by Chloe Smith
"I must have done something seriously wrong for you to hate me so much," Tristan said.
"Finally, he gets it." Scarlett rolled her eyes only to find out that that hurt, so she put her hand up to her head to find a large bump protruding there.
"You know, most girls would love to have me taking care of them," Tristan commented with a smirk.
"Well, I'm not like most girls," Scarlett huffed. "Sorry to disappoint you."
"Who said that disappointed me?" Tristan cocked his eyebrow. He was hoping that maybe if he flattered her then he would get the answers he was seeking.
"Told you that you were a manwhore."
"You never said that." As much as he hated to admit it, that little statement almost hurt.
"Not in so many words," Scarlett mumbled.
"This is so damn infuriating," Tristan groaned.
"What is?" Scarlett's eyes were completely innocent, but the smirk on her mouth told Tristan that she knew exactly what was making him furious.
"Can't you and I just have one civil conversation?"
"Says the boy who just had a nice go with Alice Barrington a few nights ago," Scarlett muttered.
"How did you know that?" Tristan gasped. Had Alice already begun spreading about their affair?
"I saw you two. You weren't all that quiet about it. I was taking a walk because my mother…uh…I was upset, and Alice lives right down the street from me, so as I walked passed her house, I heard a few…noises," Scarlett explained. "See, at least I answer your questions."
"But you're holding back," Tristan observed.
"Am not," Scarlett denied.
"Then what did your mother do to make you upset?" Tristan asked.
"Nothing. I just had a slip of words. You know, that happens when a rock hits your head," Scarlett tried to cover.
"Liar."
"Fine. You see, my mother is an alcoholic and a drug addict. So, she needs money to buy all of her 'pain relievers.' And the only way she can save up on money is if I can get a full scholarship to whichever college I go to. So, she gives me this lecture frequently about how I need to keep my focus and study and do extra work, so that I can qualify for a scholarship. And when she's not yelling at me or scolding me about being a better student, she's either out at the bar or passed out on the couch. There. I opened up," Scarlett said as she huffed in frustration.
Tristan was shocked. How could she be a better student? She was the best student at Watson High School. She had the highest average in every class, not to mention the highest grade point average in the school. Wasn't she a six point oh student since she was in all advanced placement courses?
"Your mom's an idiot if she doesn't see that you're the smartest kid in school."
"Why, thank you. For insulting my mother," Scarlett said totally seriously, but with a hint of a smile that was genuine.
Tristan didn't exactly know what to say to this because she was completely right. So he decided that since her walls seemed to be slightly down again, it was time for her to fulfill her part of the bargain. He had told her that he had been outside in his car for six hours because of that boy. Now it was her time to tell him about why she despised him.
"So, about why you hate me..."
Scarlett bit her bottom lip and debated. Tristan could see the wheels twirling in her brain about where to start or what she should say or how to begin. He could see her eyes traveling back in time to where she had been scarred.
"You can tell me," Tristan tried to encourage her.
"How the hell do you know if I can tell you?"
Tristan was silent. He sensed the walls growing taller and taller, blocking her from him.
"Exactly," Scarlett continued when Tristan kept quiet. "You don't."
Tristan decided this time that he would keep his trap shut. He would allow her the time she needed.
"I'm not exactly sure where to begin."
"Start from the beginning."
"Thank you, Captain Obvious." Scarlett shot him a 'duh' look.
"You're welcome, Lieutenant Sarcastic." Tristan was tempted to add 'Zinger!' at the end like he would around his friends at school, but he didn't want to press his luck with Scarlett so close to opening up and telling him what happened.
"Touché." A smile.
Oh my God, Tristan just saw a smile. And not one of those sarcastic smiles that Scarlett had been shooting all night. But what really concerned Tristan was the way that the smile made him feel. When his brown eyes saw the slight curl of her full lips, his heart hammered in his ribcage. His eyebrow cocked at the physical reaction. Why was he acting this way? This was Scarlett White. This was the girl he had grown up with. This was the infamous teachers' pet that everybody looked down upon at school.
"What?" Scarlett asked when she noticed the raised eyebrow that Tristan had made to the realization of the reaction of Scarlett's subconscious smile.
"Nothing, continue with your story," Tristan urged.
"What story?" Scarlett looked truly confused.
"Don't play stupid with me," he replied.
"I don't have any idea what you're talking about?"
"Scarlett," Tristan gave her a dubious look, "The story about why you hate me." It was just then it struck Tristan that this could be a sign of amnesia from the rock he had thrown at her head. Oh, shit. This was the worst case scenario.
But just then, Scarlett burst out laughing so hard that a tear slipped out of the corner of her eye, "Your face was hilarious. What, did you think I had amnesia or something?" She spoke through fits of laughter.
"It might have passed through my mind once or twice," Tristan replied sheepishly while rubbing the back of his neck.
And then it dawned on him why she had tricked him. "You're stalling," he stated.
