You can Bet on Me

Part 3 ~ Awkward Moments

Maddison
"He was so annoying," I was complaining to Vivienne as I fiddled around with my locker. She looked at me with understanding written all over her face, but what did she understand? That I hated that boy's guts, yet I still agreed to be his girlfriend? Damn, I sounded crazy even to myself.
"You know, if you hate him so much, why did you agree to become his girlfriend?" Vivienne finally asked the question that I'd been wondering myself as she opened her locker to get her textbook for her next lesson.
"I... I don't know," I admitted as I finally opened my locker after the seventy billionth (exaggeration, it was three times) try. "Pity?"
She snorted. "Doubt it. But you are far too nice of a person."
"Am I?" I asked, raising a brow. "Really?"
"Okay, maybe I am exaggerating it, but you are a nice person, Maddy. Don't doubt yourself so much, and don't doubt it when other people compliment you on it," Vivienne replied.
"You sound like my mum trying to give me a pep talk before a big event," I said, rolling my eyes exasperatingly.
"Does she give good pep talks?" Vivienne asked.
"Nope, not at all." I opened my mouth to say more, but the bell rang loudly and Vivienne muttered, "damnit! I've got class, got to go. See you later?"
I nodded as she managed to fish out her textbook for her next lesson and dashed off, suddenly aware that I also had my next class to attend to. I quickly checked the timetable that I had taped to the inside of the door of my locker and groaned mentally when I saw what lesson I had.
Spanish... with that- that- what the hell is his name? I thought as I grabbed my Spanish textbook. I don't know his name, and I don't plan on finding out. Dashing down the hallway, I rounded a corner and ran into something as hard as a fricking brick wall. I fell over backwards and my Spanish textbook went flying onto the floor a good two metres away, quickly being trampled by the massive, bustling crowd of LA.
Just before I hit the floor, I felt strong arms catch me, holding me up around the waist.
"The hell?" I muttered as I looked up and saw... the dude-who's-name-I'd-forgotten – AKA Mr hotshot. Mr my-not-wanted-boyfriend, surrounded by his gang of basketball players and cheerleaders and popular people. Urgh. The smirk on his face made it even worse. I would have loved to slap that smirk right off his face, but that would land me in detention and as I mentioned before, that is a strict no.
"Look, princess, I know that you're literally falling all over me, but you need to take a breather," he smirked.
I scowled at him before glaring at his ugly (okay, fine, I don't mean that) face. "Terrible joke. One out of ten. Actually, scratch that. Zero." I scowled as I pried myself off him, backing away a good amount of space using the excuse of picking up my Spanish textbook to get as far away from that creep as possible.
He feigned being hurt by my words as he put his hand to his heart. "Ouch," he said dramatically. "That hurt my feelings."
"Suck it up," I rolled my eyes, grabbing my Spanish textbook.
"Want me to walk you to class, girlfriend?" he asked, grinning as he stretched out the word 'girlfriend'. The guys around him nudged each other and began whispering, and much to my annoyance, I couldn't hear a single word they were saying.
"I'm having second thoughts about the bet, James." The only words I managed to catch were one of the basketball players that I didn't know the name of.
"Bet? What bet?" I asked, looking past Mr basketball captain.
"Oh, so you see, Michael here made a bet with us—" before they could finish, Michael – the boyfriend that I now knew the name of – interrupted them.
"That I could get an A in Spanish," he interrupted, wincing. I looked from Michael to the other basketball players. By their slightly confused expressions, I could tell one thing: liar. Yet again, boys would always make stupid bets like bin diving or who could lick their elbow or whatever, and I certainly didn't want to hear about their actual bet.
"Whatever." I muttered. "I'm going to class."
"Our class that we do together," grinned Michael. I glared at him, hoping that he'd give up and just walk with his basketball friends, but he didn't. I groaned, making his grin turn into a smirk.
"You aren't going to give up, are you?" I groaned.
"Nope," he grinned again.
"Fine then." His grin widened and I had to practice self-control like we were learning about in Health in order not to just run away from him like the creep he was.
Turning to the basketball players and cheerleaders that had gathered in a small bustle behind him, he said, "hey, you guys go on without me. I'm going to walk my girlfriend to class."
I shuddered. Do I want that?
They looked slightly surprised but eventually shrugged and walked away, some of them whispering things in Michael's ear before leaving. There was only one person who hadn't left along with the group – Olivia, I think her name was – a cheerleader.
"Mickey-poo!" she pouted. "I didn't know you had a girlfriend. I was going to be your girlfriend! Jerk!" You got that right; I couldn't help but think. Just as I was going to say something, Olivia gave Michael a tight slap on the face and I couldn't help but make an 'oof' effect.
Ouch, I thought. That looked like it hurt. Eh, couldn't say he didn't deserve it.
"Jerk!" she repeated sourly, frowning as he brought his hand to his cheek where she had slapped. He had no expression on his face and for a moment, I wondered if he would slap her back.
"Oli," he said slowly. She began to slowly back away from him as he kept repeating her name. "Oli... Olivia." His eyebrows creased and he let out a deep sigh.
