"What the hell just happened?" asked a man with a rude voice. I laid on the ground, pooling in blood. In case you didn't know at this point in time, my name is Nash, Nash O'Hara. And I just collided with a car while riding my skateboard.
"You may or may not have hit me with a fucking car!" I exclaimed, watching the man's face get redder and redder.
"That's nice. But, can you move? My daughter needs to get to class."
"Dad, the kid is obviously in need of medical attention," said a girl getting out of the car. She wore a long shirt with fishnets underneath, and she had heavily applied mascara under her eyes.
"Madeleine, get to class. I'll deal with this hooligan later," said the guy.
"No. I'm taking him to the nurse, than maybe I'll show him around," she said, giving me a bold smirk.
"What in the bloody hell! Get back here!" yelled the man, as Madeleine walked me further to the building. I had my arm around her waist, and I rested my head against her shoulder.
"You're not as smart as you look, kid. I can obviously tell you're staring at my boobs through my shirt."
"Who said I was smart?" I asked, cockily.
"Someone said it pretty damn often. You've got that smartass look in your eyes."
YOU ARE READING
Posh Kids (Gen. 4)
Teen FictionNewfound friendships, wannabe lovers, and crazy antics fill a boy's final two years of school with something he never thought he'd find: emotion
