Miss Me Not

"Sure," I answered through a sudden dry mouth. It was obvious he planned on coming inside.

"Figured we could do some studying," he said, grabbing my book bag and trailing behind me as I made my way up the walkway.

"No need. Thanks to you, I'm now squeaking out a passing grade in world history. Whore Cat's happy and off my back, so it's all good."

"Whore Cat?" he asked, plopping down on the sofa.

"Yeah, kind of a nickname. She's always nosing into my business like a cat in heat that's always sniffing all the other cats' asses."

He threw his head back laughing at my words. "You have a point," he finally said once he could talk again. "So what are some of the other teachers' names?"

"What makes you think I've nicknamed anyone else?"

He raised his eyebrows at me knowingly.

"Okay, maybe I do," I finally caved. "Uh, well, I call Mr. Fick, Fickhead, though it's not very original. Principal Wilson is Douche Bag, for obvious reasons, Ms. Sommers is Smokefest, since she always seems to be jonesing for her next cigarette and Mr. Perry is PerryPervert, since he's always messing with his junk when he calls us girls up to his desk to go over a paper or something else asinine.

"Shut up, seriously? I've never had him, but that's just wrong."

"It's gag-worthy for sure."

"Is that it on the teachers' nicknames?" he asked, leaning back against the sofa.

"Yeah, pretty much."

"What about the students?" he asked.

"All your names bleed together. For the most part, everyone is just one big blob that I try to avoid."

"Why?"

I glared at him, hoping he'd get the point that I didn't like to talk about this crap.

He waited for me to answer, unfazed by my death glare.

Sighing, I finally answered. "Look, Jockstrap, I don't talk about this shit," I said, placing him back in his category so he'd know his place.

"You're not going to get me to shut up by labeling me," he said dryly. "Friends talk to each other, so spill it.

"Gah, you're a pain in the ass. I don't talk about this shit, even with friends," I said, emphasizing the word like it had a bitter taste.

"Well, there you go. Maybe that's your problem. Maybe it's time you start trusting someone," he answered flatly.

"Trust gets you nowhere," I said stubbornly.

"When was the last time you trusted someone? Or have you ever trusted anyone?" he fired back, seeing through me so acutely that panic clawed its way up my throat. How was he able to see through my shield?

"You've got to stop trying to save me Sport-o. Just because you couldn't save Mitch doesn't mean you can save every person you meet," I said meanly.

He flinched at my words. I looked down, trying to convince myself that I was glad. Maybe now he'd back off. I didn't care that he looked hurt. Well, maybe I did. I knew my words were cruel. Surely he wouldn't stick around for my verbal barbs. I didn't apologize though. Instead, I kept my head down, waiting for the inevitable. Several minutes passed and he didn't move. Finally, no longer able to resist, I looked up through my curtain of hair that obscured my face from view.

"You might as well know, Mads, you're not going to scare me away. So stop trying."

"Why? What is about me that you find so goddamn appealing: my lack of fashion sense, my monk-like behavior or the fact that I'm a social leper? I mean, seriously. I'm a void. When are you going to realize that?" I asked in a raised voice.

"I don't think you're a void," he said quietly.

"Well, then you're in the minority because everyone else does. They always have and always will."