She turned on her heel with her hands clenched angrily and stood there for a moment. "Olivia." She said. "Olivia. That's my name. Don't use Oli. You lost the right to use it."
With that, she walked away and left Michael there with a literal red handprint on his face that I was certain still stung.
"So uh," I shifted awkwardly on my feet. "Are you... are you still walking me to my class?"
He looked at me with unreadable eyes, not obviously sad or upset about Olivia's anger. He nodded and I felt a small surge of relief. Why? I don't know. I guess I was glad that he was okay. Just then, the warning bell rang and I suddenly felt panicked.
Grabbing Michael's arm, I dragged him down the empty hallway where the basketball players and cheerleaders had already previously left, sometime during Olivia's outburst. He seemed surprised, and I was equally as surprised, but still didn't let go as I muttered, "if you're going to walk me to class, you'd better hurry up before you're late for your own class."
"What, you think I'd walk you to class with no plan?" he fell back into his easy grin, seeming unbothered by Olivia. "Silly. I've got the same class as you anyways. Drama, right?"
"Yeah," I grumbled. Inside my stomach was knotted tightly – I had no idea how I felt or how I should feel about it. We share way too many classes, I grumbled. But I should feel resentful. Definitely resentful and sour. So why do I feel happy?
"We're doing a Romeo and Juliet scene, I heard." He blabbered on.
"Yeah, yeah – whatever." I murmured.
"What? Why so moody?" his lips turned up into a smirk before he added, "you jealous, baby? Because you don't have to be – I'm all yours for now."
For now? "Jealous of what?" I snorted. "Getting slapped in the face? Uh, yeah, no thanks. And ew, ew, ew. Don't call me by a pet name. I hate it."
"All the better, baby." Smirked Michael. "Anyways, what would I call you if I didn't call you pet names?"
"Uh, my name, you know, Maddison or something." I retorted sharply.
"But we're a couple – pet names are a must," he insisted with a stupid grin.
"Urgh, fine." I groaned, "what about Maddy?"
"Who calls you that?" he asked.
"Um, why do you want to know?" I snapped. Sighing, I replied, "friends, uncles, aunties, distant relatives, cousins, etc."
"What do your family call you?" he asked. I stared at him, studying his handsome face for any sign that he was joking, but his question seemed genuine. And did I just call him handsome? What the fuck, Maddison? I internally screamed at myself.
"Mads, but why do you care?" I replied as Michael opened the door to our drama class but body-blocking me from going inside.
"Great," he looked behind his shoulder into the drama classroom just as the final bell for class rang. He smirked and looked back at me. "Because I'm going to call you that now, Mads."
"Please don't." I said, but he had already moved away from the door to his seat in the back row of the drama classroom while I stood at the door like an idiot.
Urgh, fuck you, Michael Peterson. I thought as I made my way to the seat in the front row. As I sat down, Mr Blanc, our French drama teacher with probably the strongest French accent I've ever seen, entered the room and sent a ripple of silence through the once-noisy classroom.
With his strong, French accent, he boomed, "hello, classe. Today we will be trying out Act 5 Scene 3 from Romeo and Juliet where Romeo fights and kills Count Paris and finds Juliet's body before taking poison, giving his wife one final kiss, and then dies."
I shuddered at the way he rolled the 'J' in Juliet. For some reason, French accents really creeped me out. I don't know why – just the way they roll letters and simply the way they talk.
"It is going to be performed in the school play at the end of the semester," he continued, gasps from the students loud and surprised. "Yes, yes, I know, this is very sudden and last minute, but we will get this done. Drama is often overlooked as 'useless', but with this play, we shall show them that the art of acting is not at all 'useless' but more of a delicate art that is just as important as Maths and Science and English and whatnot."
Did I mention that Mr Blanc absolutely loves drama? Oh, and on top of that, he also loves being dramatic as heck.
"So, without further ado, we will start holding the auditions for Romeo and Juliet, along with Count Paris and Tybalt and all the others." He raised a brow. "Does anyone volunteer to go first?"
No one moved. No one breathed. No one even blinked.
Letting out a dramatic French sigh (I have no idea how the heck he even manages a sigh with a French accent), Mr Blanc suddenly pointed sharply at me. I flinched as he began talking.
"You! You! Magnifique! You are a perfect Juliet, my dear!" he exclaimed.
"The heck?" I muttered. Turning to Mr Blanc, I replied, "no thank you. I'm not an acting person – I'm a terrible actor and a terrible liar."
That was true. I was a terrible liar – emphasis on the terrible. Probably why so many people could tell when I was lying. Why was I such a terrible liar? I have no idea, but the universe decided that I would be a clumsy-ass actor and a horrible liar.
"Oh, I did not ask, dear." He grinned. "This is not a request, mademoiselle. It is a must. And don't worry, I promise to find you a good Romeo." He winked and I groaned. Old, French teachers did not look good winking. Especially when they tried to push themselves into romance.
"Now, which boy in this class looks good to you?" Mr Blanc knelt down next me and my first thought was Michael. Michael. What the heck?
