My resolve was set. I willed back the emotions bubbling up through my stomach. I was halfway to fifth period when my cell phone chirped in my book bag, but I waited until I sat down in class before checking. Only one person knew my number, so I wasn't surprised when I saw a text from Dean.
Hey sorry I was a no-show. Coach Smith was a complete asshole today. He made the whole basketball team run laps since a couple of guys from the team gave him lip. D
What a relief. He didn't stand me up. His excuse was legitimate. Coach Smith was notorious for his arrogant attitude. He'd played college ball as a third-string player, but liked to make it seem like he played for the NBA. I was lucky enough to escape his narcissism for the last four years, but had heard him plenty of times in the hallways. If bragging was an Olympic sport, he'd have a gold medal.
I reread the text one more time, liking the way he ended his message with a simple D, like I wouldn't know who the message was from. I stowed the phone back in my bag. Texting was still foreign to me, and I was pretty sure it'd take me a half an hour to figure out how to send a simple text. Maybe I'd call him when I got home. Probably not though, reaching out was not my forte.
I was almost home when a familiar jeep pulled up beside me. "Can I give you a ride home?" Dean asked, leaning over the passenger seat.
"My house is right there," I reminded him, pointing down the street at my house.
"I can at least save you a few steps," he cajoled me.
"Seriously?" I asked, raising my eyebrows at him as he pushed the passenger door open.
"Come on, please? I'm bummed we didn't get to have lunch together."
"What? Laps weren't your idea of a fun lunch?" I asked, climbing into the front seat.
"Ha, you're a crack up. I'm thinking of quitting the team. Smith is such a pain."
"Really, what will your parents say?" I asked, wondering about the dynamics of a regular family.
"Oh, they'll support me. My dad and Coach Smith have gotten into it over the last few years. There's definitely no love lost between them," he said, chuckling as he parked his car in my driveway. "Besides, it stopped being fun after we left junior high. It's not like I planned on going pro or anything. Is my jeep okay here?" he asked.
"Sure," I answered through a sudden dry mouth. It was obvious he planned on coming inside.
"Figured we could do some studying," he said, grabbing my book bag and trailing behind me as I made my way up the walkway.
"No need. Thanks to you, I'm now squeaking out a passing grade in world history. Whore Cat's happy and off my back, so it's all good."
"Whore Cat?" he asked, plopping down on the sofa.
"Yeah, kind of a nickname. She's always nosing into my business like a cat in heat that's always sniffing all the other cats' asses."
He threw his head back laughing at my words. "You have a point," he finally said once he could talk again. "So what are some of the other teachers' names?"
"What makes you think I've nicknamed anyone else?"
He raised his eyebrows at me knowingly.
"Okay, maybe I do," I finally caved. "Uh, well, I call Mr. Fick, Fickhead, though it's not very original. Principal Wilson is Douche Bag, for obvious reasons, Ms. Sommers is Smokefest, since she always seems to be jonesing for her next cigarette and Mr. Perry is PerryPervert, since he's always messing with his junk when he calls us girls up to his desk to go over a paper or something else asinine.
"Shut up, seriously? I've never had him, but that's just wrong."
"It's gag-worthy for sure."
"Is that it on the teachers' nicknames?" he asked, leaning back against the sofa.
"Yeah, pretty much."
"What about the students?" he asked.
"All your names bleed together. For the most part, everyone is just one big blob that I try to avoid."
"Why?"
I glared at him, hoping he'd get the point that I didn't like to talk about this crap.