I’m not . . . angry.
Thumping my pencil during sixth period, I decided I wasn’t angry. No. Angry is too simple. Too easy. This? This was different.
“Will you stop it?” Diana muttered.
I halted the motion, stiffening.
“And why are you in Phil’s seat?” she went on. Are cows normally this clueless?
“Mind your own business, Diana,” was my cutting response. I wouldn’t even look at her and, at the sound of his bookbag hitting the floor next to his new seat, I decided I wouldn’t look at Phil either. Not right now.
I’m not angry.
I swear I’m not.
More thumping, eyes forward, body rigid—I felt like a ticking time bomb. I just kept thinking and thinking. About them. Sitting together. Chatting away. Doing whatever the f**k they did last night. If t
