Her Name is Sorrel

II

2

It smelled like September. 

Freshly cut grass, brand new paper, cheap cologne.

Same old, same old. High School is nothing but a rerun of a crappy show waiting to be discontinued.

I wanted to look nice - no, scratch that - fricken’ amazing. 

Mr. Big Shot Sophomore - almost 16 - game plan ready to be implemented.

1. Get at least C’s to stay on the football team

2. Win CIF championships

3. Run for Class Pres.

4. Obtain first chair in the Pacific Youth Symphony

5. Date a Senior to go to Prom

But fuck, she ruined everything.

“Alright, pass up your essays on the summer reading.”

I cringed violently as my “A Tale of Two Cities” essay made it’s way to the the front of the room. 3 months of partying and surfing equaled plagiarizing from Spark Notes the night before school started.

“What the heck is this?” The brunette crinkled her nose in disgust as she passed my paper to the person in front of her, “Did you not read the novel? It’s by Charles Dickens, not Dickinson you dummy.”

“I did read,” I fibbed cooly, “The spell check probably fucked up. Did you read?”

“Course I did; don’t be daft.”

My eyes narrowed at the snarky girl. Short, mousy brown hair that brushed her collar bones, dark long lashes that lightly feathered every time she blinked. Her yellow summer dress barely reached her bronze knees - her skin almost matched my surfer tan.

“Typical, brain-dead football player in Honors English,” she muttered, yanking open her backpack, “Dumb jock. Wrong class.”

That stung.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Heck,” she corrected, “Don’t swear. And gosh, you don’t remember me Daniel?’

God, that killed me. I hated my full name.

“No, I don’t. Who the fuck are you?”

“Fudge. Sorrel - from elementary school. We used to chase each other on the playground? We were both at Jenny’s party like, two months ago ... Remember? Or do you have short-term deficit?”

A “bitch please” threatened to spill out from my lips before the epiphany slammed into me like an 18-wheeler. Wrinkles shot up my forehead like train tracks. 

Sorrel? 

SORREL?

The hippie was - well - a hottie.

“Shut your mouth, I can see left-over ham stuck in your teeth.”

Clamping my mouth closed with a snap, I shook my head a few times before turning to her.

Damn, was it even possible to change that drastically over the course of two months?

Sorrel batted her eye lashes as me and grimaced, “What?”

Holy shit.

Yeah, it was possible.