31/08/12: This chapter has been edited.

LOL at the picture on the side. I found it a while ago and it just fitted this chapter so perfectly, I had to put it in ;)

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Thankfully, Ava’s tendency to oversleep only makes her ten minutes late to homeroom, which means that by the time last period rolls around, I’m not faced with the perils of gym class completely alone.

Gym class – there’s just something about those two words that has the ability to send icy chills down a high schooler’s spine. Maybe it’s the thought of the sweaty locker room that’s more of an unofficial runway for girls to secretly judge your appearance. Or maybe the prospect of being forced to run laps in weathers ranging from the Arctic temperatures of winter to the sultry heat of mid-June.

Or, if you’re unlucky enough to be stuck inside the gym, maybe it’s the realization that, at one point or another, you will be faced with a painful slap in the face from some red rubber.

For me, it’s the third option.

“Georgie! Watch out!” an unidentifiable voice shouts above the noise of the bouncing rubber balls, as yet another one comes flying toward me.

Fortunately, I’m able to leap – in a completely graceless manner – out of the way before it strikes my head. Whoever the chief thrower on the other team is, they’ve got one hell of an arm. Too bad I can’t stay still for more than two seconds to find out who said person is.

This game is brutal. I swear, it should be against health and safety.

The chances of me making it until the end of class without sustaining any serious injuries are very slim.

“Georgie!” the voice warns again. I can’t see any telltale signs of red rubber in my line of vision, but I know better than to search for it. Instead, I jump randomly to the side, hoping to avoid whatever is apparently heading in my direction. When no painful incidents occur, I assume my unplanned efforts have been successful.

It’s not as if this whole thing is fair, either. Whilst the opposing team seems to consist of athletically superior jocks and the odd scattering of cheerleaders, my own... well, it’s basically the reject half of the class.

With the completely disinterested, overweight and just appallingly unfit (Ava and I fall into the last category) making up the entirety of our team, we haven’t got a hope in hell’s chance of winning.

I groan internally as another ball narrowly misses my head. What’s happened to the rules and regulations of the game? Completely disregarded by our demonic gym teacher, Ms. Bentham, apparently. Maybe she thinks that the constant threat of severe injury adds excitement to the game.

I certainly don’t.

“Come on, you wimp!” she shouts, as Adam – one of the football team’s star players – launches a ball. It’s sent flying across the gym before slamming against the wall and dropping back onto the polished gym floor again. “A girl could throw better than you!”

“Here, take this one!” Ava calls, swiftly handing me a ball that’s been retrieved from somewhere behind our team’s line. “Try and hit someone.”

“What?” I squeak, shooting her a horrified look. “I can’t throw to save my life!”

“Just do it,” she says. “Or use it to defend your head. Whatever.”

Defend my head? Oh God, someone call the health and safety inspectors. Please.

My head turns in the direction of the other team, scanning across the group of players to locate a suitable target. One of the jocks? No, they’ll probably start targeting me. Charlotte, with her annoyingly voluminous hair and almost indecently short gym shorts? Tempting, but again, too risky. Plus, she’s already got that evil glint in her eye that tells me she’s just looking for an excuse to launch one of these balls at my face. Well, what about...

Connor?

Oh, crap. Too late. As my eyes land on him, they immediately zone in on the ominous-looking dodgeball he’s holding in his hands. And then, before I even have time to react – and by react, I mean leap desperately out of the way in fear for my life – he’s brought it behind his head, launching the ball straight towards me.

And then, in the space of approximately three seconds, I’m lying on the ground with an excruciating pain shooting through my nose.

“Stop!” I hear Ms. Bentham scream, blowing maniacally on her whistle. “All of you, stop now!”

Well, that’s considerate of her. If I’m honest, I expected her to just leave me lying there in agony whilst the rest of our class continued playing around me. Because, of course, it would only be a minor inconvenience to have an injured player sprawled on the floor beneath them.

I stare up at the ceiling, taking in the pattern of the white tiling whilst wondering if I’ve got concussion. How do you know, anyway? Before long, my field of view is blocked by an array of heads staring down at me – predominantly Ava’s, who leans right over my face.

“Georgie? Are you okay?” she asks, peering down warily.

“Move out of the way!” Ms. Bentham’s bellowing voice reaches my ears. A couple of heads are shoved out of my sight to make space for the strikingly manly coach who stares down at me. If I wasn’t in a state of such intense shock, I might have felt uncomfortable under her vicious gaze. I may have also been tempted to laugh at the close-up look I’m getting of her hairy upper lip.

