Eighteen: 18

I’m ten steps ahead of her. I’ve got Photoshop up and I’m already cruising for images from the stock art site. Personal website… I’ll have to think about that. I don’t have any idea what I want to do after graduation, so that makes it a lot more difficult to decide who my target audience might be.

I get lost in the project and the period flies by way too fast.

“Nice, Shannon,” Mrs. Sheridan says, looking over my shoulder at my notepad after the bell rings. “I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”

“Thanks,” I say, reluctantly packing up my stuff. I secretly hope Fowler is absent in PE so I can skip out for the period and continue working, but no such luck. When I get to the gym, he’s standing there with a clipboard just outside the locker room.

“So glad you could join us,” Fowler sarcastically says.

“Ditto, Fowler,” I say back. He’s one to talk. I’m like one minute late. He never showed on Wednesday. My phone buzzes in my pants as I walk to my locker to change into the shorts we are required to wear. I don’t have a gym uniform. Fuck that. I have better things to spend my money on than a stupid pair of shorts and a t-shirt from a school I don’t give a shit about. So I wear some oversized black cargos and a P!nk tank top.

I check the message on my phone before leaving the locker room.

Mateo.

Hey, how did his name get into my phone? Sneaky motherfucker.

Mateo: The last thing I said to you was stay away from Danny Alexander and who are you walking onto campus with this morning?

Shannon: Creep. He came up to me and we had a laugh. Get over it.

Mateo: Shannon, I’m not jealous. I’m worried. He’s bad news. So stay away from him.

I sigh and stuff my phone into my pocket. Sunday doesn’t seem that bad to me. Of course, I met him a few days ago, so what do I know.

Just then I see Mary and Josie waiting for me at the picnic table. They get up to start our mandatory three laps and I fall in next to them. “Hey,” I say. “Do you guys know Danny Alexander?”

They erupt into a fit of laughter.

“What?” I ask. “What’s so funny?”

“Everyone knows Danny Alexander,” Mary says.

“Mary wants to jump his—”

“Stop!” Mary squeals.

“Oh, my God,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Why do you want to know?” Josie asks.

“Oh, well, he’s…”

“He is not!” Mary squeals again. “He likes you?”

“Maybe?” I shrug. “But I have a boyfriend so I’m not interested.”

“Yes, you are,” Josie says. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be asking us about him.”

“True.” I laugh. “But I’ve been hearing some things about him. Is he bad news?”

“Definite bad boy,” Josie says.

“But oh, my God. I’d still do him,” Mary says.

“Like what kind of bad boy?” I ask. “Wears a leather jacket and has tattoos kind of bad boy? Rides a motorcycle kind of bad boy?” Jesus, I just described Mateo.

“Bad boy like his cousin, Phil Alexander, is the biggest drug dealer in Anaheim.”

“Phil?”

“You know him?” Mary asks.

“Yeah, he lives down the street from me. Gets me high every once in a while. He’s some old friend of my brother-in-law’s.”

“I rest my case,” Josie says.

“Yeah, but smoking a joint and biggest drug dealer in Anaheim are not the same thing,” I say. Phil? I just don’t see it. He’s so cool to me.

“He does a lot more than smoke a few joints, Shannon. I’d stay away from that place.”

“But Danny lives in the garage apartment behind the house.”

“I hear they’ve been trying to bust Phil for years and he always gets off.”

“Yeah, there was some big sting operation about six months ago but some fancy lawyer from LA showed up and made the whole department look like fools,” Mary says.

“Oh.” I sigh. “But is Danny involved?”

“Who knows,” Josie says. “He sells joints across the street at the arcade. Why do you think a guy like that hangs out in a nickel arcade? He’s not playing Pac-Man.”

“Hmmm.” He does hang out there. Mark, the owner, is another of Jason’s childhood friends. He’s smoked me out a few times in the back room. And it is a pretty stupid place. I mean I only go there to get high, so it makes sense that Danny would be selling pot.

Still. “Well, Danny seems nice.”

“Oh, he’s nice all right. He’s even nice to me,” Mary says. “And pretty much everyone but you guys pretend I don’t exist.”

“Aww,” I say. “I’m sorry. I know the feeling.”

“If I could see him coming, I’d take my chances too,” Josie says. “But hell, these glasses are mostly for looks. I can’t make out faces unless people are right on top of me.”

“He picked up your books that one time, remember?”

“How could I forget,” Josie says in a dreamy voice.

“So he is nice?” I ask.

“I think he is,” Mary says. “I don’t care what his cousin does. He’s always been nice to me, even back in the second grade when the kids used to steal my crutches. He beat someone up for me. Gave him a black eye and everything.”

“Dreamy Danny,” I say.

“Dreamy Danny.” They both sigh.

Mateo is wrong. I trust these two more than I’d ever trust him. He’s got an ulterior motive. He wants to fuck me and he wants Danny to keep his distance so he can continue to do that.

I really need to get that night school work done. I need to get the hell away from Mateo Alesci.

Chapter Eighteen

I take the bus to Gilbert and turn in five more tests for science. I’m jumpy, so I just put my head down and work.

“You’re flying through them,” the teacher, whose name I never got, says. “That’s what? Nine? You’ll be done next week.”

“That’s the point, right?”

“I think the point is to learn something.”

“Well, I’m not the one who said all I have to do to pass with a C is take the unit tests open-book. Expectations come from the top. Even my dumb eighteen-year-old ass knows that.”

“I’m not picking a fight with you, Shannon. You’re free to take the C, but you could get an A with just the tiniest bit of effort.”

“I shouldn’t have to take this stupid class in the first place. Why should I care if I get nothing out of it? It’s a waste of time and I’m being forced to give up my afternoons to placate some idiot board member who made that stupid rule about when kids are allowed to take science and math credits.”

The whole class is looking at me.

“Forget it,” I say, walking back to my desk. I grab my stuff and head out of the class, but the teacher follows me. I try to escape to the bathroom, but he grabs my arm.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“Why would something be wrong? I just completed half a semester’s worth of work in a week. How is that leading you to believe something is wrong?”