The Merworld Water Wars - Finned Part 3

"She's not your friend."

Ooooh, bring it, pretty boy! "That's her decision, not yours. And I didn't think you were supposed to talk to me. Rules are rules, right?"

"Don't play with fire. And in case you didn't know, men discovered fire."

"True, but women learned how to play with it, and I'm practically a phoenix...or Vesta. I can't decide which is better-a regenerating bird or the G.o.ddess of hearth and fire."

Our eyes locked hard on one another. His voice was cold, cruel, almost threatening, but his eyes were deep, gentle, and even a bit sad. His mouth screamed hatred and disgust, but his eyes whispered something different.

"Now," said Mr. Gibbs, sweeping through the door, "a cla.s.sroom doesn't provide the right mood for reading poetry. Everybody, grab your poems and follow me!"

Troy and I finally broke eye contact to grab our books and follow Mr. Gibbs through the winding halls.

"Did you have the chance to write a poem?" asked Airianna. "I had a terrible time with mine."

"Sure did. I wrote two of them. One is strictly for fun. Want to read it?" I asked.

"I'd love to. And, thanks for that back there. I guess I'm a real guppy."

"Yeah, well, a few years in a needle-happy inst.i.tution will de-guppify you real quick," I said, handing her my poem.

"Marina! You better tuck this away so you don't accidentally turn it in!" She had the most lady-like snorts I'd ever heard.

"Mr. Gibbs would probably send me to Mr. Smarmy's...I mean Mr. Anderson's office. Sorry."

"He is smarmy," said Airianna, vigorously nodding. Troy looked at Airianna and grimaced. "Here, better hide this," she said, handing back my poem.

"Mind if I see it?" said Troy, s.n.a.t.c.hing it from her hands.

"Troy, don't talk to her," said Benji angrily.

"Remember who I am," Troy warned.

"Wow, someone has a Jesus complex. Give me that!" I tried to grab it from him, but he was far too tall. Plus, he kept putting his ma.s.sive hand on my head to keep me at bay. Not cool. "Get your hand off my head!" I said, slapping his arm away.

"Well, well...this is a little cheeky," he said, smirking. "I wonder...nah...I'll bet you haven't got the guts."

"The guts to do what, exactly?" I asked, smoothing my hair.

"To read this in front of the cla.s.s," he said, messing up my hair.

"I have nothing to hide, but this is going to be graded and-"

"And you're a wimp." He puts the c.o.c.k in c.o.c.ky.

"Hardly." Man, this guy gets under my skin! Everything about him-his smile, the tone of his voice, the playful look in his sky blue eyes-forces me to react.

"Prove it. I dare you to read this in front of the cla.s.s and hand it in for a grade."

Dang. He used the word dare. I simply cannot ignore that word. "What will you give me?" I asked.

"Ten bucks."

"Make it twenty."

"Fine."

"Fine," I replied coolly, whipping the paper out of his hands.

We followed Mr. Gibbs until we reached a magical little courtyard hidden behind the school. A narrow cobblestone path over a candlelit reflecting pool led us to about two dozen plush wicker chairs. Overhanging palms and a sparkling fountain added the finis.h.i.+ng touches to a setting made for poetry.

"Take a seat anywhere," said Mr. Gibbs.

Airianna and I chose a couple of seats next to the fountain. Surprisingly, Troy took the chair right next to me.

"Wonder how Mr. Gibbs will like your cheeky poem in this setting," he whispered.

Hurl.

Mr. Gibbs stood in front of the group and clapped his hands. "Your a.s.signment was to write a poem that embodies a certain plight or struggle specific to a race, gender, or religious group. Ready? Benji, you're up first."

After about thirty minutes and countless criticisms, it was my turn.

"Marina! Up you go!" called Mr. Gibbs.

Oh Dear G.o.d, was I really going to do this?

"Marina? Did you not receive the a.s.signment?" asked Mr. Gibbs when I was not immediately jumping up.

"I did. I'm just getting it out of my folder," I said faintly.

"Take your time. I know it's stressful and sometimes embarra.s.sing, reading your work aloud."

Oh, poor Mr. Gibbs, you have no idea. I could feel lunch chunks threaten to spew from my mouth.

"Marina," whispered Airianna, "don't do it. Most of these people don't have a sense of humor. They'll crucify you!"

"They already hate me for being one of the Normals. Why shouldn't I give them another reason? Besides, you laughed," I said, searching her worried face for some relief.

"I know, but they're...different."

Aren't we all? I started to take my "safe" poem when Troy looked at me, his eyes dancing playfully around my face, waist, and legs.

"So, what's it gonna be, Miss Valentine?" he whispered huskily.

Arrogant son of a gun.

"Sorry. I'm ready now!" I pranced up and cleared my throat. "My poem is about an undeniably horrible battle all women have to face multiple times over the course of their lives."

"Interesting! Sounds like a serious issue," said Mr. Gibbs.

He was going to fail me, and my mother was going to kill me. "Oh, it is Mr. Gibbs, very serious." Breathe. "My poem is called, 'Bottom, Oh Bottom.'"

Bottom, oh bottom Why so blue?