But the hit seems to have knocked enough sense into me to realize that’d probably get me killed.

I reach up and touch my sore nose, drawing my hand back quickly when it comes into contact with something warm. When the trickle of crimson blood running down my forefinger comes into view, I have to hold back a squeak of surprise.

“Wh-?”

“You probably should go to the nurse,” the gym teacher says. “Get that cleaned up.”

This, in itself, is a freaking miracle. Ms. Bentham never – I repeat, never – sends anyone to the nurse. Usually, if someone claims to have injured themselves, her assistance is limited to a menacing look and the order to “suck it up”. I’m not convinced she’d even let someone sit out if they fell unconscious in the middle of the game.

So to get a referral to the nurse’s office – and, essentially, a free pass out of gym – is a once-in-a-lifetime chance.

Recovering from the initial fuzziness, I press a hand to my bloody nose and make an attempt to stagger to my feet. There’s no way I’m lying on the floor acting like today’s freak show for any longer than necessary. Plus, the quicker I can get my face cleaned up, the better.

“Are you okay to go there by yourself?”

“Um, yeah,” I respond, taken aback by the hint of sympathy in our usually emotionless teacher’s voice. “I’ll be fine.”

I take the opportunity to scuttle hastily out of the gym, passing through the humid locker rooms until I reach the hallway. Turning left, I head for the direction of the main wing where the nurse’s office is situated. I’ve only been there once before; the previous incident was during freshman year when I threw up in the middle of the hallway (a memory I’d rather not revisit).

About a minute later, I reach the office and knock the door with my free hand. The nurse, Miss Martin, is a petite young woman in her mid-twenties, who also happens to be one of the nicest people you’ll ever come across. When she catches sight of my red-streaked nose, she throws me a sympathetic look and indicates for me to take a seat on the couch.

“Rough gym lesson, huh?” she says, offering me a small smile.

“You could say that.”

“I’m just glad I didn’t have Ms. Bentham as a gym teacher when I was at school,” she muses. “I feel sorry for you kids.”

I shuffle onto the couch, sitting with my hands placed awkwardly in my lap as Miss Martin cleans up my nose, wiping away the smears of red and inspecting the slap on my skin from the force of the red rubber. As I sit there, my mind drifts back to the events I haven’t really had a chance to recall yet.

I had known dodgeball was a brutal game, but not to this extent. I guess the moral of the story is not to play on the opposing team to someone who’ll seize any opportunity to throw something at your face.

Ugh, Connor... Honestly, about ten minutes ago, I wouldn’t have thought he’d be harsh enough to actually throw a ball at my face with enough force to cause injury, but I guess I learned my lesson the hard way. Pondering on the thought only causes anger to bubble inside me. Okay, so maybe I’m not his favorite person on the planet, but does that really give him the right to go and physically injure me? A nosebleed isn’t serious, but if I’d have hit the ground hard enough, I could’ve easily been knocked out.

Do I really deserve that? I haven’t done anything to him that could even begin to justify this incident.

“That should be okay now,” Miss Martin says, dabbing at my nose with a wad of soft tissue. “It’s stopped bleeding, and I don’t think it should start again. At least it looks a bit more presentable now,” she adds, with a joking smile.

“Thanks.” I force a smile, despite my bad mood. “I’ll try not to get hit again.”

“Maybe that’s a good idea.” She heads back over to her desk, scribbling something down in a large book of records before offering me a smile and a small wave. “You’re free to go now. See you.”

I bid my goodbye and hop off the couch, smoothing down my crumpled – and somewhat drip-stained – gym kit before hastening towards the door. If I can hurry back to the girls’ locker rooms before the end of school, then I’ll be able to avoid facing the post-bell crowd of students in the hallways as I make my way back.

And I’m not too keen on the idea of the entirety of Franklin High getting a view of my dirty, unflattering blue tee and baggy shorts.

Just as the thought crosses my mind, the familiar ringing resounds throughout the room, bouncing off the whitewashed walls of the office and metaphorically slapping me in the face.

Brilliant.

The wave of odd looks and sniggers as I push my way through the hallways is expected. However, that doesn’t make it any less demeaning as I break into a more-than-brisk walk. I don’t think I’ve ever been so keen to get into the perspiration-rich humidity of the changing rooms before in my life. When I finally burst in through the doors – after ignoring one of the senior jocks making a comment along the lines of “Nice outfit, loser!” – I breathe in a deep sigh of relief.

And immediately regret it when I almost have a coughing fit from inhaling someone’s deodorant.

