HAI LOVELYYY i just wanted to say you write so beautifully i aspire to write as well as you & also how have you been !! ^_^
tyyyy, this means a lot !!! i’ve been existing. im going through a writer's block and it's really hard because i have no motivation whatsoever, like at all, so im just hoping it'll end soon !!
to be honest, i like both. i’m not really into the stranger things fandom 😖 so i dont’t know anything about theories or whatever — but like i said, i think both are good & angsty!!!
hear me out on Natalie Scatorccio x reader but reader is Tiffany falconer coded👀👀👀👀
⠀⠀⠀𓏲 ⠀⠀FUCKING WEIRDO ( I LIKE U )⠀ 𓂅⠀natalie scatorccio⠀⠀ ೃ۫ ׅ ⠀
ིྀ ﹒ ( 𝔠.𝔴 ) mean girl!reader hiding yourself just to fit in nat is bullied jealousy unaware of homoerotic feelings... homophobic slurs mari is a mean girl too sorry marinat small mention lmao period typical homophobia enemies to lovers no proofread 32,7k words....
People just notice how beautiful you are.
At this point in your life, you know it. Not in an arrogant way, but because teachers smiled when they called on you. Boys tripped over themselves trying to make you laugh. Girls wanted to be your friend, or wanted to be you, and sometimes those were the same thing.
Jackie Taylor is sunshine.
Taissa Turner is ambition.
Lottie Matthews is mystery.
And you are the girl who always looks like she knows something everybody else didn't.
People laugh at your jokes before you’ve even finished telling them — sometimes you wonder if they would like you half as much if you aren’t pretty.
But you already know the answer, because you already see it — your friends spent lunch picking people apart. The weird girl who wore the same oversized sweaters every day. The freshman who hissed when he laughed. The girl in marching band who collected dead insects and pressed them into notebooks.
Everybody becomes entertainment — and you laugh along because everybody else does. So you’re no better than the others, you make comments and repeat rumors.
The funny thing is that none of you are particularly cruel on your own. Cruelty only happens in groups. Happens when seven girls sit together beneath the Friday night lights and feel untouchable.
“Ugh, she literally smells like ax body spray and regret,” Mari says, wrinkling her nose.
Lacey giggles into her soda can. “She probably thinks that’s a good thing.”
You snort. “Dude, I saw her try to fix her hair in the mirror by the lockers yesterday and it was… tragic.”
Matilda leans forward with that sharp little smile of hers. “Remember when she tried out for cheerleading? God.”
But even when you try to pretend, you feel a strange little twist inside your chest. If they talk like this about everyone else, they probably talk like this about you, too.
You look around at the discarded magazines and curling ribbon and half-finished sodas — evidence of a hundred afternoons exactly like this one. You try to imagine what they say when you aren’t there.
“Remember when she wore that red dress to the winter formal and everyone thought it was a costume?” Lacey remarks, flipping her hair.
Matilda cackles. “Oh my god, yes! Like… who owns a red dress like that? Was she going to prom or auditioning for a burlesque show?”
You bite your lip. You don’t say anything because you’re not supposed to care. But something about how easily they tear people down makes your stomach feel heavy.
Maybe they roll their eyes when you leave the room. Maybe they laugh about how hard you work to look effortless. Maybe they think you are shallow.
Mean.
Fake.
For some reason, these possibilities always linger in the back of your mind. You try to ignore them, but you can almost hear them whenever you aren’t there. Whispering. Laughter and judgment. It shouldn’t bother you — but it does.
You stare down at the table, twisting your fingers in your lap. The cafeteria is starting to thin out, but you don’t want to get up and go to class. There aren’t any tests or quizzes or anything you need to study for. Instead you wait until the noise of the room shrinks to a comfortable hum.
No matter how many guys try to woo you, there is something lonely about being admired. People love the version of you they carried around in their heads. Not who you truly are.
Hell, you don’t even know who you are. It went missing the second you stepped through high school halls like a lost lamb, and Mari Ibarra trapped you under her wing — for some reason, and here you are now. Pretending to be something you’re not.
Being an outsider is different from being an outcast. You never feel like you belong at Wiskayok High, but unlike the people your friends talk about, you have friends anyway. You have people to give you attention. You’re wanted.
If that’s not enough, you’re probably just being bitchy and spoiled.
So you stay. You win homecoming queen every year and go to parties. You date the hot guys that ask you out, you smoke whatever you find in someone’s car, and your grades hover over Cs. And you tell yourself it’s good enough.
You hate this. You hate how fake it all is — especially around this table. Every day feels the same. Your hair is perfect. Your clothes are right. You’re laughing in all the right places.