Don't you know I can't see you?

You hide, you lurk You crack a permanent smirk Perhaps even with a dimple or two Oh, you can be cruel Bottom, oh bottom I'm well aware of your backwards glare Go on and stare, see if I care Bottom, oh bottom Why so gray?

Could it be because I won't let you stray?

Bottom, Dear Bottom I'm not being mean I just like to keep you lean So I can always wear my favorite blue jeans.

Crud. The courtyard was far too quiet. I didn't hear giggling, whispering, gasping in horror...nothing. I wanted to shout, "It's about b.u.t.ts and how they love to make our lives a living h.e.l.l by growing inexplicably!" Just when I was about to write them off as a bunch of jerks, the courtyard exploded into deafening laughter and applause.

"Well, Marina," said Mr. Gibbs, in between laughs, "that's not exactly what I had in mind when I gave the a.s.signment, but you did well."

"Thank you," I said, unable to suppress the cat-like grin stretching across my face. Troy had the twenty dollars waiting when I sat down. Taking the bill from his hand, I whispered, "Not so wimpy after all, huh?"

"Looks like you've won them over," he said, grinning.

"All right, for the next ten minutes, I want you to work in groups of three and come up with at least five themes you heard in today's poetry reading," said Mr. Gibbs.

"Well, humor would be one theme," said Troy.

"You did so well, Marina," said Airianna, clapping ever-so-slightly.

"Thanks. So, do you do anything special on the weekends around here?" I asked.

"No, but I hear someone is going to ask you out," she said mischievously.

"What? Who?" I asked nervously, pressing a finger to my lips.

"Yeah, who?" asked Troy, not looking at me.

"Trey," said Airianna. "That's why I asked if you two were dating. He's been talking for weeks about asking you out once you got here. I, um, like to eavesdrop. Trey is so hot, especially when he senses a clue! He's like a young Sherlock."

"Minus the smelly pipe and Watson confusion." In the midst of our laugh-fest, I fumbled my pen. "Ugh, Troy, can you hand me my pen? I can't reach it from over here." Without acknowledging me, Troy picked up my pen and fiddled with it for a moment. "Do you have a pen fetish or something? I'll need that to take notes," I said, growing agitated. Without a single word, he tossed the pen at me. Naturally, I didn't see it coming, and it hit me in the head. "Gee, thanks."

As I started writing with it, I felt some b.u.mpy areas. I twirled the pen around in my hand and saw the words Screw you clearly scratched on its surface.

"Well, screw you, too!" I said, chucking my pen in his lap.

"Marina, how will you take notes? Oh, I wish I had a spare." Airianna could get worried eyebrows quicker than anyone.

"I'll take mental notes," I said, watching Troy run his fingers over my pen.

"Okay, cla.s.s, let's review some key points in poetry writing, common themes, and the advantage of humor," said Mr. Gibbs.

While I stared blankly at my notebook, silently fuming, Troy shot his arm out in my direction.

"Take it," he said, offering me his own pen.

"What?"

"My pen, take it," he said.

"What about my newly defaced pen?"

"I'll use it," he said gently.

When I reached for his pen, our hands touched, and the courtyard faded away. Our eyes met-our bodies twisted together-his hands tenderly stroked my hair and face-my hands ran across his bare chest-he took my hands in his and whispered, "Hold your breath."

ARGH! The school bell sounded like a ma.s.sive foghorn. Our hands were still touching when the hideous horn interrupted what I can only describe as the most surreal experience of my life.

"Troy, did you-"

"Yes, and it can never happen," he said before abruptly leaving.

What can never happen? Heck, I don't even understand what just happened!

As we made our way across the walkway, I slipped a little and dropped my folder in the water.

"d.a.m.n."

When I reached for the little b.u.t.thead, Troy swept in from nowhere, yanked my wrist away, and retrieved my folder with his other hand.

"Don't ever touch the water," he said darkly.

Perhaps fittingly, he left me squatting with my wet folder and a very ugly, very confused look on my face.

Since I had to haul my books around all dang day, I didn't have to make a locker stop after cla.s.ses, so I headed out to the parking lot to wait for Mom. Once there, I saw an old, plum-purple station wagon with a card bearing my mom's name taped to the winds.h.i.+eld. Waiting by the car was probably the most peaceful time of the day...until Benji purposely drove through a muddy puddle, drenching me in the process.

"Have some mud, Cheese Curl Head!" he yelled, laughing.

"Darling? What happened?" My mom ran over and covered me with her raincoat. "Did that little punk splash you? If he did, I'll happily report him to the princ.i.p.al."

"Just an accident. No big deal," I said, smiling. There was no way I'd let these jerks get the best of me. "Let's go home."

"Okay, sweetie. Oh! What a pretty backpack. Did the school provide it?"

"Princ.i.p.al Jeepers gave it to me."

"How thoughtful! And look at this! I was hoping they'd deliver the car by the time school ended. Not a bad looking thing, is it?"

"Not if you don't mind social kryptonite."

"Okay. It's fugly. But, it's ours. In you go," she said, helping me into the car. I might be sixteen, but I still love when my mom babies me.