Opposite Force

Chapter One

Mikaela Martin | Present (September, Senior Year)

"What do you think, Miss Martin?"

I think that class participation requirements are going to be the death of me. "Um, yeah. I think impeachment was the right way...the right way to go."

The right way to go? Seriously, Mikaela?

"Why do you think that?" Mrs. Payne, whose last name is painfully fitting, presses.

"He lied, but there were tapes," I answer. I'm blushing so hard my cheeks might combust. Why me? Why must I be the one to answer this incredibly awkward question? Plenty of students in Mrs. Payne's second period American history class would love to allude to the blowjob William Jefferson Clinton received in the Oval Office.

Give me an essay about the Clinton impeachment. I'll write double the minimum word count. Ask me to share my thoughts in front of thirty judgmental high school seniors? Nothing intelligent is going to come out of my mouth. This is my third year in a row having Mrs. Payne for history; you'd think she would know by now.

"Correct. Anyone else want to share their thoughts? What about you, Mr. Warner?"

Peyton Warner shifts uncomfortably in his seat. A couple of his friends snicker while he responds, "Uh, yeah. I agree. He perjured himself."

I could strangle myself. Why didn't I mention perjury? That would have gotten Mrs. Payne off my case. It's the keyword she was looking for. I sigh internally. I'm supposed to be the smart one, not Peyton. I'm shy and awkward, so I've got nothing else going for me. Peyton, on the other hand, is the stereotypical popular jock, except he doesn't seem like much of a jerk.

What an unfair, cruel world we occupy.

Mrs. Payne moves onto Trump's impeachment trial. I already know everything she's teaching because my mom loves politics as much as she hates the forty-fifth president of the United States, which is to say a lot, but I take furious notes anyway. Mrs. Payne is the type of teacher to call you out if you aren't scribbling down her every word, and I cannot handle more second period history eyes on me today. I think I've hit my weekly quota, and it's only Wednesday.

A soft scratching noise grabs my attention. I stare at a crumpled piece of paper sliding across my notebook. When I look up, I see Peyton's shoulders turning towards the front of the room. Did he seriously just throw a piece of paper at me? Was my answer so dumb that one of the nice popular kids has to mock me?

Slowly, I uncrumple the college-ruled scrap. In messy script, it reads, "Good teamwork. -Peyton :)".

This has to be a joke, right? He's making fun of me because my answer wasn't as coherent as his? Because I forgot the word perjury? Shame and anger converge in my chest. Can't he just leave me alone? I could beat him in a written test any day. Public speaking doesn't come easy to everyone, and I wish that people like Peyton would understand that. Just ignore me and let me live my pathetic, embarrassing life.

Finally, the bell rings. Mrs. Payne shouts a reminder about the essay I already finished as we shuffle out the door. Well, as most of the class shuffles out the door. I linger behind, pretending to organize my bag, so I don't get caught in the crowd. I always end up crashing into people when the hallways are at capacity.

As if the note wasn't enough, and it really was, Peyton remains in the classroom while everyone else takes off for third period. He pushes a lock of thick blonde hair from his temple and shoots me a taunting smile, the left side of his slightly chapped lips curving upwards. His green eyes, the color of emeralds, practically sparkle under the dusty overhead lights.