The Fakers

Chapter 2 - Natalie

I'd pretty much forgotten about my chat with Angel by the time I'd finally stumbled into my second period class. Whoever decided six minutes was enough time to cross a massive school campus like Alpine High had to have been a full-blown sadist.

"You're late," my teacher grumbled as I made a bee-line for my desk. The part of me that still believed in fairytales and happy endings hoped that Mrs. Sutton —my warden of a pre-Cal teacher— would notice the sour look on my face and leave me the [redacted] alone. "You're already setting a bad habit for the semester. I should give you a tardy." Of course she wouldn't.

"We were released late from practice," I lied. The wrinkles framing Mrs. Sutton's eyes bunched together in a disbelieving glare. For a moment, I thought the woman would take the dry eraser at her side and chuck it at my head. Finally, though, as if deeming me not worth the trouble, Sutton rolled her eyes.

"Be late again, and I will have to give you a detention." I sunk in my chair at the thought and muttered a defeated 'yes, Ma'am'. Mrs. Sutton pressed her lips together (a grin at my defeat?) and dove right back into the lesson about sin and cosine and blah-blah-blah. I would've completely zoned out, had I not felt a tap on my shoulder.

"You look upset." When I failed to supply him with a response, Drew nudged my shoulder a second time. "Come on, Nat, tell Daddy Drew what's wrong."

"Daddy Drew?" I raised my eyebrow at my best friend. "Now you know that doesn't sound right." Drew wriggled his brows and poked me again.

"What's up?" He scanned me for a moment. "Don't tell me this is about Angel again." Drew and I had been friends ever since I had shoved Derrick Hanson down the slide for making fun of Drew's glasses back in Kindergarten. As such, Drew knew me pretty well. Including my disdain for a certain dark haired himbo.

"He's just so..." I couldn't even come up with a word. "Why do people like him so much? The guy is fifty shades of insufferable."

"He's also fifty shades of fine, according to the streets."

"Please never say that again."

"What? It's true." Yeah, but couldn't he compliment someone a little less aggravating? "How did this blood feud start again? You guys literally act like mortal enemies." I scowled at the question.

"One word: Jenga-gate."

"That was sixth grade."

"I don't care."

"He was eleven."

"Twelve, actually."

"Is that really a reason to—" The monotonous droning of Warden Sutton stopped, causing both Drew and I to shut our mouths and face the front. After scanning the room to ensure not even an inkling of fun and merriment existed, Mrs. Sutton turned back to the board to continue waxing poetic about the unit circle. Drew lowered his voice.

"Is that really a reason to hate him?" He asked.

"No," I admitted. "But I didn't start hating him until 8th grade." Colloquially referred to as the year Angel had embarrassed me in front of my then-crush just for the heck of it. "I don't even want to talk about this anymore," I said, "what's new and different in your life?"

"Well... Alana and I are back together." I nearly bit through my lip to keep from shouting. "Don't freak out," Drew rushed to say. "We talked it through and we're better than ever now." Yeah, right. Alana Banks was almost as bad as Angel. The only reason I didn't avoid her completely was because she was on the drill team with me.

This, of course, didn't stop me from fantasizing about Alana accidentally kneeing herself in the face during our kick line.

One could dream, right?