Study Date With Patch

Where's your gavel? Your jury?
What's my offense this time?
You're not a judge but if you're gonna judge me
Well, sentence me to another life

Don't wanna hear your sad songs
I don't wanna feel your pain
When you swear it's all my fault
'Cause you know we're not the same
No, we're not the same, oh, we're not the same

—Paramore (Ignorance)

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An annoying blaring sound echoed through my ears til I finally gave in to my conscious. Peeling my lids apart, I searched for the source of the frigging noise and realized it was my alarm clock. I groggily slammed my fist on the snooze button until it shut-up.

     "What time is it?" Vee asked, her face buried in her pillow.

     Time? I forced my eyes to glance at the time and groaned. I rolled out of bed, using the bedside table between us to capture my balance. I waited for the sudden head rush to pass before I flung my pillow at her head.

     "We're late," I groaned.

     Vee's head snapped up, a disarray of golden locks draping over her face, because she had to see for herself.

     "Crap!" she groaned and jumped out of bed. We didn't bother with a shower but instead sprayed half a bottle of Victoria Secret body spray and used their scented lotion to mask our lack of morning hygiene. (But I did brush my teeth.) I tossed on the jeans I had discarded at the foot of my bed last night and pulled on a striped sweater. Even though I couldn't get my hair the way I wanted it, I just settled for the frizzy half-up, half-down hairdo.

     I could deal with my hair later.

Vee and I parted ways without so much as a goodbye to another, rushing off to our separate buildings across campus. I managed to creep into class, but not without Coach glaring at me as I did. I sunk in my seat and tried to stay hidden for the rest of the time being. I took my notes, picking up on what Coach was saying, like always and handed in my essay at the end of class but everything felt different.

     Then Patch stopped me and I remembered our study date.

     For some reason my insides fluttered. "Planning on bailing on me again?" he smirked.

     "Uh, no," I muttered uncertainly.

     "Just, hold on a sec, alright? I've gotta talk to coach, then I'm all yours."

     I grinned. I liked the sound of that. "Okay,I'll just wait out in the hall,"

     I was walking down the main hall, contemplating what a session with Patch would be like, when suddenly I was yanked into a supply closet on my left. I didn't even have a chance to react before a click sounded and a light flooded the closet with a dim glow.

     "Oh—god!" I gasped in horror at the site of Marcie crying. My hands found my mouth as my eyes widened like saucers. I had never seen Marcie look so . . . wrecked? Her heavy mascara was streaming down her red cheeks like tar or gasoline or something. Her face was inflamed from crying so much and her hair was pretty unruly. She was sitting with her hands in her hair, sitting on a bucket. "Someone shut the lights back off,"

     "Shut-up," she cried, dropping her head back into her stained hands. The only trace of the Marcie I knew and despised, was left in her cold, beady little eyes.

     "Marcie—you're crying," I said awkwardly, quite unsure of what I was really doing here. I had nothing to say; I was utterly lost.

     Her head snapped up and her glare flared. "Thank you agent obvious."

     I glanced around the janitors closet. Towel, toilet papers, crusty looking mirror. "What are we doing here?" More importantly, what was I doing here? Shouldn't she be crying to someone she cries or venting her diary or something. I was pretty sure I was the last person she'd come to for a shoulder to cry on. This girl humiliated me since I got here and she expected me to listen to her sob story.

     This was just weird.

     "I don't want anyone to see me," she sniffed. And of course I count as a no one.

     We were quiet for a moment—well, as quiet as it went with Marcie sobbing hysterically, until I finally spoke. "Are you going to tell me why you're crying?"

     "Patch dumped me!" she let out another squealing sob. "And I don't know why! I fucking hot, and savvy, and a frigging cheerleader. I mean look at the new uniform. I look amazing! Everyone wants me—what's wrong with him!" She broke into another ridiculous sob, more ink flowing down her cheeks.

     "Don't you guys break up like every other day?" I mused.

     "This was for real! He said some shit about episodes and my insecure drama, whatever that means."

     "Mar—Marcie, I have no idea what to say here," I said. "Why am I even here?"

     She jumped to her feet and poked at my chest. "Because I know you had something to do with this, you—you tramp!"

     Tramp? Wow, that—that just sucked.

     I rubbed at my chest. Why were her nails so long for?

     "Me?" I cringed. Okay, yes I did point out that they were a hot and cold couple but it's not like I actually influenced there actual break-up. But as I feared, Marcie was going after me for something I had remotely anything to do with. "I did nothing—don't hurt me,"

     I was expecting her to go for a wad of curls when she sniffed and sunk back down onto the dirty bucket. "I'm not gonna hurt you," she murmured and blew her snot filled nose into one of the toilet paper rolls.

     "You're not?"

     "If I did, than who else would help me get him back?" she said as if it explained why boys were so weird. "And if you don't, I'll see to it that the rest of your days C.U. will be pure hell." she added grimly, her eyes scorching into mine.

     Well this isn't good.

     Marcie scowled.

     "What are you still doing in here? Go! Go!" She snapped, chucking the roll of toilet paper she was using to wipe her face at my head. Like I needed her permission.

     I made to leave but before I did, I pulled out my phone and held it up to Marcie. Sure the room was dark and my phone had crappy quality but at least I would have something to hang over her head if she was going to bitch me around (like she didn't do that already).

     "Say cheese,"

     There was a click and my cell phone flashed, catching a snapshot of a wrecked Marcie. Caught off guard, she didn't have to time to react before I bolted out of the closet and shut the door behind. She pounded her fist against it once but I knew she was too vain to come out looking like she did.

     Patch showed up then, an eyebrow lifted in inquiry. "Were you just—" he began but I quickly made to deny it.

     I snorted as if the thought were absurd when in fact he probably saw me. "No." I'm not usually a liar but around this guy, I couldn't help but to. "What are you waiting for," I said quickly, straightening up. "Let's go,"

Patch merely shrugged it off. "You're one strange woman, Grey,"

     Once at the library, I learned tutoring Patch was easier than I thought it'd be. For one thing he was determined and he could be a fast learner, it was just that the whole stock market and the complexity of economic trade was puzzling when it was off the paper.

     Patch was more of a visual leaner so I could understand if he were a people person (and I mean off the field). I found breaking it down was pointless I considered a different approach.

     "You've just gotta . . ." I trailed off, thinking back to his football practice. A new thought bloomed in mind.      "You're really dedicated to football right?" I began, and he nodded once. "And this"—I gestured to our notes. "is just a pillow to fall back on. So try to think of it like football." I said, hoping I could change his view.

He sat back and bit his lip, his eyebrows drawn together. I noticed he did that when he thought intently. I tried not to stare because it was becoming very distracting. "How,"

     "When you're on the field, I've noticed that you make a mental map of your surroundings or opponents. Who your allies are, who aren't and where you stand but you never go for the weakest link. You should probably be using the same principles in business." I shrugged a shoulder in suggestion.

     A grin tugged at his lips. "What do you know about football, long-legs,"

     "Not much." I shrugged. "But enough to know you don't play nice," I added, implying his record of fights on the field.

     His grin grew into this sexy, lazy smirk as he stretched his legs. "They ask for it." I hadn't noticed how tall he was. I'm just so used to being short it didn't register that he was nearly as tall as Jules.

     "Oh yes, of course, because they beg you to beat them down to a pulp," I said sarcastically.

     He playfully punched my arm. "Don't get smart on me,"

     I flattened my hand to my chest and sighed dramatically. "It's what I'm best known for."