And you still feel hollow inside.
It’s exhausting.
But Mari has a knack for spotting when you feel like you’re drowning — and she never fails to find some way to reel you back. Usually with alcohol or weed, but that’s neither here nor there.
The warning bell rings, jolting you back to reality. As everyone starts picking up their trash, Mari leans toward you with a devious smile. “Wanna skip fourth period?”
“Sure.”
It’s easy.
Some places become yours simply because you’ve carried enough pieces of yourself there.
This one sits half a mile beyond the old railroad tracks, hidden behind a curtain of trees and wild blackberry bushes. Most people in Wiskayok don’t know it exists. The few who do have forgotten.
You come whenever the noise got too loud. Whenever being you became exhausting.
The stream winds slowly through the forest, its greenish-brown waters calm in the sun. Dragonflies skim the surface of the water. The air smells of damp earth and leaves baking in the heat.
You drop your backpack beside the big oak tree near the bank and sit down in the grass. Drawing is what matters most to you, so you pull out your sketchbook and the pencils you take with you wherever you go.
You flip to a blank page and start sketching.
A random tree. The curve of its roots. The way its branches reached across the water like old hands. You start to feel the knot in your chest loosen. Your shoulders relax. Your gaze drifts off, focused on nothing but the pencil in your hand.
This is the only thing you can claim as your own. A love for drawing, for capturing a spontaneous moment in messy strokes.
After a few moments, you hear footsteps. You look up to see a girl sitting on the opposite bank with some worn-out boots, dangling over the creek. A cigarette glows between her fingers. Sunlight catches in messy blonde hair. A battered leather jacket protecting her from the cold weather.
For a second you just stare. Then your brain kicks into gear and scans through all the mental files of names and people you know from your town, and you realize that girl is Natalie Scatorccio.
The girl people whisper about. The slut. The burnout. The drunk’s daughter. She fucking shot her dad. That girl is a psycho, Lacey had muttered once.
You watch her as she stares at the water with blank eyes. With her face in profile, you realize how strikingly pretty she is — almost fragile. It’s a total contradiction to everything you’ve ever heard. Like somebody has peeled away the version everyone talks about and left behind something quieter.
Then she notices you.
She doesn’t flinch. Just slowly turns her head toward you, cigarette between two fingers. Her blue eyes are tired but sharp, like she’s always calculating. You feel something uncomfortable twist in your stomach.
The feeling of being caught. Of somebody seeing the version of you that existed outside pep rallies and crowded hallways. You hate that feeling.
It feels strange for someone to watch you sketch. This is something you do only when you’re alone. You feel exposed — like someone is watching your subconscious and trying to make sense of it.
A long moment passes. You’re half-expecting her to scoff or roll her eyes or ask what the hell you think you’re doing. She just keeps looking so you put the mask on; the golden girl. “Didn’t know people like you knew about this place.”
Her eyebrows arch with a hint of irritation at the word you. “Yeah? Like me?” She brings the cigarette to her mouth, inhaling deeply. Smoke escapes between her teeth as she exhales.
You can’t tell if she’s actually annoyed, or just playing at it — her features are as blank as a doll. So you shrug, trying to look unbothered, leaning back against the trunk of the tree. “Yeah, you know, like...” You look at her up and down, grimacing for her to see. “You.”
Instead of looking offended, she scoffs. Like you’ve said something amusing. “Seeing poor people ruins the scenery?”
You roll your eyes. There it was — the attitude, the reason everybody hated her. “Trust me,” you remark. “You’re not important enough to ruin anything.”
“Oh wow,” Nat says, voice dripping with sarcasm. “You really got the whole mean girl thing down, huh?” She takes another slow drag from her cigarette, watching you through half-lidded eyes like she’s trying to figure out if you’re stupid or just rich. Her gaze flickers to your sketchbook, and you feel another knot twist in your stomach. There’s something in the way Nat looks at it. Like she sees things other people wouldn’t. “That your drawing?”
“Why do you care?” You don’t offer any information, keeping your tone neutral. You snap the sketchbook shut and tuck it back into your bag like you’re hiding something embarrassing.
Heat crawls up your neck and suddenly you feel stupid, because she isn’t looking at your cheerleading uniform. She was looking at a sketch. Something yours that no one else knows about.
Nat watches this with quiet amusement before flicking ash into the water below her boots. “Didn’t know princesses could draw.”
“Didn’t know alcoholics could read — but here we are.”
“Fuck you,” Nat deadpans, and something behind her eyes close. The words came out sharper than intended. She looks away and now you notice how the cigarette trembles almost imperceptibly between her fingers.