By the time I yank open my locker and retrieve my clothing, the majority of our class has finished changing and disappeared, leaving me alone with only a couple of the other slow changers. I suppose there are advantages: at least this way I won’t be bothered by a hundred people asking if I’m okay (that is, if one hundred people actually care).

I throw on my jeans and sweatshirt as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the building anger inside of me as thoughts of Connor mull over in my mind. The longer I think about him, the more fired up I get. If he wasn’t such a jerk, my life wouldn’t be so damn complicated right now. I’d be focusing on scraping good enough grades to get me into college, keeping my head down and out of the way of the attention seekers (i.e. Charlotte and her cronies), not to mention my nose would still be in one piece. The rest of the school might be overjoyed to have him back, but I can certainly think of better scenarios.

And to top off my absolutely awful day, I’m guaranteed to be bombarded with questions about him and my imaginary crush when I show my face at home.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I suppress a sigh and start making my way towards the exit of the school. Ten minutes after the final bell mean the halls are pleasantly serene, and I’m able to navigate through them without requiring the agility of a soccer goalie.

In fact, as I head outside into the cool autumn air, my spirits are lifted marginally.

For a total of about two seconds, before they come crashing down to Earth once more at the sight of Connor’s car in the empty parking lot.

With him leaning on the bonnet, looking completely disinterested.

What the hell is he doing here? He can’t be waiting for someone; by now, almost everyone’s out of the grounds and on their way towards a blissful school-free afternoon. But what else could he be doing? Unless he’s hanging out alone in the parking lot for the fun of it, there’s got to be something he’s waiting for.

I try to walk past him, keeping my head held high to show off the fact that his well-aimed dodgeball hasn’t bothered me in the slightest (even though it most definitely has). If I wasn’t so adamant on keeping up my air of confidence as I stride past his blue Ford, maybe I’d risk a sneaky glance at the expression on his face. However, before I can fully complete my I couldn’t care less about you act, I’m startled by the sound of his harsh voice.

“Georgie! For God’s sake, don’t ignore me.”

Immediately, I pivot on my heel, folding my arms over my chest in a defensive stance and preparing myself for a full-blown argument fueled by my bottled-up anger. “What?” I demand. “Do you want to hit me with another dodgeball?”

A faint glimmer of a smirk crosses his features before he thinks better of it. “No,” he snaps moodily. “Just get in the car.”

“Oh, are you resorting to kidnapping?” I say sarcastically. “Come on, Connor. Do you think I’d actually get in the car with you?”

“Well, you’ve got no choice. Now get in.”

What the hell is his problem? He just shows up here, after physically assaulting me just over twenty minutes ago, offering me a ride home? If I didn’t know any better, maybe I’d think he was bi-polar. His freakish daily mood swings are enough of a symptom.

“No.”

“Don’t be a brat.”

“I’m not getting in your car! Why do you want me to, anyway?” I challenge. “You said yourself that you hated me.”

“Believe me, I don’t want to do this either,” he responds with a cold glare. His eyes sweep over my face, sending an unnerving sensation through me. “I was forced into it by my mom. Now get in before I really do kidnap you. I’m not standing out here all night.”

I send him what I hope is a menacing look back, but it seems to have no effect on him whatsoever. Reluctantly, I drag my feet towards the passenger side, whilst ignoring the (probably sensible) part of my mind that’s screaming don’t do it! Connor heads over to the drivers’ side, yanking open the door and sliding in with ease.

I’m not sure what I’m doing. Every inch of my brain is reminding me furiously that a ride home with Connor is nothing but a bad idea. The guy hit me with a dodgeball, for crying out loud. Maybe it’s the fact that I know he’s incredibly persistent that steers me to the passenger seat – or at least, he used to be. Who knows who he is anymore?

As I go to shut the door behind me, I wonder if I should seize my last chance and escape. I could just stand my ground and say I’ll walk home. I’m sure I could figure out an excuse on the way that would explain why I didn’t take him up on his offer. But the other part of me – the lazier part – says it’s not worth the fight.

And it’s a free ride home.

“Put your belt on.”

With my ex-best friend.

“Don’t touch anything in here.”

Who hates me.

“And don’t mention this to anyone.”

Wait… is it too late to realize that this is a really, really bad idea?

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I didn't get 40 comments on the last chapter, but I am #24 in Teen Fiction again and I don't want to give it another chance to drop down, so I'm seeing if uploading makes me get higher ;) I WANT TO GET ON THE HOMEPAGE :(

Remember, 40 comments on this chapter = upload on Wednesday. Also dedications to random commenters are still going on :)