ANTOV’S POINT OF VIEW.
Wren shows up exactly eight minutes and fifty-seven seconds after, her steps stomping in anger with a groan until she stops right in front of me.
“Nice….record time,” I remark with a smirk.
“Okay, Antov, you little…I mean, perfectly handsome man….what the hell do you want?” she hissed, her hoodie looking all lopsided as if she put it on in a rush. For a moment, I did the one thing I catch myself doing at odd intervals every day.
I stare at her….her hair, her lips, her perfect but slightly crooked nose….I just stare. The thing that both deeply annoys, unsettles and intrigues me about Wren is the fact that she isn’t like other girls.
And I know that sounds cliché…but it's true.
Every girl at school wants me, has thrown herself in my face in hopes that I would sp
