked, one sentence could turn into a ten page monologue. That's what I love most about her. She speaks what she's thinking as she's thinking it, which makes her the most honest and open person I've ever known, besides—

I caught off my train of thought before the memories hit.

And it's not like he was open or honest in the end anyways.

Gracie pulls up by the curb of the house of my other best friend, Gabriella, and honks the horn.

Gabs comes out of her house in a sweatshirt and leggings, with her hair up in a messy bun.

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