"No one." I mumbled.
"You sure?" he winked again and I internally died.
"Yep. Hundred percent." Please stop asking.
He let out a sigh that startled me. "Okay, fine then. Seems like little miss Juliet here doesn't have a Romeo yet. Any volunteers to be this beautiful girl's Romeo?"
No one said anything. Someone coughed. Silence. Awkwardness. Embarrassment.
I could feel my face heating up as Mr Blanc sighed again. Why does he sigh so much? "Maybe... Kai?"
I had no idea who the heck Kai was. I glanced to the rows of seats behind me and stared at everyone, waiting for someone to step up and speak.
"Uh, that's me." My eyes shot to the seat closest to the door as a tall boy with dark brown hair and warm brown eyes stood up. He turned to me, looking embarrassed to have been called out. "Uh, hi." He said shyly.
"Hey..." who is this guy? I never knew he existed. I thought as I awkwardly stood up.
"So uh, Mr Blanc, what about me?" Kai asked, turning his head to Mr Blanc.
"You, you will be Romeo, of course!" Mr Blanc replied with a wide grin that so did not suit old French teachers.
"W-What?" spluttered Kai, his face reddening slightly. "Y-You know there's a kissing scene, right?"
"Of course I do – I'm the teacher." Mr Blanc grinned wider as he added, "do you want to kiss her?"
"What? N-No!" his face was now as red as a cherry tomato, and I was sure that my face was too. Mr Blanc needed some serious therapy.
Laughing, Mr Blanc said, "ah, don't worry. I was just joking – you're only going to be fake kissing her."
"Still! No!" Kai began violently shaking his head and I agreed with him.
"There is no choice, Romeo," Mr Blanc's face suddenly grew serious, "unless, of course, someone else volunteers." He raised a brow and looked around the room, but no one breathed.
Suddenly, Michael stood up.
"Ahh, I knew someone would volunteer." Muttered Mr Blanc.
"I volunteer!" Michael put his hand up slowly, earning more than a few shocked looks.
The heck? I shouted internally. His eyes flickered to me and he grinned. "I volunteer to be Romeo."
"Fantastique!" clapped Mr Blanc. "Bravo, Peterson. Please, can we have a round of applause for our volunteer?"
A single person began clapping slowly before four others joined in. For a second, it seemed as though everyone in the classroom would begin clapping, but the applause stopped abruptly and someone coughed. Mr Blanc was undeterred by the lack of applause and grinned wider. Shoving a stack of papers stapled together in my hands, he said, "this is the script you have to memorize by... let's say in four weeks, non?"
"Holy shit," I murmured as I flicked through the pages. There were a total of ten double-sided pages stapled together in the teeny-tiniest font in the world that was just barely readable.
"Damn. He certainly doesn't beat around the bush, does he?" I looked up to see Michael's wide, easy grin, unbothered by this crazy amount of paragraphs and whole pages we had to memorize.
"He doesn't." I agreed, nodding as I ran over some quick math in my head. Four weeks... ten pages, double-sided; twenty pages. Fives pages to memorize per week. Damn. Not to mention that we need to practice and put feeling into this stupid, unrefusable play.
"Mr Blanc? I don't think we can memorize this." I said flatly.
"Why not, mes amis?" Mr Blanc asked.
"Look, you're giving us a twenty-paged script to memorize in four weeks with short notice and absolutely no help or schedule whatsoever. What do you expect?" It was rude, sure. But honestly? I did not at all want to do this. Especially not when my 'Romeo' was freaking Michael Peterson, my boyfriend-not-boyfriend. The classroom seemed to be spinning as I quickly read the first paragraph of speech. It wasn't my character talking, but it was still a lengthy part to read, much less memorize.
Turning back to the rest of the class, Mr Blanc announced, "we have our Romeo and Juliet! Now we need some more characters... Kai! Since you are not Romeo, you can be Sampson! Or perhaps Gregory? Which do you prefer?"
"Neither," mumbled Kai, receding to his seat.
"Great!" Mr Blanc cried out as if Kai hadn't just flatly refused the roles. "Gregory! We have our Gregory!" Pointing a wrinkled finger at an Indian boy in the back of the class who was writing something quickly in a book, Mr Blanc exclaimed, "you! You look like the perfect Sampson! Yes, yes – this is fantastique!"
Please shut up, my mind yelled at him. Please, if there are any gods in the world, make him shut the fuck up. Should I be swearing when praying to any gods in the world? Probably not.
"Uh, no thanks." Shrugged the boy.
"Mia-gank! How could you not cease this opportunity? It is such a perfect opportunity to put your acting skills to use!" exclaimed Mr Blanc.
"Uh, my name's pronounced Mragank, not Mia-gank." He said.
"Oui, oui. Now, let's get on with it. Choosing roles is not going to be easy and it's going to take a while." Mr Blanc began pointing to people as if randomly and naming characters from Romeo and Juliet. Michael cast me a sideways grin.
"See you after school, beautiful." He flirted. I cringed. Ew, ew, ew, ew. He is gross sometimes. No, scratch that – all the time.