The Opposition

Chapter 3: Sadie

Ana looks like she's going to bite my head off.

"What was that?" She demands, gesturing between me and Carter, who is already sauntering away toward Clarence House.

"What was what?" I feign cluelessness because I don't want to hear her go on about how I'm secretly hooking up with Carter or some shit.

"Are you and Carter–"

"No," I cut her off. "In case you've forgotten, Carter is my least favourite person on this entire campus Maybe in the entire world."

"Didn't look like it," Angie says.

I turn to look at both of them, outraged that they would even suggest that I and that cocky, ignorant know-it-all would ever be anything other archenemies with the same classes. I think I actually just threw up in my mouth at the idea of going out with the same boy who told me my retelling of Romeo and Juliet made no sense. I don't want to continue this conversation, so I roll my eyes instead.

I change the subject. "Why are we talking about me, Angie? You basically had hearts in your eyes looking at Dimitri."

She's blushing through her hairline just at his name. She's so far gone. "That's nothing."

"Your tomato face says otherwise," Ana says, and Angie swats her on the arm. "Defensive, too."

"Let's drop this" is all Angie says when we reach the dining hall.

As I suspected, there's barely anyone inside, except for a few spaced out groups of students and a lonely Mr. Neilson who's sprouting his usual bored/annoyed expression. Breakfast service is nearly closed, but we manage to snatch a few remaining pancakes and scrambled eggs from the hot bar. Angie hits the jackpot with a cinnamon roll. Ana and Angie go carry our food to a table while I go to get us all coffee. My first two years at Fairridge were spent only drinking orange juice in the morning, but everyone at Prep becomes a coffee addict after a couple years. I have to pour a whole cup of milk in Ana's, though, because she's always complaining about the bitter taste. I tell her she doesn't have to drink it, but she insists it tastes like coffee ice cream with that much milk. I highly disagree, but I don't object when I make her coffee.

As I lay out three paper cups in front of me and pick up the coffee pot, I can't help but think back to when my sister spilled a whole batch of scolding hot coffee on my arm. Maddie was always a klutz the morning after she had been drinking, but that morning she was acting as if her usual shots of vodka were laced with poison. I tried to shove a glass of ice water under her nose, but she pushed it aside–and onto the floor–as she reached for the fresh batch of coffee. I knelt down, attempting to pick up the glass pieces off the floor, when she slipped on the puddle of water on the floor, tipping the contents of the pot down my left arm. The pain was unbearable. Scorching, burning, piercing, indescribable pain. Like my arm was trapped in flame, but with the weight of liquid on my skin. Maddie mumbled a spew of apologies, but went and collapsed on the couch as I blinked back the white I was seeing and went to rise my arm under cold water. I went to the hospital that day and was told I have some sort of degree burn, but I wasn't paying enough attention. I was going over what I would tell mom. I ended up saying I dropped the coffee myself and it took four years for me to ever actually pick up a cup of coffee, again.

I reach for the carton of milk for Ana's coffee when a body slams into mine.

"Ah, Jones, we meet again. And so soon. What a treat that must be for you," Carter says as I look up at him. He's wearing a pair of black jeans and a knitted dark green sweater that has a striking resemblance to his eyes. His brown hair is disheveled atop his head, as if he just got out of bed. He has a too-bright smile plastered on his face, so you can see his rows of straight pearly whites and the dimples of either side of his mouth. I realize that I've been staring at his mouth for a little longer than is deemed appropriate, so I look up to meet his eyes. He's only a few inches taller than me, but, when we're this close, his six feet and two inches seem so much more than my five feet and nine inches.