"You really want me to tell you the entire story?" she asked slowly.
"No, I've just asked you to tell me this story about one hundred times for no apparent reason," he said cynically.
"Fine, fine, fine. It all started back in eighth grade…"
Chapter Eight
"Fine, fine, fine. It all started back in eighth grade—"
Scarlett's voice rang in the kitchen for a minute before she continued. She had promised him she would remind him about their past. So, why wasn't she talking?
Oh, okay, so that's why...Scarlett was in tears. Wait…Scarlett was in tears? They had come too fast to hold back and had been totally unpredictable. Tristan hadn't even realized that she had begun to cry before her cheeks were drenched with salty tears.
"Scarlett! Scarlett, what's wrong?" Tristan asked.
Scarlett was looking down, tears falling rapidly down her cheeks.
Tristan cupped her face tilting her chin upwards to look him in the eyes. "Scarlett, what is wrong?"
"I...I should have run—" What the hell was she talking about?
"What is all of this racket in here?"
Scarlett gasped and looked at the source of the new noise. Her mother was standing in the doorway. Her messy, red hair was suitable for a rat to live in. Her eyes were blood shot with mascara running down her cheeks a bit and dark bags under the eye sockets.
"Mom, what...are you doing?" up? Aren't you expecting a headache...like now? Scarlett desperately wanted to say the last part, but she bit her tongue.
"Who is this?" Rosa ignored her daughter's question and glared at Tristan.
"Um...I'm Tristan Cox. I go to school with—"
"What are you doing in my house?" Rosa rudely interrupted him, glaring at him with her bloodshot eyes.
"I...uh..."
"Mom, he just saved my life," Scarlett said, hopping down off the counter. "I...uh...tripped over my bed." Wow, that sounded silly.
"I can hardly believe that," Rosa said.
"It's true, mom—"
"GET OUT!" Rosa now yelled at Tristan, completely off the handle and absolutely unexpected. "GET OUT OF MY HOUSE NOW!" Rosa was pointing at the front door and glaring at Tristan angrily.
Scarlett shook her head sadly. "Just go, Tristan," she finally whispered.
Tristan shot her a dismayed glance and then looked back into Rosa's enraged eyes and decided he had worn out his welcome, though he thought Rosa would never have even welcomed him in the first place.
When Tristan was long gone, Rosa began screaming at her daughter, "WHY DID YOU LET HIM IN? YOU KNOW I HATE GUESTS! AND AT ONE IN THE MORNING! SCARLETT, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?"
Scarlett, now engulfed in so many tears, didn't even bother to answer her mother's outrageous questions though it was true that Tristan shouldn't have been there this early in the morning. Wait, scratch that—Tristan shouldn't even have been there any time during the twenty-four hours in a day.
"Mom, I have to finish my homework," Scarlett interrupted her mother in mid-sentence, and before her mother could respond, she ran up the stairs to her room, flung the door shut, and fell onto her bed crying.
This one night had felt like an entire millennium. Watching 'A Nightmare on Elm Street' felt like ages ago, but it had only been a couple of hours ago.
She didn't know how she was going to face Tristan the next day at school. What was she supposed to do? Ignore him like usual? Apologize for her mothers' irrational behavior? Tell him the story? Was it time for that? She had only been holding it in four years now. And if Tristan didn't remember—which, by the way, didn't seem realistic; who could forget something like that?—maybe she should explain to him why she hated him. It wasn't fair to him for her hate him for no apparent reason. But there was a reason. He ruined her life.
Tristan couldn't wait to get to school the next day. He had felt bad leaving Scarlett to deal with her mother, but that wouldn't be the first thing he was going to apologize to her for. He was going to apologize for throwing rocks at her window, for causing her to trip over her bed in her room, for the wound the fall had given her, for making her cry (though he still didn't know why; but he was GOING to find out), and then lastly for leaving her with her angry—no, scratch that—enraged mother.
While Tristan waited in the school parking lot for Scarlett, his heart did an odd, little number. When he saw her on the back of a motorcycle driven by none other than Francis Rogers, Tristan felt the blood rush to his face, and his heartbeat sped up some. Francis Rogers was a very popular senior at the school. What the hell had he seen in Scarlett than nobody else had? The same exact thing that you see in her now, an annoying voice whispered in the back of his , they were dating. And for some odd reason, his knuckles turned white on the steering wheel of his car from squeezing so tightly.
When the bike came to a complete stop, Tristan marched right up to Scarlett and Francis.
When Scarlett saw him, her face changed. Her completely happy expression from the exhilarating ride she had just taken changed to a horror-stricken look. She looked from Tristan to Francis and back to Tristan. She reminded Tristan of a deer caught in the headlights.
Scarlett gulped and then said, "Um...hi, Tristan."
But Tristan wasn't looking at Scarlett; he was looking—okay, more like glaring—at Francis.
