Mark rolled his eyes, but he didn’t dare make any further fuss. He knew he’d be screwed if she pulled the offer off the table. “Fine.”
Carly and I volunteered to help, knowing full well that Mark would lose all motivation if left alone. We quickly learned that Mrs. Brightberry made you work for every ounce of extra credit. The old weightlifting room was on the third story, whereas the art room was stationed on the far side of the first. By our eighth trip back upstairs, we were exhausted. Car and I plopped down on an old weightlifting bench as Mark tried to prove his testosterone level by doing chin-ups on one of the few pullup bars across the way. The room was long and thin, lined wholly with mirrors on one side of the wall. It probably would have smelled as foul as the current weightlifting room if not for the homemade lilac-scented candles Mrs. Brightberry had brought in to freshen up the place.
Even with my newly acquired strength, my arms still screamed with fatigue as I made my way down the hall following dismissal.
“You’d think being invisible would have its perks in high school, but you know what? It still sucks,” remarked Reese, crashing his frame into the locker beside mine as I lifted up my exhausted arm to dial in my combo.
“Uh-oh, High School Hell got you down?” I whispered.
“You know, the word ‘hell’ is applied far too liberally these days, yet here it is quite appropriate.”
“I hear ya’. But I imagine things can’t be too hard for the likes of you. You know, considering that you apparently know everything,” I jabbed.
“I only store things of relevance up here,” he chuckled, tapping on the side of his head. “And I can guarantee you, eighty percent of what you learn from a school desk will never be applied to your life once you’re out in the real world.”
“So I take it you won’t be lending me a hand with my Calculus homework then?”
“Sorry, tangent half-angle formulas don’t come in handy when you’re trying to restore the balance between good and evil. It rarely ever requires mathematical skills.”
“What a jip,” I chortled.
“Asshole!” exclaimed Camille Browning. The curly haired brunette stampeded over to Trace Bolton and hurled his letterman’s jacket at him as he stood about ten lockers down from us talking with his friends.
“Cam?” He managed to collect the coat in his grasp before it hit the floor.
“Stay the hell away from me,” she demanded, turning around and walking away.
“Hey!” He lobbed the jacket over to Nate and followed after her. “What is your problem?”
“You’re an asshole; that’s my problem,” she clarified. “The fact that I was dating you up until twenty seconds ago used to be one as well, but, thankfully, it no longer is.”
He just looked at her confusedly. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m dumping your ass, Trace,” Camille said, almost proudly. “I don’t date douche bags that cheat on me with my best friend!”
“Oh, so that’s what everyone was talking about first hour,” remarked Reese softly. “You know, apart from the murder and all.”
“I didn’t hear this one,” I said.
“Apparently, she had thrown a party at her house this past weekend, and someone recorded a video of Bolton, I suspect, getting down with a cheerleader, who obviously wasn’t her,” said Reese, pointing to Camille.
“Babe, just calm down,” said Trace, cutting in front of her.
“You slept with her!” Camille whirled back around and proceeded in the other direction.
“Yeesh…” Reese and I both winced.
“Look, we were both drunk, okay? It didn’t mean anything,” defended Bolton, rather indifferently.
“It meant something to me!” She finally turned and confronted him, the two of them right in front of us. “You cheated on me. It’s that simple.”
He rolled his eyes.
“And look at you,” she scoffed. “You don’t even care!”
“Cam-”
“You are such an idiot!”
“You’re really blowing this outta proportion.”
“Oh yeah? Spell ‘proportion,’” she challenged.
Bolton didn’t respond.
“My point exactly.” She stomped away, leaving the hallway behind her to buzz about in gossipy whispers. “Moron.”
“She was a better lay than you anyway!” he shot back, almost with a laugh.
Camille simply raised her middle finger, not even turning back to give him the satisfaction. Carly made her way through the crowd toward me, still gawking with the rest of the spectators.