Page 6 of You Had Me At Thirteen

Matilda

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As the rest of the first day drags on, I conjure up some rather intricate, detailed scenarios of how I’m going to get out of working with Wren. Most of them end in some sort of violent death. For Wren, of course. I’m the one standing over his lifeless body, holding a bloodied, blunt pencil.

Audrey and Clive aren’t in any of my afternoon classes, nor is Wren, which I’m thankful for. Just the thought of seeing them reminds me of my childish tantrum earlier today.

Besides, I have plans to make and murders to play out in my mind, and they would only get in my way.

When the last bell rings, I leap from my chair, before I remember Coach called an emergency meeting. I drag myself to his office as the realisation that I also have to endure the walk home because I’m avoiding Audrey out of spite hits me. Some afternoon this is panning out to be.

After Coach drawls on for a good twenty minutes about how important this meet is – to him – I make my way out of the school grounds, passing the few stragglers left in the carpark. I’m tempted to ask one of them for a lift, but decide against it.

Instead, I wrap my hands tight around the straps of my backpack and brace myself for the long walk home.

Our next meet is in six weeks, and to be honest, I’m not sure I’m prepared for it. Physically, yes, I could run a literal marathon. Mentally, well, that’s a different story.

My future is resting on me getting to nationals. As far back as I can remember, studying sports science has also been a dream of mine, and I want both, to race and get a degree, so that when I’m done with my racing career, I can still do something I love.

My grades are on point, so I need the next race to go in my favour. Then I’m off to national trials, my dreams becoming reality. At least that’s the plan.

Once I hit the front porch of my house – half an hour and three litres of sweat later – I barge through the front door, skidding down the hall as I make a sharp left into the kitchen.

After I pour myself a large glass of water, I scull it down before placing the glass in the sink and dropping my bag onto the island bench.

With my hands on my hips, I stare at the ceiling and run through parts of the assignment I recall Mr Hughes talking about. We have to produce a piece of writing to recite in front of the class. The catch is, instead of addressing the class directly, we are to speak whilst maintaining eye contact with our partner.

We need to practice over the next few weeks by describing parts of our day, or talking about whatever we want, as long as we are maintaining eye contact. It’s all about building emotional connection and emotional intelligence. It’s a vital skill in communication, and we need this skill to help us mature into successful adults.

Blah, blah, blah.

Just the thought of staring into Wren’s eyes for longer than is necessary sends an icy chill over my body. He is everything I despise.

My dad used women as well, and it was my mum and I who suffered. Then he died. Sometimes I think I miss him, but that would have required him to be in my life for a memorable enough period to have something about him to miss.

Over the years, I got used to him “working” so late, I became immune to what missing someone felt like. My mum would smile and brush off the missed family dinners, or the vacant seats at school presentations.Your father is a very busy man,she would say.

Yeah, busy sticking his dick in a woman who wasn’t his wife.

I check the fridge to see what Mum had left me for dinner. The night shifts at the hospital keep her away a lot, so as usual, she’s made me something before she headed off. Tonight’s special is spaghetti and meatballs. My favourite.

Deciding on an early dinner, I place the dish in the microwave, then rest my hip against the island bench as I wait for my meal to heat.

How the hell am I going to get out of working with Wren? I could just deal with it until he drives me crazy enough to carry out one of my murder plans. Or find some way out of it.

It’s then I have a lightbulb moment. Mr Hughes could swap Wren for someone else. I nod to myself. Now, there’s an idea. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it until now.

First thing tomorrow morning, I’m going to walk straight into Hughes’s classroom and demand he swap my partner.

When the timer on the microwave dings, I pull the dish out and grab a fork from the cutlery drawer while balancing the bowl on my hand. But before I can sit, there’s a knock at the door.

I place my meal on the bench as I make my way around it towards the front door. When I swing it open, Wren is on my doorstep, one arm up, bracing himself against the doorframe.

I scan every inch of his body, from his bare feet – which are just as beautiful as the rest of him – to the dark hair falling on either side of his face. When he pushes it back with one hand, it has me imagining that the simple action must have girls falling over themselves to get to him.

Christ, who am I kidding? I know it does.

‘Go away,’ I say, as I push the door to close it, attempting to shut Wren out.

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