Gettin' Hooked by Nyomi Scott

Jonathan had used my find-a-prom-date site as a way to play his girl.
    I let out a low, slow breath when I reached the office, sort of surprised that Michelle and Jonathan weren’t there already. If the fight was being investigated shouldn’t those two be questioned, too? Michelle at the very least since she’d been the one who’d put the whuppin’ down.
    â€œIn here, Miss Lane,” Mr. Alton said, sticking his head out his office door right quick.
    I followed him inside, and he shut the door behind me, then indicated I should take a seat. Once I’d sat down he moved around to his side of the desk and slumped in his plump leather chair.
    â€œI’m presuming you know why you’re here?”
    As if on cue my puffy eye started to throb. Or maybe that was my head.
    I nodded. I knew.
    Mr. Alton shook his head, then turned his attention to some papers and started furiously writing notes on a long yellow pad. My hands were hella sweating as I gripped the cold metal armrests, and my pulse raced as I sat in the hard narrow chair.
    The bright overhead flourescent lights were making his beak nose shiny and all the half-healed shaving nicks stand out like crazy.
    Biting nervously on my lip, I waited for him to speak, but he didn’t. Not a single word, just kept on with his with his pen.
    It’s not like I needed him to tell me what this was all about, but it would have been hexxa nice to hurry up and get on with it. He might as well talk ’bout the fight. Everyone else was.
    But he still didn’t. After a little bit, I glanced at the clock and realized I’d been sitting there for nearly a half hour staring at his shiny, beaded-with-sweat forehead.
    I cleared my throat, just wanting to get on with it, but he didn’t react to my prompt. I felt like shit, a cold setting in after my rain-drenching run home. Though all my peeps had been diggin’ me for the haps, I’d ignored the text messages and e-mails, deciding on Sunday to stay in bed and play sick for most of the entire day.
    Scratch that, I wasn’t playin’ at it. Between my aching, stuffy head, swollen eye and stomach that had been touched with the twisting of nerves, sick was closer to the truth than a frickin’ stretch.
    The only reason I’d come to school this morning was because it was easier checkin’ in here than trying to explain to Gram—with my busted-up eye—why I was staying home. Since she stays in her room so much, avoiding her Sunday hadn’t been an issue, but had I remained in bed today, she’d have been in to see if I was doing okay.
    And I wasn’t ready to tell her I’d kissed two fiiine boys in one day, and walked away from them both. It was easier to come to school with my friends, to face Mr. Alton, than to lie in bed all day remembering the way Maurice felt. And the way he’d tasted.
    Easier gettin’ in trouble—if that’s what this was—than lying around dwelling on his accusing words. Or the way both fellas had tried to put some sorta claim on me without either of them asking me to be their girl.
    Aww, shit, this was crazy to be sitting here in the principal’s replaying Saturday. Again. I was hella trippin’ for letting those guys bother me at all. I didn’t have time for stupid, and both of them had acted straight stupid. Especially Maurice.
    Swallowing the lump in my throat and wiping my damp palms across my thighs, I glanced at the clock again as I blew out a frustrated breath. Another ten minutes and the first-period bell would ring and I’d have missed the entire class for nothing.
    â€œDid you wanna talk to me, Mr. Alton?” I asked, trying not to sound annoyed.
    â€œActually, Imani, I’ve been waiting for you. I figured there was something you need to tell me.”
    What-the-hell-evah! The dude was straight hella crazy if he thought I was going to volunteer to sprinkle. I shook my head, adding a