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Can't Live With Them

"Bullshit," I said, between classes.

"Serious as a heart attack," said David, my friend since the seventh grade. If what he said turned out to be true, it needed to be written in stone.

I made my way upstairs to Honors English, which I hated with a passion. The teacher picked stuff I would never read on my own. But, that wasn't the worst of it. Though I sat near friends, I also happened to sit next to Jo Workman, who was tall, gorgeous, but mean as a snake.

"I don't understand you," she said as soon as I sat down, "A blank, white t-shirt? You have something against shirts with a collar or shirts with buttons?" Yesterday, it was my shoes.

"And, how many people do you know wear corduroys? Is Carlisle wearing corduroys? Is Brian? No, we're all wearing jeeeeeeens," she said, nodding.

My heart pounding, I took a deep breath, turned, looked her dead in the eye, and said, "Would you like to go to the movies with me?"

All motion around us stopped and heads turned toward us. Jo looked as if I splashed ice water on her face. Thankfully, the bell rang. I faced forward. David's wisdom was a bust.

"Yes," said Jo, not much above a whisper.

The teacher moved her lips, but, for the rest of the class, I didn't hear a word she said.

Story by:

Vincent Takotna

29 January 2013