Coach Wiggins, my gym teacher, paces the basketball court as we sit and stretch out. Her fingers tug and toy the lime green lanyard attached to her whistle as her sneakers squeak against the shiny floors. “We’re playing dodge ball against Coach Mallory’s class.” A boy behind me lets out a quiet, “Yesss…” and a couple kids to my right bounce excitedly. I fucking hate dodge ball. Tennis? Okay. Swimming? Fine. Whiffle ball? Whatever. Dodge ball? No! Just…no! Nothing about dodge ball is remotely enjoyable. “Everyone grab a mesh vest from the bin over there and meet me on our half of the court.” Coach Wiggins blows her whistle, sending a sharp pain through my left ear drum. She is obsessed with that thing. It hangs out of her mouth for the duration of our gym period every day, and she blows it every chance she gets. She should’ve been a damn traffic cop. I pull a vest over top of my gym uniform and take my place strategically sandwiched between layers of other classmates.
What do You think about Wanted: A Bad Boy Romance?
