Page 82 of We Shouldn't Be Together
I force a laugh. “Yeah. She just asked something about our chemistry homework.”
“You must be hating that class,” Jamie says as we walk toward our lockers. “I’d revolt if I were stuck with her.”
“Oh, believe me, I protested.”
“I can’t believe Mrs. Field didn’t budge.”
“I guess she figures I’m better with Tabitha than Camila was.”
“Not very fair to you, though.”
“No biggy. I put her in her place.”
At that, Jamie smiles, but there’s a sinking feeling in my gut. I don’t want to use terms like that about Tabitha. I don’t want to sound like I’m ordering her around or manhandling her. But Jamie won’t understand me being civil with her. And she definitely won’t accept me doing it for her benefit. Jamie hates being seen as a charity case or just a girl. I know she’s neither of those things, but I don’t want to rehash it. I think one more punch from her and all my stitches would be busted.
“So, what’d Ms. Jenkins want?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Oh, you know, usual teacher crap. ‘You’re not living up to your potential. Your work is sloppy. Your grades are slipping.’ That kind of garbage.”
“Ms. Jenkins said that?”
“Okay, she was nicer than that. But it’s the gist of what they all say to me.”
“I don’t get grades,” I say as the passion swells inside me. “Why we need to regurgitate the same stuff they lecture is beyond me. I hate that school turns us into mindless drones.”
“Well, that’s why I don’t do the homework,” Jamie says with a laugh. “No way am I willing to be a cog in the machine.”
I grin at her. “You and me, James. We get it.”
I freaking love that she gets it. I’d still believe in this stuff if I were on my own. But I love that Jamie’s friendship validates my ideas. She’s definitely my ride-or-die.
By the time we reach Mom’s car, we’ve bypassed Milo, who meanders like he’s lost in a world inside his head. Knowing him, he’s still thinking about King Lear even though we’ve escaped English.
After Mom parks the car in the garage, Jamie and I book it toward the soccer ball lying in wait in the corner. We barge into each other, wrestling with our feet to take ownership of the ball. With some fancy footwork, Jamie gains control and taps the ball through the rear door to the backyard.
But she’s not the only one who’s perfecting their fancy skills.
I gain on her, sliding my foot in from the right. “Here comes Nelson, going in for the steal,” I commentate. “Oh, he fakes right, he fakes left. He pushes back, and West doesn’t know what hit her.” With a scissor move, I take possession of the ball. “Nelson gains speed, he lines up the goal, and…” I throw all my power behind a kick. “Goooaaaallll!”
Jamie moves in on the ball after it ricochets off the back fence. “Since when is that the goal? I thought we decided it was over there.”
“And as always,” I continue in my commentator voice, “West is a sore loser.”
She pokes her tongue out at me and flicks the ball in the air with the inside of her shoe. The ball bounces on her left knee, and then her right. With some height, she jumps in the air and kicks the ball to our usual backyard goal.
Jamie runs across the grass with her arms up in cheer. “Goal!”
I give her a slow clap as I jog toward the wayward ball. Her gaze is already back on the ball, and I use my peripherals to keep her in check. She’s not getting the ball from me again. When she gains on me, I slide to the left and then spin back to the right. She stumbles, trying to correct herself. I pull back my leg, ready to put some force behind the ball, when Jamie flies into my side.
“Oh, crap!” I grunt, grasping my newly bandaged arm.
Jamie gasps. “Again?”
I step backward, bringing some space between us. “Are you a magnet for my stitches or something?”
She winces. “I didn’t mean to.”
I shake it off. “It’s cool. But maybe we should call it a day. I don’t want Mom catching on.”