You blink once, twice — then suddenly something in your brain shifts. Because you were waiting for a lot of things; a snide comment about your popularity, and her rolling her eyes or scoffing at you. Or maybe a nasty retort, with a smirk to match the one you usually give her. Anything but this.
She looks like the words stung.
“Fuck you too,” you shoot back, but there’s no real heat behind it. You cross your arms and look away, suddenly hyper-aware of how perfectly pressed your jeans are compared to Nat’s ripped ones.
The silence that follows is thick. The creek bubbles softly between you two like nature itself is awkward about this tension.
It’s hard to imagine this girl as the burnout everyone talks about. The drunk that smells like cigarettes, who’s dad used to beat the shit out of her mom.
You have the sudden, insane urge to apologize, but your words feel stuck in your throat. You can’t tell if she actually hates you or just thinks this interaction is as strange as you do. This whole thing — sitting by the stream and talking about nothing while avoiding all the things that actually should be said.
You look at her again. She stares back at you, her sharp features softened by the trees behind her. The breeze catches a strand of her bleached hair, tugging it away from her face. She looks tired — that was the first thing you noticed. She has dark circles under her eyes and her jawline is too sharp.
“You know,” you start, talking shit again, because it’s your only way of communication, it seems. “It’s actually impressive how every single thing people say about you turns out to be true.”
“Like what?” Nat asks flatly, voice devoid of any emotion. She flicks the cigarette butt into the creek and it hisses as it lands in the water. Leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. The leather jacket creaks with movement.
You start ticking off a mental list in your head — the rumors and whispers you’ve heard about this girl over the years. “That you smoke weed every day. That you hang out with drug dealers. That you drink so much it could kill a horse.”
Quietly, Nat watches you, her expression unreadable. Almost like she’s a little bit entertained, even though she clearly isn’t impressed. The only sign of annoyance is a slow twitch in her jaw. That, and a small muscle pulsing in her temple.
"You act like you're better than everybody."
Nat blinks, then laughs. The sound bounces across the water. “Oh, that’s fucking rich.”
Your jaw tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve spent ten minutes insulting me. You’re sitting here judging me like you’ve never done anything shady in your life,” Nat snides, her voice rising slightly. “Like you don’t lie to your parents or skip class or sneak out at night.” She leans back again, arms crossed over her chest. “News flash: everyone does bad shit.” She clears her throat. “But I guess the difference is that people talk about it when I do.”
“People talk because you give them reasons to,” You hiss, voice sharp. You want this feeling out of your chest. “You smell like smoke all the time. You’re always at parties with older guys who are obviously dealing something.”
A muscle in Nats jaw ticks again. “And that makes it your business?”
“No — it’s just pathetic.” Your voice is almost a snarl. "I never get in trouble. At school. With my parents. I keep my grades up even if I hate the classes.” You pause. “I just try to be normal and people like me anyway.”
“Wow.” Nat doesn’t look insulted — more like she thinks you’re an idiot. “You seriously think people like you for you?
You laugh, and it comes out sharp. “Of course they do. I’ve been homecoming queen since freshman year. I have all the boys who want me. I’m at the parties people dream of getting invited to.”
She huffs, almost like she thinks that’s funny. “Wanna talk about pathetic?” She mutters under her breath.
Your fingers clench around the straps of your backpack. Now you’re getting angry; the feeling curling hot inside your chest like a small fire. “I have friends — real friends who don’t just hang around for parties and alcohol. I have a life. Boys that actually want to date me.” You need to leave.
It pisses you off. Your shoulders tense and your throat tightens a little. "You're unbelievable."
"So I've heard."
For some reason that answer makes you angrier than any insult could have. You want a fight, want her to throw something back.
Instead she just sits there looking exhausted. Like she’s heard every horrible thing you could possibly say already. Like yours isn’t even original.
So you leave. You walk away before she can see how strangely unsettled you feel. Cross the railroad tracks. Pass through the blackberry bushes.
And somehow Natalie Scatorccio follows you anyway.
Because after that day you start noticing her.
The problem is you can’t stop.
You’d see her leaning against her locker between classes, headphones hanging around her neck, and suddenly you’d forget what Jackie is saying.
You’d catch sight of her outside school smoking behind the gym and find yourself staring until somebody asks if you are listening. You’d watch her walk through hallways alone.
You watch.
And watch.
And watch.
It becomes embarrassing — even for your standards, like picking at a scab. You can’t leave it alone. Or leave her alone. Panic blooms inside your chest every time this happens, because what if somebody notices?