Scarlett sucked in her breath and said, "Are we back in second grade having an eye staring contest?" And this got both of the boys' attention. "Thank you. Now, Francis, can you...um...give us some privacy for just one second."
"What?" he asked.
"I didn't think you had a hearing problem. But if I must, I shall repeat myself. Can you please give Tristan and me some privacy? I need to clear something up with him." It was rude, but Francis glanced at Tristan and then left. Scarlett let out her breath and leaned against the bike.
"Why did Francis drive you to school?" Tristan's voice sounded hurt and broken.
"My car is here and...never mind, I don't need to explain myself to you, thank you very much."
"Oh, no you don't. You are keeping too many secrets from me as it is. What is the other reason?"
Scarlett looked directly into Tristan's brown orbs and said, "Francis and I are going out."
Tristan was left speechless. "Why?" he finally asked.
"Why? Did you seriously just ask me that? Well, because he's nice and considerate and smart. He's kind to me and...and...there are a lot of more reasons than just that; it's just my head hurts."
Tristan looked up and saw a large bandage covering her wound.
"Oh, no, Tristan," Scarlett saw the pain in his eyes, "My head doesn't hurt because of that. It hurts because...because I have a lot on my mind right now."
"Are you going to tell me why you hate me?" Tristan finally asked, trying to change the subject to what they had been discussing last night.
Scarlett took a deep breath, "I guess—" But before she could say anything else, the school bell rang. "Um...maybe, later," Scarlett said, grabbing her book bag and walking into the school building after kissing Francis goodbye.
All during English Lit, Scarlett could feel Francis's stare on the back of her neck. God, what had she gotten herself into? Tristan was bugging her to tell him what had happened between them. Scarlett just couldn't believe that Tristan had forgotten. What he had done had ruined her. Nobody looked at her the same since then. And now Francis's stares were turning more and more into daggers.
Scarlett took a deep breath to calm her senses. She just needed a break from all of this drama. And now her head was starting to hurt more. Scarlett gave up on trying to concentrate on what their professor was talking about and put her head in her hands.
And with Tristan pressuring her to retell her horrible past, all of the memories of eighth grade flooded back into Scarlett's mind. Tears were trying to make their way to the front of Scarlett's eyes, but she pushed them back.
There was also another thing that was bothering Scarlett. Why did Tristan keep making those faces all the time? She had never seen Tristan make that kind of face. She had no idea what it meant, but it wasn't any emotion that she had ever seen on his face before, such as happiness, boredom, exhaustion, glee, pride, excitement, coolness, selfishness, and then, of course, was the face of pure giddiness that he always wore after he had just finished doing a girl in some abandoned classroom or janitor's closet. But there was a certain glint in his brown eyes that Scarlett had never seen before that had popped up when he looked at her. There was a certain tranquil, almost kind, gleam that entered his eyes, but then in an instant it was gone.
Scarlett tried again to pay attention to her teacher. And this is exactly what she heard, "Blah blah blah blah, and then Odysseus and So-and-so concocted a blah blah plan to blah blah the Trojans..." Soon enough, the inevitable occurred, and Scarlett's attention span collapsed, sending her back to four years ago.
This is pointless, Scarlett thought, just fake sick and go home.
What about that stupid scholarship I have been working to get for the past three years? Another part of Scarlett thought.
Fine then, relive your horrid memories.
You know, you really need to see a medical doctor. Normal people don't have conversations in their heads.
Scarlett huffed and picked her previously abandoned pen back up and began to copy down what the teacher was writing on the white board about the fall of Troy.
Finally third period ended, and it was lunchtime. Ginny and Scarlett walked into the lunchroom and headed for their usual spot at the table with Kate and Meghan. But before they were halfway across the cafeteria, Scarlett stopped dead in her tracks. Tristan was sitting next to Kate at their table, and Francis was sitting at the 'popular' table, beckoning frantically to Scarlett. Scarlett's face turned into a mixture of confusion and distraction as her green eyes darted from Tristan to Francis. She knew exactly whom she should go sit with—her boyfriend at the popular table, obviously—but what really perplexed her was the longing to sit at her usual, 'loser' table where Tristan unexpectedly was sitting.
Damn it, Scarlett thought. If Tristan hadn't come over to her house this morning, she wouldn'
t have thought twice about going over to sit with Francis. But now she was stumped as to where she should sit.
Ginny giggled and said, "It's a good thing you're wearing the jeans that show off your ass because it looks like you have two boys—"
"Ginny, before you say anything that will result in a black eye..." Scarlett let the incomplete sentence settle into Ginny's mind before she added, "Just help me. P.S. the only reason I wore these jeans was because I was going to be riding a motorcycle."
"Don't interrupt me; that's rude. I suggest sitting at the popular table. You haven't had a chance like that since...well, I'm sure you don't want that brought back up again—oops, I just brought it up, sorry—and P.S. How was the ride? And don't try to pull that off with me. You're wearing a tight shirt, too. You're showing off your naturally hot body on purpose."
