Once again, I'm the butt of another joke.

Literally.

I'm hiding out in one of the cubicles in the library needing some peace and quiet from the laughter that's been following me ever since that damn picture was unleashed across Instagram and Snapchat.

I should've known the Vipers were up to no good. The pic of me, or more accurately, my upturned backside has been turned into a meme. There's one where my jean clad ass is superimposed onto the back of a cow and my face splotched in black and white chewing grass. Another with a red stain and a caption that says, 'Got Tampax', and some genius created a video of my ass twerking to Juvenile's Back That Thang Up.

The likes, comments, and laughing emojis at my humiliation was too much and I logged off all my social media so I wouldn't keep seeing the tags and notifications.

My idiot classmates need to grow the hell up. We're almost adults for goodness sake.

My chest burns with years of pint up rage. One of these days I'm going blow and finally get payback for everything they've done to me.

Just turn the other cheek, my mom's voice whispers in my head and I quickly squash it.

Mari Knight is all daisies and butterflies. She believes in killing others with kindness and would scold me for having such vengeful thoughts.

I love the woman but she's completely delusional.

Taking the high road doesn't work against an eighteen year old sadist and a pack of vicious mean girls.

Bubbling with anger, I type furiously on my Chromebook trying to concentrate on my AP English report when a triangle shaped paper falls inside my cubicle. I pop my head up like a Gopher and glance around. Only a few students sit at the tables scattered around the library. Most have their heads buried in their laptop or talking to their study partner. Loud snickering between the isles pulls my attention to a pair of boys peeking at me over their shoulders.

I'm well aware nothing good is on the paper but curiosity has me unfolding the note to see a crude drawing of a couple going at it doggy style. Judging by the wild curls and wide expanse of the drawings backside, I guess it's me.

How clever. Not.

Fed up, I crush it in my hand and toss it along with my laptop in my bag. The chair scrapes silently across the thick carpet in my rush to leave. I give the boys a glare that could curdle milk before marching to the circular desk where Mrs. Winston sits with her bifocals perched on the tip of her nose.

"Miss Knight, finished so soon." She smiles deepening the lines cupping her mouth.

"Yes, ma'am, I got distracted with the students making out back there." I point towards the bookshelves where the two dipshits are staked out.

"Is that so?" Her smile dissolves into a frown and she pushes up her glasses. "Well, that just won't do. I'm running a library here, not the backseat of Trans Am."

I smirk as she shuffles to the back and soon, her chastising voice carries over the silence.

"Now, I have no problem with you boys embracing the rainbow lifestyle. Love is love in my book but the library is no place to be making out."

"W-what?!" One of the boys stutters.

"Rainbow?"

It's my turn to laugh and I have to cover my mouth to keep it contained.

"Please save that kind of activity for when you're off campus and remember to always play safe."

Oh my gosh, this is priceless.

"Mrs. Winston-"

"No need to explain." She interrupts. "This is your first and only warning."

"But, we weren't-"

Unable to hold back any longer, I rush into the corridor belting out a gut full of laughter.

Serves them right.

********

Big, strong bodies, sweat glistening off of corded muscles, and angry grunts all fill up my fantasy tank as I watch the team scrimmage.

I've never been much into sports but I certainly understand the appeal.

The players are like bloodthirsty gladiators vying for power and besides the naughty little freak in me that wouldn't mind being under a pile of hot guys, there's this secondhand rush you get seeing the ball sailing through their air to land perfectly in the receiver's hand.

Growing up with a dad that almost went pro until an injury crushed his dreams, I'm well versed in the dynamics of the game even though it interest me about as much as repeating another semester of Trigonometry.

While I've never doubted his love for me, I'm pretty sure he wanted a son to pass down his athletic genes. Instead, he got a chunky daughter who would rather bake cupcakes than run up and down a field.

Although, he did try molding me into a sports prodigy but those hopes died an embarrassingly swift death after a stint in little league soccer and softball. He then tried basketball but despite always being tall for my age, I can't land a shot to save my life.

Which brings me to the reason I'm standing on the sidelines handing out Gatorade and towels.

