That Stupid Little L-Word:

Chapter Nine:

As it turns out, Mr. King doesn't like to move people around once he's made his precious seating-chart. So Bimbo is out of luck. I watch from the corners of my eyes as she trudges back to the table with a sour look on her face, notice that Blue-Eyes wears an impassive expression on his face. I peer closer at his delicious features. I swear I see a tid-bit of relief in those magnificent eyes too. 

The stools screech against the stained concrete floor as they are yanked out, and Amanda is the first to speak. She smiles at Bimbo warmly, "Seems like you're stuck with us." 

"Poor thing," I mutter sarcastically, not entirely loud enough for anyone to hear. I don't want to bombard my table-mates with my overwhelming --and quite awesome-- knack for cynicism just yet. I'm really sure if they can handle it full on. Not even my mother can, and she's forced to live with me. 

Bimbo scoffs and grumbles something darkly under her breath. She scrambles around and slams her notebook onto her table. I hear Blue-Eyes sigh and he shifts around beside me, pulling out his own sheet of paper as well. The scraping sounds of their pencils scribbling against their papers causes me to glance up. I look at Amanda, who arches an eyebrow at me, at Bimbo, who is sending angry-eyes my way, and then finally I dart a sideways glance toward Blue-Eyes. 

"Don't move," he growls playfully. 

"What the hell are you doing?" Irritation floods through me, but I remain motionless anyways. Cursed by his dashing good looks and velvet voice, I am forced to stare at him from the corners of my eyes. He's shifted my way, turned entirely around on his stool so that he faces me, and a thick spiral notebook sits on his lap. His azure colored orbs flick back and forth between my face and the paper beneath him. 

Mr. King chooses this moment to waltz over, and he pushes his glass farther up the bridge of his nose as he peers over Blue-Eye's shoulder. "Ah, drawing the new girl," his lips stretch into a proud smile, "Finally get bored of your other model?" 

"Hey!" I hear Bimbo grind out.

I almost crack a smile. Mr. King works his way around the table. He pauses behind Bimbo and points at her paper, dishing out some pointers about how to color in the lines better or something like that. I don't really pay attention --I mean, it just wouldn't surprise me if she didn't know how to color in the lines. Bimbo exhales, defeated, and slumps down in her seat as Mr. King moves on to Amanda. Amanda growls at him, and with a sheepish smile, the old teacher shifts his examination to my paper. I hear him harrumph. 

"Not bad for a beginner." 

"I'm not a beginner," I retort before I can stop myself. I kind of am; I used to take drawing lessons when I was a kid, and was pretty good at doodling scenery and objects and crap like that. But the second I'm asked for a portrait, expect some mild version of stick-figures. 

Mr. King shoots me a scowl, "Right. And I'm Zac Efron's twin brother." 

I regard him with a weird look, "In your dreams, maybe." 

I instantly regret my remark. I twist toward him slightly, gauging his reaction. It isn't just my table-mates who can't handle my impeccable wit. With a remorseful grimace, I watch as Mr. King's cheeks flush a bright cherry color and think, 'Oh god, that can't be good', when he lets a sharp exhale whoosh out through his teeth. Then I hear a laugh, and I am being lightly punched on my shoulder from behind. Startled, I glance over my shoulder at Blue-Eyes. 

He continues to chuckle, "Good one, Ali!" 

Amanda starts laughing too, and her shoulders quake with the bubbly sound. It doesn't sound right; it sounds forced. But I guess I shouldn't be picky about the believability of my saviors.  

The color fades from Mr. King's cheeks. His eyes roll behind his wiry glasses and I smile at him sheepishly. He points the corner of his clipboard at me, "I'm keeping an eye on you, Miss Smart-mouth." 

"Aye, aye, sir." I mock salute him and return my attention to the masterpiece that laid pressed against the table before me. I have been ignoring it throughout all the chaos, and really don't want to have to bring it home with me. I add some shadowing to the tree-filled landscape and wait for the sound of Mr. King's shoes clomping against the ground before I felt it safe enough to look up. 

Amanda snickered at me, "Nice one." 

I rolled my eyes and grunt, "Why does everyone get so butt-hurt easily?" 

Blue-Eyes snorts. I shoot him a look and, the second he has my attention, he motions for me to move back into my original position. I sigh and comply --I mean, who can say no to those eyes! I am careful to keep my head angled down so that I can still see my own artwork. 

"Wait," I hear Blue-Eyes mutter, and then suddenly a hand is brushing a strand of my hair behind my ear. My skin tingles as the tips of his fingers caress it. It's a brief moment of contact, but it is enough to make my face heat up and any coherent thought evaporate. I swallow thickly around a ball of nothing that has ingrained itself into the back of my throat. My eyes remain glued to my paper. 

I focus on the drawing. 

There is nothing but the drawing in front of me. 

A loud, ear splitting buzz rips through the air like an air-horn. It is followed swiftly by the strangled sound of chair legs scraping against concrete and the vibration of a snare-drum as the metal stool clatters against the ground beside me. Pain blossoms through my behind and throughout the fingers attached to my right palm --both being what caught my gruesome fall. I sit there for two long seconds, shocked. My classmates momentarily suffer from a bout of confusion, and remain clustered near their stools, stunned into silence. 

Then the laughter starts, and I make a very ugly face of aggravation as I let a very unladylike word escape past my lips. 

Blue-Eyes kneels down beside me, his lips pressed into a firm line. He is very good at hiding his laughter; I only see concern swirling within his azure orbs. "You okay, Llama-buddy?" he cracks a thin smile. 

I roll my eyes at him, "Better than ever." 

His smile widens, "That's my girl."