Time’s Almost Up

I’m not sure if I’m going to make the deadline for NaNoWriMo this year, which… BUMMER?

*sigh*

Nevertheless, I shall persevere. So… here is a bit more of my perseverance (please keep in mind that NaNoWriMo is all about the quickness and the Just Do It-ness… you know, all rough-drafty and whatnot?… just sayin’):

___________________________________

It was just after the last bell. I had just closed my locker, ready to head out to my car, when a strong hand grabbed my upper arm and twirled me around.

“What the—” I started, but the words died in my throat when I saw Boomer Castillo glaring down at me.

He had planted himself directly in front of me, legs spread wide. His black hair was short, except for the bangs, which were dyed blue and draped over his forehead, obscuring one eye. His dark shirt, sporting the busty silhouette usually found on a tire flap, fit across his chest the way a shirt fits when a guy exercises regularly. Then again, what would you expect from a guy named Boomer? He stood so close I could feel his breath on my face. This was unfortunate, as dude had some serious Cheetos breath.

“Wow,” I said, conversationally. “Looks like you added weight-training to your heavy schedule of smoking pot and riding the half-pipe. Kudos.”

“All the better to kick your pretty little ass,” he said with a smile that did not match his menacing tone.

I gasped. “You think I’m pretty?” I asked breathlessly.

He narrowed his eyes and stared at me for a moment. That I wasn’t peeing my pants in terror appeared to be throwing him.

Then, “I know it was you,” he stated.

Well, crap.

He leaned a little closer into me. “Do you know what your little statement to the police cost me?” he asked quietly. Calmly. Too calmly.

I shrugged. “Any chance at a career in baseball?”

Boomer shoved my shoulders hard enough to send me crashing into the lockers behind me. I felt my combination padlock digging in between my shoulder blades. That was going to leave an interesting bruise. I didn’t try and pretend it didn’t hurt, but I certainly didn’t cower before him, either. I knew I had to get out of the situation before—well, before my temper and my smart mouth got me into even more trouble

“Try again.”

Don’t look away, I thought. No fear. I knew what I would see if I tried to call for help anyway. There’d be covert, curious looks, a few snickers here and there, the occasional sympathetic glance, but no one would dare get involved, especially not for me. I was careful to keep my face neutral as I stared quietly back at him.

Boomer apparently took exception to my reticence. Or, at least that’s what I gathered when I tried to move away. He stepped in close, his hands slamming into the lockers on either side of me with a bang that reverberated down the hallway.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asked, his voice low, menacing. “I’m not done chatting with you.”

I looked straight into his angry eyes, wondering briefly if the storm rising inside me was mirrored in my own eyes. I knew how to bring a guy his size down, of course, but standing here in front of the entire student body was not the time to reveal that fact. Mom and Bruno taught me to be careful, to use violence as a last resort, to use my brains first. Then again, they never met Boomer Castillo.

“You really want to get out of my personal space,” I said quietly.

“I really want to…?” He grinned and looked around at his buddies, who responded with chuckles and disbelieving looks. “I really want to get out of her personal space, she says…”

As he glanced away, I took one desperate look around, hoping to see a way out of this without a black eye or some cracked ribs. What I saw filled me with hope. If I just played my cards right…

Boomer leaned so close to me our noses almost touched. “What? You tryin’ some kind of Jedi mind trick or something?” he asked. Not surprisingly, Boomer’s cronies snickered at his lame wit.

I only had a moment to provoke him and I had to time it just right. “Well, you’d have to have a mind to trick, now wouldn’t you?” I asked sweetly, tilting my head to the side.

His confused scowl nearly set me laughing, but the thought of his fist in my gut was sufficiently sobering. I knew when my taunt finally clicked by his quick intake of breath.

“Bitch!” he said with a laugh. “You think you’re so funny, so cute…” With surprising speed, he grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and shook me like a rag doll —once, twice—but I had braced myself in anticipation. Still, it rattled my teeth pretty good and I tasted blood. “But guess who’s calling the shots here, eh?”

“Clearly, you are,” I replied. “But seriously, dude,” I drawled out the “dude” derisively and made a show of wiping imaginary spittle from my cheek, “you should consider carrying a squeegee next time.” I turned my head and spit blood on the floor next to us. “Say it, don’t spray it.”

From the crowd I heard a few giggles that quickly turned into coughs.

I saw his fist pull back and it took everything in me not to react. Come on, come on! I thought desperately. Please hurry, please hurry, please hurry…

“Mister Castillo!” a man’s voice—Vice Principal Whitten’s voice, specifically— suddenly boomed out, his words carrying over the heads of the students in the now-crowded hallway. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

Boomer dropped his fist from my shirt so quickly I stumbled backward. I fell against the lockers which prevented me collapsing to the floor. Stupid wobbly legs. As I sagged against the lockers watching Mr. Whitten bear down on us, I struggled to hide the relief that flooded through me.

The Dudes scattered every which way—just like little cockroaches, I thought—as Mr. Whitten approached the two of us. He sighed when he saw me. “Juliet Moss. Why am I not surprised?”

I shrugged and made a show of smoothing the damage Boomer had caused to the front of my shirt.

He rounded on Boomer. “And you!” he said sternly. “She’s half your size. And a girl!”

Hey, I thought.

Mr. Morgan, my calculus teacher, came rushing down the hallway. “What’s going on here?” He looked at Boomer, then me. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

This was it. My Emmy moment. I winced and rubbed my shoulders. “I— I think I’m okay,” I said in a pathetic, brave-little-soldier voice. “Just some minor bruising… maybe a broken tailbone, you know, where I hit the lockers, no big deal…” Honestly. My sister Lucy would be so proud of my acting skills.

Mr. Whitten shook his head and sighed again. “Okay, Miss Moss. Go to the nurse’s office and let her take a look at you.”

For your consideration: best actress, Juliet Moss. Wow. This is such an honor…

I smiled smugly at Boomer as I limped past him. I heard Mr. Whitten say, “As for you, Mister Castillo, that, if I’m not mistaken, is strike three. Come with me.”

I looked back in time to see Vice Principal Whitten, followed by Mr. Morgan, push Boomer by the shoulders towards his office. Boomer twisted around and saw me watching.

“I know it was you!” he yelled again. “I’ll get you!” He tried to make a break for it, but both men held him fast.

I yawned, as if bored with it all, and then shrugged.

“Oh, you’re good,” he said with a laugh. He pointed at me and mouthed, I’ll get you, then disappeared around the corner with Mr. Whitten and Mr. Morgan.

With a sigh, I turned to leave and nearly ran smack into a wall of staring, whispering students. “Enjoy the show?” I asked scornfully.

I heard a familiar voice drawl, “Well, that was certainly anticlimatic.”

I looked to my left and there stood Becca and a small group of her friends. They all looked put out, as if deprived of a special treat. Namely, me, getting beaten to a pulp.

Honestly. And Joan wonders why I’m a misanthrope.

“Anticlimactic,” I heard one of her friends correct her as I brushed past them towards the exit to the parking lot.

“That’s what I said.”

“No, you said—”

“God!” Becca yelled. “Shut it!”

As the two girls began to argue, I rolled my eyes and stalked toward the exit, my affected limp forgotten. Hey, thanks for the help, I thought as I passed through pockets of students still milling in the hallway. You all suck.

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