Well damn, he is flirting. I’ll have to unpack that later. Rightnow, I’m on a mission to mend fences with Leah. I haul ass to her locker and find her rummaging inside the metal compartment.
I stop beside her. “Hear me out, okay? I’m—”
“We’re good.” She closes her locker and faces me. “I overreacted. Snake does that to me.”
“Hey, Spot.” A boy whistles at Leah, slapping his palms against his denim-clad thighs. “Come here, girl. I have a treat for you.”
The asshole hovering behind him roars with laughter. “Man, you are so wrong.”
“Hey, limp dick!”
I whirl around, the enraged shout startling me. I observe a girl barreling toward us at breakneck speed. She’s wearing pink and black from head to toe, literally. Pink hair bounces with every determined footstep she takes. The fringe bangs and chin-length haircut frame a pretty face. A pink corset-style top, black patent leather skirt, and fishnet stockings hug her voluptuous curves—chunky pink boots complete the bold look.
My goodness! This girl even has pink eyebrows and contacts. Talk about fashion statement and color coordination. Colorful tattoos decorate her creamy olive skin. The anti-eyebrow, bridge, dimple, medusa, and three piercings along her left nostril accentuate her daring look. She comes to a hard stop directly in front of Leah’s bully.
“You see this, bitch?” She jabs a long nail in Leah’s direction. “This is my bitch. You fuck with her, you fuck with me.” She grasps the boy’s cheeks with one hand, squeezing until his lips pucker. “Capeesh, motherfucker?”
The scumbag swine drops to his knees, stars in his eyes. “Will you marry me?”
His heartfelt proposal earns him a chunky pink boot to the gut. “Not on your life, limp dick.”
He yelps, fastening his arms around his midsection. His buddy helps him stand and carts him down the hall.
Leah rolls her eyes. “Extreme as always.”
“Can’t let these assholes pick on my bestie.” The girl, whom I presume is Meela, flings an arm across Leah’s shoulders.
“Missed you at lunch,” Leah remarks. “Off somewhere getting high, no doubt.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” she replies cheekily.
“You need stronger body spray,” Leah deadpans. “I can smell the devil’s lettuce on your clothes.”
“Okay, I may have smoked half a joint,” she says with a grin, then directs her sassiness at me. “Who are you?”
“Zilphia,” I answer her.
“Jameela, but everyone calls me Meela.” She openly examines me for a few seconds. “My girl been showing you the ropes?”
“Yeah, she’s great.”
“Come on,” Leah interjects, quickly spinning on her heel. “You know how Olive gets if I’m late.”
We push through the heavy foot traffic toward the exit.
“Who’s Olive?”
“My little sister. She’s fourteen and a real pain in my ass,” she gripes. “If I’m even two minutes late, she whines to our father, and then the responsibility speech commences. That spoiled brat always makes me out to be the bad guy, and my gullible father falls for it every single time.”
“Do you drive?” Meela asks me.
“I have a driver’s license but no car.”
“How do you get home? Regular bus or cheese bus?” she questions further. “Or does someone pick you up?”
“None of the above,” I respond. “I walk.”
“Where do you live?” This question comes from Leah.
