✔ DRUNK words, SOBER thoughts ✖ hemmings au

06. To Pretend or Not to Pretend

LUKE.

Regardless of her height and petite frame, Ari Quiroz was someone not to be messed with. She was tough as tits and took no bullshit from nobody, even if that so-called bull crap didn't exactly exist. At least in my mind it didn't. When Ari went on her rampage today and had me pinned up against the locker, she mentioned something about me calling her real early in the morning. The only problem with that theory was that it never happened. I never called her this morning, nor did I have her number to begin with. 

Or so I thought. 

I went through my recent call list on my phone and bright as daylight at the very top of the list was Ari Quiroz and a crazy face emoji next to her name. Either she stuck her number into my phone the night she held it hostage or someone else did, because I had no recollection of ever saving it into my contact list. What was still a mystery to me was the idea that I apparently called her. 

"Hey you okay man?" Jake asked, giving my back a hearty pat. 

"I'm breathing," I replied, sass coating my tone. I rubbed my neck.

"Little Tokyo needs to be punished. You should report it," Jake suggested, starting to walk down the hall to homeroom.

"It wasn't that bad. I can let it go," I told him.

"She needs to be taught a lesson," Jake pressed, "she can't get away with this."

"Dude," I started, stopping his pursuit into the classroom, "it's cool. I'm over it. It's just a misunderstanding, that's all."

Jake stood staring at me with a curious expression. I knew what he was thinking: how the hell could I be defending Ari? Honestly, I didn't have an answer. If this were last week and Saturday night's adventure never happened, you wouldn't even have to tell me twice to report Ari's hot-headed acts. It wasn't like she and I were best friends. We were acquaintances - meeting under unexpected and very odd circumstances. 

And those circumstances have been photographed by some creepy loser who had nothing better to do than take advantage of my drunken state. That creep was pathetic and though he or she sent somewhat of a threatening text message, I felt no danger - just something I could laugh about later. 

"Whatever man," Jake exhaled, shaking his head sheepishly, confusion dripping from his face. I watched him walk away from me and into the classroom, leaving me standing awkwardly by the door frame. Sighing, I walked through the door and took my normal seat in the back with Jake and our other friends.

The rest of the school day went by slower than the pizza delivery guy on your hungriest pursuit for greasy heaven. Period after period seemed longer than the next and I found myself staring at the stupid, ticking clock for more than half the class period.

Don't even ask me about notes - normally I'm pretty adamant about taking organized notes during lectures but on this day, all I really craved was copious amounts of junk food, the big screen TV and maybe my penguin onsie. I sounded like a girl on her period going through a breakup, but if I had the luxury of using "hormones" as an excuse to lay in bed with a tub of ice cream, then I would happily welcome a mother nature's gift - it wasn't that much blood, right? 

When the last bell rung and the student body filtered out of every classroom and practically ran out the campus doors to their salvation, I went to room 250. Second floor, across the hall from the boy's restroom, and overlooking the campus quad, room 250 was my mother's torture chamber a.k.a. the humble abode of her Geometry and Algebra 2 teachings.

I walked into the empty classroom, decorated with various brightly-colored math posters, school rules, and a 6-foot cardboard cutout of Albert Einstein. Everyone has a celebrity crush, I get it, but my mum has an odd obsession with the man who's famous for E = mc2. If Liz Hemmings grew up in today's generation, I promise that she would run a Tumblr blog dedicated to him - talk about stuck in the fanzone again and again.