Poor Little Rich Girl | ✓

Chapter 19: It's Tennessee, Not Antarctica

Author's Note: Thanks to julianicole98 for the cover/banner on the side! Don't forget to comment and vote pleeeeeeeeeeeease! Also, this is important, my new joint story with writerbug44 just went up Sunday, so if you'd read it, that'd be really cool. It's called The Seaside Café, and it's up on our joint account called RelentlessDreamer. If you read our first story that we did together called Broken you'd remember Emma, Micheal's little sister, and it's basically the spin-off of her life. So, yeah, you guys should all go and read that, maybe?

Chapter 19: It's Tennessee, Not Antarctica 

“Hey, how come you didn’t ride the bus this morning?” Conrad asks me as I walk late into English.

“I just had to handle some stuff,” I vaguely answer him, sitting in my seat beside Anna Grace who sits behind Conrad. Anna Grace’s face is covered by her arms, her head on the desk. I’m guessing she’s asleep because her breathing is kinda shallow and she’s snoring really lightly. Conrad turns in his seat, looking at me.

“What kinda stuff? Some stuff with Sam?”

“No, nothing like that,” I say, technically lying since it’s all Sam’s fault. “Just a little thing,” I shrug.

“You’re being mysterious,” He notes.

“Am I?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, you  are.” Conrad confirms, nodding his head, looking weirdly at me.

“Quit looking at like that, you freak,” I say, taking a cap eraser and tossing it at him.

“Ouch. That really hurt,” He sarcastically says, feigning hurt.

“I know it did,” I chime. “It was meant to.”

“So, I heard you and Ben went dirt biking yesterday,” He announces.

“We did,” I agree, crossing my left leg over my right under the table.

“Really?” He asks, stifling a grin. “I wish I could have been there to see Stephanie Vandergeld get on a dirt bike. I think my whole life would have been complete,” Conrad dramatically tells me, laughing out loud.

“Oh, yes, I’m sure it would have been. It was terrifying though.”

“It’s riding a bike down a dirt road; how’s that scary?” Conrad wonders.

“As you’ve pointed out- I don’t really do dirt. It’s so…dirty,” I reply, shivering for effectiveness.

“You’re really dramatic, you know that? I think you should go out for the Drama Department next year.”

“Ew, no. Stage Craft is bad enough,” I truthfully say. “Plus, hopefully I won’t be here.”

“Aw, don’t wanna celebrate your senior year with us? That hurts. That hurts deep, Steffy.”

“You’ve known me all of, what, a week? I don’t think you’d miss me that much,” I giggle.

“No, I would,” He assures me. “And I met you Sunday, not Monday; so eight days, thank you very much.”

“Eight days, seven days, what’s the difference.” I rhetorically ask, running my fingers through my hair.

“Vandergeld, Cartwright. Does this look like social hour to you?” Mr. Vaught- the old icky teacher snaps.

“Sor--“ Conrad starts.

“And Vandergeld, how nice of it is for you to join us,” Mr. Vaught grouchily  notes.