Scars of My Past(7)

By: D. C. Renee


“Okay, you got me,” I responded and pulled out my phone. We swapped, and I programmed my number in his phone. When he handed me back my phone, I couldn’t help but bark out a laugh. “Cam ‘Hot Guy from Writing’ Dents,” I read the name he’d programmed in my phone.

“Just making sure you wouldn’t forget which one I was,” he said with a wink and a shrug.

“All right ‘Hot Guy from Writing,’” I said mockingly. “I’ll copy my notes and bring them to you on Thursday. See you then.” I walked away with a smile that covered my entire face.

I had one more class before I met Amanda for lunch, but I couldn’t wait to tell her what had happened. When I finally got together with her, I spewed the entire situation, starting with Marc—whom she hadn’t liked from the very beginning and actually had warned me to be careful with. Of course, I hadn’t listened—stupid me.

“Oh, my God,” she practically sang at the top of her lungs after a squeal left her lips.

“My eardrums,” I said as I winced.

“Forget your eardrums,” she responded and waved her hand dismissively. “Do you know who Cam Dents is?”

“Uh, the guy I just told you about?” I said more like a question than an answer.

“Have I taught you nothing last semester?” she asked with mock frustration. “Cam Dents is the new star quarterback I was telling you about this morning.”

“Oh,” I responded.

“Oh is right. And he was totally flirting with you!” she said a little too loudly.

“He totally wasn’t,” I said. “He was trying to get on my good side so I’d do his work for him. And now it makes sense,” I said more to myself than to Amanda.

“What makes sense?”

“He’s probably used to everyone just doing things for him. Just lay on the charm, and the girls go crazy.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” She shrugged. “But Gen,” she said (Amanda, my parents, and Amy from my therapy program were the only ones I still let call me by that nickname), “you underestimate the power of you.”

“What does that even mean?” I asked.

“It means he probably was just using the notes thing as an excuse to get your number. God knows he probably doesn’t need to try to get girls. So if he’s trying with you? Well, heeeellooo,” she said, stretching the word out.

“First, that’s not the case. And second, I’m not going to be a bitch to him. If he needs help, I’ll help him. But you know my thing with football guys,” I added a little shyly. “Even if you were right, I don’t think I’d be able to do anything about it.”

“Puh-lease,” she said. “Douchebag was an asshole.” She’d taken to calling Tyler a douchebag whenever we mentioned him, which was very rare. “Not all football players are. And earth to Gen. Cam freaking jumped in and saved your ass all damsel-in-distress-like. Would Douchebag have done that? No. He would have been the Marc in this case. So don’t make any judgments about Cam until you learn more about him.”

“We have a class together; we’re not dating. I highly doubt I’m going to learn more about him.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” she responded. “I can’t wait to tell you ‘I told you so’ when you start doing the naked tango with ... what did he call himself? ‘Hot Guy from Writing.’” We both laughed at that. “Now, tell me again how hot he was.”

I chuckled at her question. “Like book cover model hot,” I responded, and she tossed her head back in Scarlett O’Hara fashion and proceeded to fan herself.

“I think I might have to switch to Writing 140 this semester.” I rolled my eyes. “Or maybe I’ll just skip my class and come stare at some eye candy with you.”

“As long as you take good notes, you’re more than welcome to steal my spot.”

“And prevent poor Cam from the grace of your presence? Never.”

“Yeah, yeah, cut the crap. I’m a means to an end for him. He’s probably required to have a minimum GPA or something. He saved me, so I’ll help him. End of story.”

“All right, pessimist,” she said. “We’ll drop it for now. But …” she said as she trailed off and gave me the look—the one that said we had plans tonight.

“Uh-oh. No. It’s the first day of school. We can’t have a party already,” I whined.

“Save it. We’re going. No ifs, ands, or buts about it. But we should decide what we’re wearing.”

And in true Amanda style, we spent the rest of our lunch discussing outfit options we’d probably not even end up wearing. We said goodbye as I went to my next class and she went to her work study. As I walked to my class, I couldn’t help but think about how different my life was now than in high school. There, I was nobody. Here, I was someone. I was beautiful, I was strong, and I’d survived.

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