The Frenemy Zone by Yolanda Wallace

Author:Yolanda Wallace [Wallace, Yolanda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bold Strokes Books
Published: 2022-11-02T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Olly felt more nervous on her sixth day at Frog Wallow High School than she had on her first. Her teammates didn’t treat her any differently than they usually did, which she was immensely grateful for. But most of them were still half-asleep, so they couldn’t provide an accurate representation of the treatment she could expect to receive from the rest of the student body. She headed to homeroom not knowing if she would be welcomed with open arms or given the cold shoulder. The answer turned out to be a mixture of both.

Her classmates’ conversations went from a dull roar to scattered whispers as soon as she, Keisha, and Shemar walked into the room. A few people stared openly at her while others refused to meet her eye. She took her seat feeling like she had a scarlet letter emblazoned on her chest. Unlike Hester Prynne’s, hers wasn’t a giant A for adultery, but a P for pariah.

She knew she was in for it when Parker Tomlinson, whose lame attempts at swagger usually came off as comical rather than authentic, began to head her way. He leaned on the front of her desk as if they were old friends even though they had never said much more than hello.

“Have you heard any good jokes lately?” he asked.

“No.”

“That’s because you are one.”

He lifted her desk a few inches into the air and let it fall. The loud thump was drowned out by the sound of derisive laughter. Mr. Beall’s token appeal for quiet went unheeded.

“If you don’t like it here, you can always go back where you came from,” Parker said. “They probably miss you in the land of fruits and nuts.”

“That is one seriously old joke, dude. But I shouldn’t be surprised it’s the best you could muster. I would remind you that one should never go into a battle of wits unarmed, but I fear the meaning might be lost on you.”

“Huh?”

“Exactly.”

He blew up like a pufferfish doused in cheap cologne. “What did you say to me?”

Logic told her to ignore him rather than continue to add fuel to his already raging fire. She could have sought refuge in the pages of the Zadie Smith novel she was reading for extra credit, but she had always preferred sticking out her chin than turning the other cheek.

“Don’t you find it the least bit ironic that you’re willing to appropriate my culture, but you get offended when I say I want to share the experience with you?” she asked.

“The library is open,” Keisha said.

Parker was dressed like an extra in a rap video. Sagging jeans, leather work boots, a thick gold chain with a dangling cross pendant, and an oversized T-shirt with a photo of Tupac Shakur on the front. He had given himself the nickname White Chocolate, but only those desperate to be in his circle used the moniker without a major amount of sarcasm involved.

“You look like a clown, dude. Do you like hip-hop for its rich

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