So you keep performing, but this time louder, or meaner, as if that’d manage to stop your eyes from following her. Like if you play the role hard enough nobody will ever suspect anything underneath it.
You hate these urges. It’s not like you want to watch her every waking moment like a creep. You have no clue why you even notice her that much in the first place.
But every time your eyes land on her, something swells beneath your ribs. It gets harder to look away after that first day, as if curiosity has somehow become an actual physical feeling.
One afternoon you are standing with Mari and a few girls in the bathroom between classes. The mirrors reflect perfect hair and lip gloss and easy smiles. Everybody is talking at once.
Then the bathroom door opens. Nat walks in. Immediately your pulse jumps, for some stupid, fucking reason.
“Ugh, what’s she doing here?” Mari mutters under her breath, loud enough for everyone to hear.
The bathroom falls into that awkward silence where all the conversations die down. Nat doesn’t seem phased by it at all as she heads straight for the sinks like she owns the place. She hasn’t even look your way yet.
That’s why, before you could stop yourself, the words slip out. Cruel enough. “I didn’t know she could use the girls’ bathroom.”
Some of the girls laugh as if on cue. Mari covers a smile. Someone snorts. Nat glances up at the mirror at the sound, and her gaze lands on you. For a second her expression is unreadable — but there’s a slight twitch in her jaw like something is pissing her off.
Then she just stares at you. Not even glancing at Mari or the other girls. Almost like she’s looking straight through you. Straight through the girl everybody else thinks you are, and somehow right into the person hiding beneath it all.
You swallow, feeling your own fake smile faltering.
It lasts just a moment before her gaze moves away. She starts washing her hands with a cold expression of indifference. You can suddenly hear your own heartbeat over the silence, drumming against your ribs as you stare at her reflection.
You watch her move, taking inventory on all the small things you never noticed before. Her fingers look thin and her shoulders are narrow. She still looks tired, with dark circles under her eyes and pale skin. The leather jacket looks big on her, too — like the kind of thing a boyfriend would lend her.
Well, that goth guy could be her boyfriend — they’re always hanging out together. Kevyn or something you think he’s called, pretty pathetic. He seems pretty normal, but normal means boring, at least to you. Nothing good enough to be entertained, so why would Nat be with a guy like him?
As if she could hear your thoughts, she glances up — and suddenly you realize you’re staring at her again. You hastily look away, feeling your cheeks burn, but somehow this makes it worse because it’s painfully obvious that you are looking. You feel like everyone else in the room is watching.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, Mari notices it, too and speaks up, “What are you staring at, gaywad?” She laughs, cruelly. You wince. “She’s not gonna let you finger her.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Nat snaps suddenly, turning off the faucet with more force than necessary. She dries her hands roughly on her jeans before spinning around to face Mari directly. Her voice is low but sharp enough to cut through the bathroom’s silence like a knife. “Tried to kiss me at a party and now you’re pretending you’re straight.”
She drops the bomb and leaves the bathroom. Just like that.
“You tried to kiss her?” You ask Mari, angrier than you should be — like, Mari has bad taste in people (Danny Meers proved that), but you never thought she’d stoop so low and Natalie Scatorccio is a girl. Besides, they wouldn’t make a good couple. It would be like oil and water.
“What the fuck?” Lacey breathes, staring at Mari.
Mari’s face flushes red instantly. “It was one time,” she hisses defensively, arms crossing over her chest like she’s trying to protect herself from judgment. “I was drunk.” A beat passes where no one speaks because that excuse doesn’t even sound good coming out of Mari’s mouth and everyone knows it. “Why are we even talking about this?!”
“That is fucking disgusting, Mari.” You sneer.
“Jesus, why does it matter to you anyway?” Mari snaps, glaring at you.
You grit your teeth, not wanting to answer that question, because why should it matter? You don’t even like Natalie. You think she looks like a hot mess and smells like cigarettes 90% of the time. She’s a burnout. But the idea of her kissing someone like Mari and then being called disgusting is just so wrong. “Are you a dyke?”
“No, dumbass. I like guys.” She says it a little too quickly for it to be true. Like maybe she’s trying to convince herself too.
You roll her eyes in disbelief because that answer was pathetic. “Right.” You storm off. From what you understood, Mari tried to kiss her, but Nat wouldn’t let her — why not? Like, you’ve heard rumors that Nat isn’t entirely straight, but maybe she’s just not her type. It gives you a sense of satisfaction to think that Nat rejected her.
Your pulse is hammering in your ears for some reason that makes no sense at all. Why do you care who Mari kisses? Why does Nat rejecting her even matter to you? It shouldn’t. You barely know Natalie Scatorccio beyond gossip and rumors.
