Page 44 of Bullied By The Bad Boy

I push the door open before the thoughts dampen my mood. Today, there are only four of us. Ms. Jota, the drama coordinator, sits on the podium’s edge, a small pile of scripts by her side. She welcomes me with a kind smile, then motions for me to occupy one of the plush seats. I take the one farthest from the group, away from those three girls with thick hair and heavy makeup that make them appear older than their actual age. They always act like I’m invisible. And I do the same.

Ms. Jota distributes the scripts and returns to her seat with a small smile. She claps to get our attention. I look up from the script—a modern retelling of Romeo and Juliet. “As you all know, we should have started the end-of-session drama production, but we don’t have the numbers yet.”

Her eyes fall to the empty seats, and I feel bad for her. She seems nice. Nicer than Ms. Eva.

“It’s fine since we won’t be performing until next year, but this is something for you to think about. Auditions will start in a few weeks. The date will be communicated to you, but there’s no harm in giving you more time to practice, is there?” We all shake our heads. She walks over and starts distributing the scripts to us. “Good, I believe that’s all. See you all on Friday. 5 pm.”

One of the girls raises a manicured hand. I believe her name is something that starts with a W—Whore. With her fake tan and boobs complimented by her red lipstick and thick eyeliner, the name sounds right for her. She blinks like she’s about to have a seizure. Ms. Jota arranges the leftover scripts into a neat pile. Her countenance doesn’t change as she waits for the girl to speak her mind.

“What if we don’t want to perform?” She looks at her squad, and they giggle like little witches. Why are they in drama club if they don’t want to perform? “Is it okay to do something else?”

Ms. Jota pauses. “Something like what, Whitney?”

Oh, Whitney. Whore suits her better. “I don’t know. The stage will need designs.” She gestures to the podium bereft of any glamor. Ms. Jota frowns. “We can make set designs while the others perform.”

“That’s not a bad idea, Whitney.” Ms. Jota nods thoughtfully. I have to admit it’s a good one. “If you can find more students interested in joining you to design, then I’ll discuss it with the art teacher.”

I leave the hall after Ms. Jota dismisses us. From the few lines I read, I know I want to play the role of Juliet. We will need a male lead for Romeo, but I have a feeling Whitney and her friends have someone in mind. The parking lot is not as empty as it should be. I toss my scripts on the passenger seat, eager to leave, when I spot Ben’s motorcycle. Maria wanted us to slash the tires.

We can’t do that. I text to let her know I’ll do it myself. She requests evidence with a promise to join me in two minutes. I roll my eyes and charge toward his bike. Ben’s bike is hard to miss. I squat to protect myself from curious eyes. I’ll take a video of me “slashing” his tires and send it to her. The problem is, I don’t have anything to use except my hairpin. It will have to do the job.

I try first to see if it will work before making a video, but nope. You can’t puncture a hole into a tire with a pin. Footsteps approach me, but I don’t look up. Finally, the drama queen is here. It took her long enough.

Something dangles in my face. I squint. “Here, use this.”

Why does Maria have a knife? Since when does she talk like Ben? Shit. I jump to my feet.

“I thought the bike was for Maria,” I blurt out.

I am shit at this thing called lying. Ben shoves his hands into his front pockets. He leans forward, and I jump another step back. He won’t punch me, right? And he doesn’t. “Maria has a bike?”

Speaking of the devil, Maria appears in my peripheral view but backs away when she spots Ben and me. That girl will so get it from me. Ben snaps his fingers in my face. He is so close. I clear my throat. I can do this. “Yeah. Yes, she does. I was checking the tires to be sure they are okay.”

“Are they?”

“Perfect.” A second passes. “You shouldn’t be here. Why haven’t you gone to pick up Asher?”

Ben arches a brow. My heart pounds against my ribcage. “Who are you to question me?”

A wedge dips between his eyebrows as he waits for my answer. But I don’t have anything to say. Another second of awkward silence passes. Do I apologize? If I do, then it means I am guilty.

“I’ll just… Bye,” I mutter and flee to my car. I wait in the sanctity of my car till he’s gone.

Ten minutes later, I drive out of the school. My foot clamps hard on the brake when I spot Ben crouched beside his bike. I only touched the tire. I didn’t tamper with anything. He runs a hand through his hair and kicks the tire. I slow down beside him, but his gaze doesn’t leave his bike.

“Need a ride?” His eyes lift to my face. The annoyance boldly written all over his features almost has me eating my words. I remind myself he has to pick his kid brother. That’s why I stopped in the first place. “You know, Asher doesn’t like being kept waiting even if he pretends to be fine.”

He huffs. “Fine.”

My smile disappears when he leaves the bike unguarded. “What if someone steals your bike?”

“Then Josef will get another one.” He slides into the passenger seat. I rush to grab the script, but he holds it above his head to read. He flips through it, and my cheeks warm when he levels me with a hot glare. “What is this shit? Romeo and Juliet. A modern retelling. You are a romantic.”

“It’s for the drama club. You don’t need to be a romantic before you enjoy romantic plays,” I reply.

Ben doesn’t say a word to that, and I start the car. I half-wanted to know if he was a part of the population who didn’t consider the play a romance. And it’s not a bad thing to be a romantic.

We are at a stoplight when he drops my hairpin on the console. “You forgot this.”

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