When I overheard my dad's friend, Coach Shaw, mention he needed a new waterboy, I volunteered my services. So far, I don't mind the gig. Sure, I despise most of the players but my small contribution to a sport my dad loves overrides my dislike.

"Good job, twenty-four!" Assistant Coach Jessup's booming voice echoes over the field and pulls me from my thoughts. "Go get hydrated before your next play."

After getting a few smacks on the back, our quarterback, Lynwood Spears, jogs towards me. He removes his helmet revealing a handsome face dotted with perspiration and mahogany skin that shines under the sunlight.

"Nice play." I pass him a purple water bottle dripping with condensation. "Make sure you keep that up tomorrow."

He tips his head back and squirts water into his mouth.

"You know I've got this." He says with confidence that isn't posturing when he has the skills to back it up.

I trade his bottle for a fresh towel. After wiping his face, he peers behind me.

"Hey, Sylvie," he yells, grinning from ear to ear. "You see that last run?"

I shield my eyes against the sun and peer over at the cheerleaders to see his girlfriend nodding. She's pretty like the others with long microbraids and a dimpled smile.

They've been dating since Sophomore year and, despite the company they keep, I put them in the small category of decent people at this cesspool of a school.

She blows him a kiss and his face lights up before jogging back onto the field.

I want to gag but they're so darn cute all I can do is envy them.

I tilt my head wondering what it would be like to have a boyfriend. Not just any guy but one like Lynwood. He's always so attentive to Sylvie. Holding her hand in the hallway, carrying her books, and sneaking her kisses when the teachers aren't watching.

With my luck, the guy that picks me will be a total jerk whose only with the fat chick because he heard big girls give good head. At least that's what Devon once told me during our many rounds of verbal sparring.

At seventeen, I've only had one boyfriend. Actually, he wasn't a boyfriend, just the son of a family friend I hung out with this past summer before he went off to college.

Being a homebody and a social outcast isn't doing me in favors with my love life- or lack thereof. After witnessing all the bad behavior of my prospects, I would rather wait until college to date. At least then I'll be an adult and can date men not immature boys.

The sharp screech of a whistle draws my attention to the hulking form wearing a number thirty-two jersey. Devon tosses the ball to another teammate just as the coach calls it quits for the day.

As everyone moves off the field, a loud squeal that reminds me of a dying cat, assaults my ears. Ashlee, dressed in a pair of royal purple booty shorts and a t-shirt with a howling wolf imprinted on the front, runs up to Devon and launches herself in his arms. In no way deterred that he's covered in sweat and dirt, she kisses him like he's about to be shipped off to war.

This time I do gag because unlike Lynwood and Sylvie, Chucky and his bride are two soulless cretins that probably spend date night sacrificing innocent virgins to their dark lord.

It's a little disturbing that evil people seem to have it all in life while the good ones are trampled over and berated.

Devon, whose heart is nothing more than a lump of coal, has popularity, talent, and checks all the boxes that would melt your panties. Yet, he stalks through the halls with a chip on his shoulder and a tattooed glare on his face as if the world has it out for him.

Then again, from what I saw last night, maybe it does.

I'm still a bit shocked that he hasn't acknowledged me all day. He's too diabolical to sweep my little taunt under the rug and has retaliated for less. Hell, if I breathe wrong I get a verbal jab to the jaw.

Do you really need to be eating that candy bar?

You know, you would be halfway decent looking if you stop stuffing your face and do something with that bird's nest you call hair.

Smothering the memory of his mocking voice, I go through my end of practice routine then push a basket full of dirty towels and jerseys to the washroom. I wrinkle my nose at the subtle stench of boy funk hanging in the air and flip on the light over the sink.

I'm about to slip on a pair of latex gloves to dump the soiled items in the wash machine when the door creaks shut followed by a clicking noise.

Before I get the chance to investigate, I'm immediately hauled to the side and slammed into the wall. A shuddering breath whooshes from my lungs as a block of muscle slams against me. I start to struggle until he yanks my arms back causing pain to flare along my shoulders.

It gulls me to say that this isn't the first time I've been in this position, probably wont be the last, and I'm all too familiar with the hard body at my back.

When his ominous voice fills my ear, two words come to mind:

Oh, fuck!

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