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All Boys School

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Blurb

Despite every warning Lina has gotten to stay away from the BAD BOY, there is something about him that pulls him towards him more and more everyday.

Rehan intrigues her, excites her, and would he be the one to break her apart? Especially when there is a game of TRUTH OR DARE being played in the school, and whoever sends the dares knows exactly how to add salt to someone's wound.

Will the school's Jock let the sweet girl live a life of peace?

Maybe not.

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CHAPTER 1
As a child, I used to wonder what life would’ve been like if I didn’t have four brothers and two sisters—one of which was a toddler. Hectic. Crazy. Chaotic. And blah blah. As per usual, Mom was making scrambled eggs, Dad was looking after the newly welcomed baby girl in our family, and the boys were. . . I peek over in the living room with curious eyes. oh, of course. The boys were playing video games. AS USUAL. “How do I look?” Arwa twirls in her denim skirt, wearing a white pair of tights underneath them and a white blouse. Her dark brown hair fell over her shoulders in loose curls, bouncing as she did weird moves—probably to give me a better look. I give her a tight forced smile, like the one I opt for in family photos. “Cool!” To make it look not so forced, I also manage a thumbs up, and resume devouring my cereals. “Whatever. You’re just jealous that I have a better sense of dressing than you,” my sister snarls, She thinks she beats me up in dressing and appearance, only because I do not wear fitted clothes. “Right. Jealousss,” I snort, rolling my eyes. “You know the way you dress is wrong. And please make this clear.” I squint my eyes at her so that I can see her expressions clearly. Why did I not get my eye sight checked? I am such a fool. “I do not get jealous. Especially not from my own sister.” Before Arwa can say some sweet words—sarcasm, sarcasm—Mom bursts into the dining room with two platters balanced on each palm. She wheezes past us like a rocket and sprints straight into the living room. The boys get the eggs first. Again! “MOM! THAT IS STRAIGHT OUT UNFAIR!” Arwa yells. “Doesn’t matter. The boys will always be her favorite,” I mumble, glancing into the living room with emotions stuck in my throat. I look down at the soggy bowl of cereals and wonder what life would’ve been like if it were just me, Arwa, and the new born with our parents. But I know the answer to that. Mom would grieve. Arwa is the oldest in our family. Being 20, she has definitely reached the perfect age for marriage, rather that’s old, but she says marriage is not for her. She claims after one gets married, they are bound to obey the husband and that husbands usually don’t allow their wives to do whatever they want to. I know why she thinks that. She grew up in an environment where there was this impression that men are stronger and can have a rule on their wives. Maybe she is also scared her husband won’t allow her to go to these scary parties and all. And these football games held in our city from different high schools. She also doesn’t talk much to Baba, because he always tells her to be a nice lady and get settled, and that he’d find her a good, caring husband who won’t stop her from accomplishing her dreams. One day, when she was in a really bad day some weeks ago, Baba very nicely asked her again if perhaps she changed her mind and have considered of getting married, she had said the most meanest thing ever. Don’t know about Baba, but at least I was stunned. Her statement was: You stopped Mom from studying. It wasn’t her fault that she was forced to marry at eighteen! I bet every man is like you. From that day onwards, I loved Baba even more. Arwa is always so blunt, I pray she doesn’t get in trouble for merely her words because sometimes they can be razor sharp and cut right through your sensitive emotions. A plate filled with eggs was placed in front of me, and the cereals bowl disappears. I frown. Baba pulls back a chair, the chair legs scraping against the wood in a screeching way. My face lights up when he smiles. “Saved some for you,” he chimes. I think he has the most friendly brown eyes in the history of brown eyes. They cause all my worries to go away. Well, at least for the moment. “Thanks Dad,” I smile, taking a huge bite. I need the extra energy for today. “So, do you think you will be able to manage my classes for a month?” he nervously asks. “Not that I doubt your math skills, but boys can be pretty hard to teach. I don’t want you getting. . .hurt. You get what I mean kid?” Of course I know what he means. “I am not your fragile daughter anymore. I can handle a bunch of fifth graders,” I reply, flexing my non-existent biceps to give him fake proof. “I have been practicing kick boxing as well. Wanna try with me?” He holds up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “No way I challenge my daughter.” I laugh. “I will miss you,” he sighs, sadness flashing in his eyes. He puts a hand on my head, patting it lightly. “Just keep Arwa away from trouble as much as you can manage, okay?” I bob my head up and down. “Are all the teaches male as well? Since it is an all boys school where you work,” I quiver. “Please don’t tell me there won’t be any female population.” Only me being the first substitute female who also happens to be just sixteen years old is just horrific, especially when that school has classes that go up to the thirteenth grade. I am sweating from just imagining what it would be like to walk amongst the rowdy boys. Shuuddeerr. Dad laugh as if I have told him the world’s funniest joke. “No, silly! Of course there will be female teachers. Your aunt, for example, teaches business studies to the twelfth grade. And there are also other ladies patrolling the corridors because boys are prone to fighting and causing chaos in just a time span of a minute.” “Wow,” I hesitated, shifting in my chair. “That really helped.” Nope, I was definitely not sweating. Just my armpits were. But, only a teensy bit. I need to stop making a big deal out of it. They are just boys. So what? Yeah just boys, my subconscious mocks. “Everything will be okay. Just remember to breathe. And don’t pay attention to the boys. They will never miss any opportunity to scare you.” He runs a hand through his grey hair. Looks at his hands that rest on the table. “Never stand up to a guy names Rehan. You don’t want to make yourself known to him at all costs.” I nod, dragging in a cool breath. Rule number 1: Don’t get the attention of this Rehan guy. Whoever he is. End of.                                

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