College Ruled

five

| 05 |
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LUCKY THE Leprechaun is someone I never thought I'd make an enemy of.

         He's innocent. He's friendly. He's the face of my favorite childhood breakfast.

         But as the marshmallow juggling cartoon traitor stares up at the man on the pantry floor like he's a comedic god and not a jerk-faced academic criminal, I can't help it. And he makes it straight to my list—right next to the leopard print bikini-clad brunette laying in pieces at my feet.

         Said jerk-faced academic criminal is still staring up at me. He pops a few more pieces of that traitor's cereal in his mouth. And from where I stand, frozen near the closed pantry door, I have no choice but to watch as he fails to smother the hint of a smile peeking through the corner of his lips.

         "So, are you going to explain why you murdered Yumi Nu—which isn't going to get you any points with Maverick, by the way—or is paper genocide just another one of your pastimes?"

         Whatever mood he'd been in last night seems to have dissolved back into his default setting—antagonizing taunts and charm so palpable I'd probably choke on it if I spent too much time examining the honed gleam in his eyes or the shallow dimple that pops through on his right cheek.

        My lingering, twisted rage would prefer to face the Grayson from last night. The brooding and quietly tortured Grayson, who has less of a talent for pricking my angered impulses with nothing more than a single sharp-witted stare.

         But no. This Grayson sits with relaxed ease. His mouth, still curved upward in mocking focus, chews through his cereal slowly. He rests his head against a shelf of prepackaged pastries, his chin pointing up toward me, giving his unavoidable gaze more room to scrutinize me.

Which is annoying, given that he just bore witness to my very unrelaxed freak out.

       His hair looks damp and tangled; a few clumped strands fall over his forehead. And that, along with the pajama pants and the fact that he's sitting in here alone (disgustingly) mixing beer and artificially flavored rainbow-colored marshmallows, makes it pretty clear this party was an afterthought in whatever plans he'd had tonight.

         "Why are you hiding out in the pantry?"

          He quirks a dubious eyebrow my way. Not unlike me, he sidesteps the question with a shifted break in eye contact. The plastic cereal bag crinkles when he removes his hand to pick up one of the shredded calendar scraps that'd landed near his calf.

         "Shame." Making a tsking noise, he pulls his lips down to frown at it. "So violent. Someone really needs to teach you some manners."

I take a step forward, to do what I'm not sure—maybe dump the box of Lucky Charms over his head or, maybe, to take the simpler route of smothering myself with the wad of Walmart bags hanging on the back wall—and Grayson drops Yumi Nu's torn forearm like it'd burned him.

"My bad," he says, raising both of his hands in front of his chest. His eyes flicker to the mangled cup I'd forgotten I was still holding. "Didn't know you were armed."

         Is he serious?

         Grayson's dips his chin toward his chest and chokes on a snorted laugh.

         Oh, great.

         He doesn't look drunk, but he's definitely not sober enough for me to be in here. If every day, you-should-feel-blessed-just-being-in-the-same-room-as-me Grayson makes me want to stab him in the eye with a mechanical pencil I can only imagine what the teasing, immature little dweeb in front of me now will make me do.