Juice → Chris Schistad

booze

CAMILLA

I have a theory. Sometimes you're so late that the only thing you can do is take your time.

I wake up naked in my own bed. There's a man sleeping next to me, snoring slightly. I grit my teeth. If it wasn't for his noise, I wouldn't have woken up. He has a beard cut precisely beneath his cheekbone and a fade haircut. Tattoos are imprinted on his arms, chorded with thick muscle.

I sigh and slip on an oversized tee. I take a look around the room. There's a packet of cigarettes on my bedside table and a wine glass. I don't smoke cigarettes, so it must belong to the man in my bed. I hop over the discarded clothes on my carpet, my head feeling as if it's going to explode. I step into my kitchen. There are two pizza boxes on my counter, one pizza half eaten and the other box is empty.

I pick up a slice of cold pizza and take a hearty bite. My phone buzzes on the other side of the room and I shuffle towards it. I pick it up and hold it gingerly in my palm. It buzzes once again.

Message from Sana: You at school yet?

Message from Sana: You can't be late to your first day!!

Message from Sana: probably being a thot again

Message from Sana: Text me when you get here

I let my mouth fall open just as I'm about to take a bite of another slice of pizza. School! I forgot about school! I glance at the time on my phone and swear. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." Half an hour late already.

"You alright?" a deep male voice says behind me. His voice has that husky, sleepy tone that guys have when they just wake up.

I turn around and smile as politely as I can. He's wearing nothing but briefs. "Sorry," I begin. "But you're going to have to leave."

"You got a boyfriend or something?"

I crinkle my face up in disgust. "No. I have to do something during the morning."

"Why'd you sleep with me, then?"

I furrow my eyebrows and part my lips in a scowl. "Because I wanted to?" Dimwit.

He hesitates before raising his eyebrows and stating in that simplistic, thick headed way that almost all boys do, "Alright."

"Great," I say. "I'm gonna go get dressed. Eat some pizza if you want."

"Alright," he repeats.

I comb through the long, black hair that goes down to my hips. It's a feat in itself, and I feel my biceps burning as I all but tear through the matted knots. About halfway through this, I realise that if I'm going to be late, I better be fashionably late. I take time with my make-up, perfecting my wing and even applying false lashes. Hey, it's my first day at a new school. I have to look good.

The door opens, and the guy strolls in. I look at him. "You gonna leave soon, or not?" I ask.

He saunters over, plants a kiss on my neck. "Are we gonna fuck again, or not?"

Well, I think to myself. You're going to be late either way.

***

An hour later, and I'm finally at Hartvig Nissen School. The school grounds are empty, but I can see students peering absentmindedly out of the classroom. I hurry up the stairs, texting Sana.

I'm here. You're right I was being a thot again lol

I smile at my phone as I send the message before I head to my locker. It's second down in the column. I shove almost all of my glossy textbooks and workbooks onto the shelf, except for my chemistry book.

I see a shadow loom over me and someone presses into the back of my shoulder. I scowl and turn around. A boy's face is inches away from mine. He has dark hair fashioned impeccably, sly eyes and deep pink lips. He bites his lip. I'm not blind — he's ridiculously hot, but in my sixteen years, I've learnt that you can tell a douche just by looking at him. "Excuse me. You're standing a bit close," I say.

He grins. "First year," he observes. "You're, what, almost two hours late on your first day?"

I clear my throat, standing up defiant. My books are hugged close to my chest, forming a border between the boy and me. "And? I'll be even later if you don't give me some space."

He chuckles and then steps two exaggerated steps away. He holds his palms outward, also mockingly overdramatised. I slam my locker shut and step past him with a narrowing of the eyes.

I'm halfway down the hall, still stumped by the map of the school, when I hear the boy call after me. "By the way, darling, you still smell like booze."

I stop, spin around on my heel and nonchalantly stick up my middle finger.

I hurry to my class, navigating the labyrinth that is Hartvig Nissen School. I push open the door to chemistry. "Sorry I'm late," I tell the teacher. She's a blonde woman with a short stature and a stern face.

I make my way to the only vacant seat at the back of the classroom, next to a boy with blonde, curly hair, a dainty mouth and kind hazel eyes.

I drop down into the seat next to him. "Next time be on time," the teacher says. "Not good enough."

I flip open my book to the page written on the board an mutter to myself, "At least I actually showed up."

The boy laughs.