CHAPTER14
Thursday rolls around, and I pretend to sleep through homeroom, act like I’m Mrs. Ice’s pet in calculus, and in English Literature and Composition, I can’t help myself but verbally spar with Tyler to the delight of the class. Not so much to Mr. August’s delight, though, considering we’re talking about the differences in werewolves and how they typically are actually shifters who turn into wolves rather than actual werewolves, which are more man-wolf hybrids under the light of the moon. Tyler’s on the side of authors being allowed to have creative license to call them werewolves even if they’re not wolf-men creatures, and I’m more a stickler about it.
“You sure know how to use your tongue,” Tyler says after the bell rings to signal the end of class.
“I’m so not going there with you.”
Tyler shrugs. “Maybe that came out wrong.”
“It sure did.”
He just smirks at me.
“Leave me alone,” I tell him.
“Ah, if I recall correctly, you started to talk to me first today.”
“I didn’t,” I protest.
“You did. I was talking to Josh about the werewolves. You cut in.”
He’s right.
“Face it. You enjoy talking to me.”
“You enjoy wearing long sleeves?” I ask. “It’s so hot today.”
Tyler winks. "Don't worry. In a class or two, I'll roll up my sleeves. Show off some forearm. For women, that's as good as catnip is for cats. All the women will want me."
“There aren’t a lot of women here,” I say. “A lot of stuck-up bitches.”
“Now, what makes you jump to their nasty conclusion about your classmates?”
I shake my head, but it’s not an exaggeration. The treatment by the bullies has spilled over. I’ve had hair pulled in hallways. People have tried to trip me. They knock into me as if they want to push me down. Girls look at me and whisper to each other and laugh, and I wonder if a rumor’s been started about me, probably courtesy of the Mutineers.
Or maybe by Liam.
I leave English behind. Tyler walks me down the hall before heading left at the split, and I go right.
Economics. I start toward my seat when I spy the rose on my desk.
“You like roses, don’t you?” Liam asks.
“I don’t.”
“You don’t? What flower do you prefer?”
“If you want to get me a rose, get me a rose bush,” I say, tossing him back the flower. “I hate flowers like this. It’ll be dead in a few days. Why waste such beauty? No, I don’t like any cut flower.”
“I see.” He twirls the rose in his hands. “I don’t eve by thornless flowers.”
I ignore him. The conversation is done in my mind.
But not in his evidently as he leans forward. “I mean, I feel like girls like to be pricked, right?”
“Not by thorns. Thorns are too small.”
He grins and winks at me as he leans back. “You don’t have to worry about that with me, Erika Armstrong.”