Chapter 4 I hate Skyler

I was halfway down the hallway when I heard it, the unmistakable voice of Skyler declaring, "Brooklyn baby, I finally found you."

There he was, lifting Brooklyn's chin with a sense of entitlement. "For the party tonight, I want you to dress sexy."

It took him a moment to notice me. "Scarlett? I didn't realize you were there."

His hand dropped, and he proceeded to straighten his bangs, a vain attempt at nonchalance.

Rolling my eyes, I mumbled an excuse about my literature class and tried to leave. "Wait a minute," he called out, effectively halting my escape.

With a swift movement, Skyler's hand slapped down on his locker, his arm blocking my path.

"What do you want?" I asked, my irritation mounting as I tugged on the shoulder strap of my book bag, eager to bypass this self-centered obstacle.

Letting his arm fall, Skyler instead stepped in front of me, reducing the distance between us. I halted, meeting his gaze with a defiance I hoped masked my discomfort.

"I know you don't like me. But you have to show up at the party," he insisted, a hint of challenge in his tone.

"Why me?" I countered, casting a glance at Brooklyn. She seemed uninterested, her attention glued to her cellphone.

Ignoring my question, Skyler leaned in closer, the smell of his cologne invading my senses, making me frown. Then, in a move that felt too intimate, he whispered in my ear, "Kyle, your favorite. He's coming."

The information sent a jolt through me, causing me to stagger back. Instead of colliding with the cold metal of the locker, Skyler's warm hand caught me. I looked at his arm, the barrier between me and a potentially embarrassing fall, and had to admit, despite my reluctance, his touch was softer and warmer than I anticipated.

"You're not going to faint again, are you? I don't have any extra hands for you," he teased, fixing his hair with his free hand. I couldn't help but think how silly that was of him. He was like John Travolta in Grease, obsessively preening, yet here I was, grappling with my aversion to him.

"Why should I swoon over a man I can't stand?" I wondered silently. "Hmm. If not Kyle, then because of who?" Skyler pressed, seeking an answer in my eyes.

"Your cologne," I retorted, gesturing to my nose, "is just too overpowering."

He sniffed his arm, puzzled, as if questioning my critique. Seizing the moment, I declared, "I have to go, I have a class to go," and maneuvered around him. This time, he didn't stop me.

"See you tonight, Scarlett," he called out confidently as I walked away, I raised my arm in an attempt to dispel the lingering scent of his cologne.

I didn't look back, nor did I want to see how Skyler and Brooklyn reacted. The only solace was the thought of finally having a moment of peace and quiet in my classroom.

High school seemed to operate on an unspoken rule where athletes must pair with cheerleaders—a tiresome cliché.

At least Skyler and Brooklyn were compatible in one aspect—they both enjoyed exerting their influence over others.