Bittersweet Moments

11 | Iced Coffee

11 | Iced Coffee

The greatest freedom one would experience in Clevemore was in gym class.

No joke.

Our teacher was this large widowed woman who just let us in the fields and courts whenever we had our classes. As long as you didn't piss her off, didn't ditch her class and wore uniform during the period, you stood a chance in passing the subject. It was part of the reason why while stick-thin, I was not physically fit. Every period of gym, Mitch and I settled ourselves underneath a tall tree in the soccer fields where we chatted and fooled around. Sometimes I snuck in a pack of junk food or two. One time, our teacher tracked one down and damn, did she eat the whole bag right in front of the class.

It might have broken my special record.

Anyway, Mitch and I were here again, underneath our hangout tree. I spread my legs in front of me and tried to reach for my toes but I grunted and panted after a few tries. "Maybe I should join a sport," I thought aloud wistfully as I leaned back on the wood.

"Eating is not a sport," Mitch slightly laughed. In her hand was an iced coffee cup she claimed to have made this morning so it could boost her energy if she drained out. I had told her she was not a phone battery.

"You're right," I sighed sadly. In gym, we were made to wear knee-length shorts and white shirts that could fit the interior of TARDIS in it and it was my favorite getup to wear around school. "Cooking could be a sport. The heat makes you sweat."

"Or standing in front of a mirror," Mitch suggested, "Because that much heat melts some pounds." We chorused a laugh.

Mitch sipped from her cup as we watched the boys kick around a ratty soccer ball. Three fourths of the boys' population in Clevemore couldn't even make the C-list and the remaining fourth had A-list (Jackson-level-of-gorgeousness) boys an endangered species. I could the same for the girls. It was as if Clevemore housed the teenagers in their caterpillars and they only earned the ability to undergo special metamorphosis (or not) once they reached college. Acewell on the other hand – I heard – contained the naturally beautiful and the newborns of plastic surgeries.

That was why my best friend and I had to look for other bases of standards in our boys.

"I should've fed you more at mine. I could have passed out yesterday." Mitch turned her head to me.

I stretched out my hand and wiggled my fingers, silently asking for the coffee. I didn't drink it every day, but a swig or two was enjoyable. I eagerly sipped from the cup and handed it back to Mitch. "I wouldn't have survived either way," my memories shifted back to the recent events, "Jackson was cracking my head open."

"Whoa there," she sat up straighter, "Was it really that bad? The things he said?"

"He accused me of being a thief then he acts like nothing happened this morning," I explained, "Brennan says he's just as confused as me, and I don't know what to believe."

"I think he's deceiving you, Ollie," Mitch said, as Chad Moreno kicked a straight shot and hit the goalie on the crotch.

"You really think so?"

"He's from Acewell. He gets higher grades than you could have in your wildest dreams and he's very clever – manipulating. Any guy can toy with your emotions but this Jackson Dale can mess with your mind. You should be careful."

I watched the same Chad rub the poor goalie's back and kiss him on the cheek. Too cute. "I did suspect he was going to corner me somewhere and murder me," I told Mitch, "I have no idea what he's planning."