Page 61 of Chaos at Westbrook High

Why that makes me feel like someone jabbed me in the ribs, I don’t know.

Shaking my head at myself, I walk out of the locker room and through the gym, deciding to take the long way to my next class. When I push through the doors leading outside to the bleachers, the scent of weed hits my nostrils. I should mind my business, but I find myself stopping instead, looking over to find Callie Kingston sitting on the ground with a joint between her lips. She’s alone. Her bloodshot eyes peer around me as if she’s expecting someone to follow me out. When that doesn’t happen, she holds her joint up in offering. I make a face. She chuckles, pulling it back to her lips to inhale a hit.

I don’t walk away. Staring at her rounded lips, I watch as the smoke curls out in perfect little rings as she exhales.

“Sit down, coffee girl.”

I blink at that. “With you?”

“Yeah,” she says, amused. “With me.”

I look around, worried I’ll get in trouble right along with her if she gets caught smoking weed at school. When I don’t see or hear anyone, I hesitantly step closer to Callie, unsure what I’m even doing as I sit down next to her. I feel awkward as I mirror her position, leaning back against the wall with my eyes on my hands. I run my thumb over my daisy tattoo.

“Where are Wren and Levi?”

“Around,” she says, blowing her smoke the other way. “What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“You just walked out here looking like you wanted to take someone’s head off.”

I frown. “No, I didn’t.”

“Was it Madison?”

My mouth parts, and I blink at her again. “How did you…?”

“Rachel’s got a big mouth.” She holds up her phone. “Want me to kick her ass?”

I make another face at her. She’s serious. “You’re not normal.”

She smiles a secret smile to herself. We sit in silence for a minute before she says, “He likes you, you know.”

I grit my teeth, her words running through me like fire and ice at the same time. “I’m not an idiot, Callie.” I try to sound harsh, but it comes out softer than I’d like it to. “He’s playing me.”

“You sure about that? ‘Cause it seems to me like you’re the one playing him now.”

“Excuse me?”

“I think you like it.” She smokes more of her joint. “The chase. Playing hard to get just to see how far you can pull him in. I think you know you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger, and I think you like the game just as much as he does.”

When she catches the look of fury and outrage on my face, she barks out a laugh.

“He’s not wrapped around my little finger.”

“Funny how that’s all you deny,” she mutters, then shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong.”

“You are.”

“Okay.”

I glare at the bitch. She flicks the butt of her joint into the dirt across from us, and I drop my eyes to the hickey on her neck, half hidden by the collar of the massive hoodie she loves so much.

“Why do you wear that all the time?” I ask. “Is it Damon’s or something?”

“No, it’s mine,” she snaps defensively.

“Okay.” I say. It’s just a hoodie, but I can tell it means something to her, that it’s important to her.

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