H writing on the chalk board, droning on about what was going to be on their Spanish test Friday, so he leaned back in his desk and straightened his legs out. If there was no girlfriend, how the hell did he get the hickey? Sam glanced up at the front of the class and saw Mrs. Maybe that's why he kept obsessing about the fucking hickey. Not the thick glasses, pocket protector, and high-waist-pants nerd, but more of a head-always-in-a-book, super-polite, and no-sign-of-a-girlfriend sort of nerd.
Hollingsworth assigned Jamie Bayer the chair in front of him, Sam felt, well.
This was strange in itself because he doubted the boy had ever said more than a handful of words to him so far, and they were well past the middle of the school year. The little fucker with his white-blond, baby hair and those enormous chocolate brown Bambi eyes always got on his last damn nerve. Purple and angry looking, the bruise had to be a hickey. The damn thing kept teasing him, playing peek-a-boo from right under the edge of Jamie's shirt collar. Final Edited Version of One Little Bruise ©
