Not in that fake,
I-say-that-but-deep-down-I-really-want-a-boyfriend kind of way, but in, like,
the seriously-I'd-rather-eat-maggoty-cheese kind of way. No relationships. Not
for me. Not now and maybe not ever. Who I am…what I am, and what I’m capable
of? Everyone’s better off this way.
"I have to stop at my locker
real quick," I said, veering to the right and cutting through the crush of
kids heading straight like wildebeests to a watering hole. Libby followed and
then stood by me as I fiddled with the lock.
"What's that?" She
pointed to a white piece of paper sticking out half an inch from one of the
slots in the olive metal door.
I tugged the padlock open and
flicked the catch with my thumb. "Dunno." Maybe Bink had left me
another note. Bink was my neighbor, bud, and—most days—my ride home. Last time
I’d found a note in my locker, it was when his cell phone died and he needed to
bail early. I seriously hoped this wasn’t a repeat performance.
I mentally ran down the list of
people I could bug for a ride and came up empty. Libby always had to stay after
for some activity or another, and I only really had two other people I could
call "friends" and neither lived near me. I wrinkled my nose in
anticipation of the dirty-sneakers-meets-day-old-bologna smell of a bus filled
with kids who'd had last-period gym and opted not to change clothes.
With a
sigh, I pulled open the door and the white rectangle floated to the floor.
Libby bent to grab it and read it
out loud. "'Dear Sad and Lonely…'" She trailed off and went quiet
for
a few seconds until her peachy complexion went hot pink, and then she gasped.
"Oh my God.
Holy… Oh, Mags, you are so not going to like this."
I snatched the paper from her,
trying to ward off the growing pit in my gut.
Dear Sad and Lonely,
Since I can almost guarantee She is
about to give you some seriously shite advice like she does every week, let me
be the voice of reason. Your boyfriend is just like most high school guys. Cut
him some slack and, even better, why not offer to learn how to play some of the
games he likes? He'd probably appreciate the effort and might even take you
somewhere nice after. If that doesn't work, sit him down and let him know how
you're feeling so he can tell you what's going on with him. Could be that
constantly calling the things he likes stupid isn't the best way to get what
you want in this situation, yeah? In any case, don't let the ramblings of some
bitter emo chick who's probably never had a boyfriend ruin your relationship.
Hope it helps,
He
The shock was too thick to let
the anger in right away, but as stunned as I was, I knew exactly who was behind
this. There was only one person in the whole school who would use the word
“shite.”
Mac Finnegan.
Opinionated, annoying, hot—did I
mention annoying?—Mac Finnegan, who had barely given me the time of day since
he'd come to Crestwood High a couple months ago. Mac Finnegan, who thought he
was soooo cool with his Irish accent and his mocking smile. Mac Finnegan, who
inexplicably made me want to lick him like an ice cream cone and then immediately
rinse my mouth out with acid.
How had he discovered my secret?
Only Bink and Libby knew I was the girl behind “That's What She Said,” and I
would have bet everything I owned that neither of them would have ratted me
out.
Didn’t matter, though. One way or
another, he knew. Even worse, he'd chosen to taunt me with it. Bitter emo chick
who’s probably never had a boyfriend, indeed. I had a boyfriend once and it
hadn’t ended well for either of us. I was in no rush to repeat the experience.
Besides, what did this Irish asshat care?
Anger tightened my chest. I could
feel the power rising in me, clawing to get out, roaring to be heard. The hair
on my arms stood on end as I tried to breathe through it, to let the fury
dissipate and flow out of my pores in harmless pings of energy, but it was no
use. I pressed a hand to my locker and opened up the tiniest of escape valves,
the spout of the teakettle, whistling off a stream of steam. The cheap metal
instantly heated against my skin, the door buckling and warping on the spot
just beneath my fingertips.
"Uh, Mags—" Libby
whispered urgently, but a male voice cut her off.
"How's it going there,
Libby? Maggie."
I turned around, still trying to
catch my breath, and there he was, strolling by, a grin splitting his sinfully beautiful
face.
Mac Finnegan, who had decided
that being the new kid wasn't bad enough, so he had to actively go out of his
way to make enemies. Mac Finnegan, who wanted to turn my world upside down
rather than minding his own business. Mac Finnegan, who didn't know the meaning
of live and let live.
Mac Finnegan, who clearly had no
idea who he was fucking with.
Title: Relic
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