Hopeless (Hopeless #1)(7)
Now I’m on my way home, deciding on whether or not to go fill Six in on the bittersweet happenings of day one, or go grocery shopping in order to get my caffeine fix before my daily run.
The caffeine wins, despite the fact that my affection for Six is slightly greater.
My minimal portion of familial contribution is the weekly grocery shopping. Everything in our house is sugar-free, carb-free and taste-free, thanks to Karen’s unconventional vegan way of life, so I actually prefer doing the grocery shopping. I grab a six-pack of soda and the biggest bag of bite size Snickers I can find and throw them in the cart. I have a nice hiding spot for my secret stash in my bedroom. Most teenagers are stashing away cigarettes and weed—I stash away sugar.
When I reach the checkout, I recognize the girl ringing me up is in my second period English class. I’m pretty sure her name is Shayna, but her nametag reads Shayla. Shayna/Shayla is everything I wish I were. Tall, voluptuous and sun-kissed blonde. I can maybe pull off five-three on a good day and my flat brown hair could use a trim—maybe even some highlights. They would be a bitch to maintain considering the amount of hair that I have. It falls about six inches past my shoulders, but I keep it pulled up most of the time due to the southern humidity.
“Aren’t you in my Science class?” Shayna/Shayla asks.
“English,” I correct her.
She shoots me a condescending look. “I did speak English,” she says defensively. “I said, ‘aren’t you in my Science class?’”
Oh, holy hell. Maybe I don’t want to be that blonde.
“No,” I say. “I meant English as in ‘I’m not in your Science class, I’m in your English class.’”
She looks at me blankly for a second, then laughs. “Oh.” Realization dawns on her face. She eyes the screen in front of her and reads out my total. I slip my hand in my back pocket and retrieve the credit card, hoping to hurry and excuse myself from what I fear is about to become a less than stellar conversation.
“Oh, dear God,” she says quietly. “Look who’s back.”
I glance up at her and she’s staring at someone behind me in the other checkout line.
No, let me correct that. She’s salivating over someone behind me in the checkout line.
“Hey, Holder,” she says seductively toward him, flashing her full-lipped smile.
Did she just bat her eyelashes? Yep. I’m pretty sure she just batted her eyelashes. I honestly thought they only did that in cartoons.
I glance back to see who this Holder character is that has somehow managed to wash away any semblance of self-respect Shayna/Shayla might have had. The guy looks up at her and nods an acknowledgement, seemingly uninterested.
“Hey….” He squints his eyes at her nametag. “Shayla.” He turns his attention back to his cashier.
Is he ignoring her? One of the prettiest girls in school practically gives him an open invitation and he acts like it’s an inconvenience? Is he even human? This isn’t how the guys I know are supposed to react.
She huffs. “It’s Shayna,” she says, annoyed that he didn’t know her name. I turn back toward Shayna and swipe my credit card through the machine.
“Sorry,” he says to her. “But you do realize your nametag says Shayla, right?”
She looks down at her chest and flips her nametag up so she can read it. “Huh,” she says, narrowing her eyebrows as if she’s deep in thought. I doubt it’s that deep, though.
“When did you get back?” she asks Holder, ignoring me completely. I just swiped my card and I’m almost positive she should be doing something on her end, but she’s too busy planning her wedding with this guy to remember she has a customer.
“Last week.” His response is curt.
“So are they gonna let you come back to school?” she asks.
I can hear him sigh from where I’m standing.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says flatly. “Not going back.”
This last statement of his immediately gives Shayna/Shayla cold feet. She rolls her eyes and turns her attention back to me. “It’s a shame when a body like that doesn’t come with any brains,” she whispers.
The irony in her statement isn’t lost on me.
When she finally starts punching numbers on the register to complete the transaction, I use her distraction as an opportunity to glance behind me again. I’m curious to get another look at the guy who seemed to be irritated by the leggy blonde. He’s looking down into his wallet, laughing at something his cashier said. As soon as I lay eyes on him, I immediately notice three things:
1) His amazingly perfect white teeth hidden behind that seductively crooked grin.
2) The dimples that form in the crevices between the corners of his lips and cheeks when he smiles.
3) I’m pretty sure I’m having a hot flash.
Or I have butterflies.
Or maybe I’m coming down with a stomach virus.
The feeling is so foreign; I’m not sure what it is. I can’t say what is so different about him that would prompt my first-ever normal biological response to another person. However, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone so incredibly like him before. He’s beautiful. Not beautiful in the pretty-boy sense. Or even in the tough-guy sense. Just a perfect mixture of in-between. Not too big, but not at all small. Not too rough, not too perfect. He’s wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, nothing special. His hair doesn’t look like it’s even been brushed today and could probably use a good trim, just like mine. It’s just long enough in the front that he has to move it out of his eyes when he looks up and catches me full on staring.