Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 20866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 20866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 104(@200wpm)___ 83(@250wpm)___ 70(@300wpm)
“What the fuck?!?!” he screams. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m just helping to re-paint,” I manage with a cheery smile while holding my brush up. “I’m an art student, and I decided to take my work in a different direction. Instead of working with the traditional easel and still life, I’ve decided to beautify our school—oooph!” I manage before Coach Goni barrels into me, knocking me to the ground.
“Stop!” the massive man screams, pinning me in place. “I don’t give a shit about your art project. Stop defacing the school’s property, you limp-wristed artistic douchebag!”
“Hey, who are you calling an artistic douchebag!” I howl in reply, struggling to get out from underneath his mass. “I’m not limp-wristed either! I’m just left-handed!”
“Coach, Coach!” another voice intercedes in a panicked tone. I feel, rather than see, an assistant coach run up to us. “Get off of her! Whatever she did, you can’t go around knocking people down!”
“We fundraised for that sports equipment!” Coach Goni bawls in return while being helped to his feet. “All that shit is new, and it’s probably been ruined by the paint dripping everywhere. It’s something on order of one hundred thousand dollars of equipment”
“But maybe it didn’t get into the shed,” the assistant coach soothes. “It’s fine. I’m sure all that stuff is fine.”
He produces a key from his belt, and unlocks the door to the structure. It swings open unsteadily, and to my horror, there are splatters of paint on what look like football pads, soccer balls, a goal post of some sort, as well as random foam blocks.
“Oh shit. It did get on the equipment,” the assistant coach murmurs. “Goddamn, this is a fucking mess. Let me grab a hose. Maybe we can get it off before it dries.”
With that, he scampers off, leaving me and Coach Goni alone, staring at each other with enmity.
“What the fuck were you thinking?!?!” the massive man hisses again. “Do you know how much equipment you’ve ruined with your fucking graffiti?”
“It’s not graffiti, it’s art!” I hiss right back, my face going red. “Don’t you know the difference? I’m expressing myself via a legitimate artistic medium.”
Unfortunately, the tomato-faced coach isn’t having it. Without a second look, he reaches for the walkie-talkie in his belt and speaks to someone. “Administration, this is Goni. I’m coming in with a criminal,” he snaps, shooting me another disgusted look. “Yeah, this woman has just defaced school property on the order of hundreds of thousands of dollars. Yeah, I’ll bring her in. No, I have no idea whether she’s a student at St. George’s. She’s just some random troublemaker.”
Then, he clicks “off” and stares at me like I’m the devil incarnate.
“Let’s go,” he snaps. “You have a lot to answer for.”
My heart sinks because I know they’re going to call my stepfather, and Lionel’s not going to be happy when he hears how I’ve defaced school property. My insides quiver as my thighs press together. I haven’t seen the man of the house in a while now, so what will it be like to see him in the flesh again? I should be scared, and I am, but at the same time, I can’t wait to see the handsome man because I know the billionaire can handle the problem ... and me.
2
Lily
Shivers go down my spine as I sit on the wooden bench outside of the principal’s office. My spine curves as my shoulders slump on themselves because despite the fact that I’m eighteen, somehow I’ve been reduced to feeling about six years old. I’m basically a child right now, with no control of what happens next at all.
Even worse, no one’s had the courtesy to tell me what’s going on. Coach Goni towed me into the main office and pointed to this bench before snarling, “Sit.” Then, he disappeared behind the half-door, and I haven’t heard anything since. The principal’s secretary continues tapping at her computer like nothing’s wrong, and random people breeze in and out with barely a look my way. The people who do see me stop and stare because I look like a deranged clown. My hair’s a rat’s nest, my clothing’s askew, and there are splatters of paint covering me from head to toe. Even worse, my period’s still going, and I don’t have a pad. I only hope that I’m not leaving a wet red mark on the bench.
“Excuse me,” I say in a hesitant voice to the principal’s secretary. “Um, would you happen to have a sanitary pad?” I ask in an embarrassed whisper. “I think my period’s here. Or rather, it’s definitely here, and I don’t want to dirty the furniture.”
The middle-aged woman peers at me over her glasses, eyeing me up and down. She’s got her grayish-brown hair up in a bun, like she wants to give off the vibe of “sexy librarian” but instead is giving off the vibe of “disheveled and overworked admin.”