But as you walk fast toward your next class, something about today feels... off. Like everything just tilted slightly on its axis without warning.
For some reason you think about her for the rest of the day, like little flashes in your mind. Her expression when she walked into the bathroom. Her face in profile as she washed her hands. It’s not even anything important, not even the moment when Mari and her argued — just the little details that you somehow started noticing. How pretty her eyes are. The way her leather jacket sits on her shoulders.
“God, what’s wrong with you today?” Jackie asks as she bumps your shoulder while walking down the hall.
You blink. “Nothing.”
“You’ve been spacing out all period,” she continues, frowning slightly. She knows you better than most people do.
“I just didn’t sleep well.”
Jackie gives a little hum of acknowledgment and lets it go for now.
By October, the leaves have started turning the color of old pennies.
Wiskayok looks softer in autumn, that’s what you like to think.
Fall is your favorite. The days get shorter, more crisp. You can breathe in the mornings and feel that cold, clear air go all the way to your lungs. Everything is just sharper in fall. Even the edges of your own mind.
The air carries woodsmoke from distant chimneys. Trees along the roads blush gold and amber, and every morning the school parking lot glitters with frost that disappears by first period. It’s the kind of season that makes people nostalgic for things that hasn’t happened yet.
Everything is just sharper, and this fall you catch yourself noticing things other people don’t; it’s a weird, new awareness that creeps out of nowhere. The way the light streams through the windows in geometry class and makes your teacher’s hair glow like a halo, the way someone’s voice breaks when they get excited… and the way Natalie Scatorccio sits alone on a picnic table to smoke between classes.
She doesn’t notice you staring, leaning back against the trunk of the tree, her legs dangling off the edge of the picnic table. A cigarette dangles between her lips and her dark jacket looks like a shield against the world.
“Excuse me.” The interruption immediately makes thirty heads turn, including yours. You are sitting in history when the office aide appears in the doorway.
Mrs. Wheeler pauses mid-lecture. “Can I help you?”
The aide glances down at a slip of paper. “I’m looking for her.” And then points directly at you.
“Yeah?” You call out, confused. The aide walks over and hands you a note.
It reads: Principal’s office. Now. Your stomach drops because nothing good ever comes from that summons. You grab your bag and stand up, ignoring the murmurs around you.
They probably assume you’ve won another academic award. Or gotten selected for some leadership program. Or been invited to represent the school at some competition.
You follow the aide through the hallway, sneakers squeaking against polished floors.
Mr. Harris is waiting at his desk with an unreadable expression. You have a good rapport with most teachers, which is why this situation feels so alien. “Have a seat.”
Your legs almost buckle as you lower yourself into a chair. You cross your hands in your lap, doing your best to appear calm. Waiting for a scolding. Or a lecture. Or any kind of explanation for this, because the principal has absolutely no reason to speak with you.
He watches you for a few moments, like he’s searching for something in your expression. You resist the urge to fidget in your seat, but you end up twisting your fingers behind your back so he can’t see a thing. Finally, he sighs and leans back in his chair. “You’re probably wondering why you’re here.”
“It would help if you told me, yes,” You admit. There’s a sinking feeling churning through your gut and you have no idea why.
Mr. Harris seems to notice the edge in your voice. Something in his expression softens in response. “We have a student who's falling behind.” Relief floods through you so quickly it almost makes you laugh. “You’ve got one of the highest grades in History,” he continues. “Mrs. Wheeler suggested you.”
You nod. “Who will I be helping?”
Mr. Harris exhales through his nose, tapping a pen on the desk and looks down at the paperwork. “Natalie Scatorccio.”
The relief vanishes immediately.
“Natalie?” You echo, voice flat. Your mind races immediately to her failing grades, the way she skips classes constantly, how everyone knows she barely shows up unless absolutely necessary. The girl you’ve been staring at for weeks like some weirdo without even realizing it.
“She needs a tutor,” Mr. Harris continues, oblivious to your internal crisis.
“No.” The word escapes before you can stop it. His eyebrows rise. “No! Sorry. I mean — I just...” You take a second to calm yourself down. “I’ll do it. Sorry.”
He nods, seemingly satisfied. “That’s what I thought.” He looks at you with a slight gleam in his eye. You wonder if this is a test in some way; if he’s judging you to see if you’ll back out.
Your mind is spinning. You aren’t sure you can even keep track of all the questions whirling around. You should be grateful. It’s an easy way to make yourself look good.
But you can only think of the one thing that sounds like a nightmare; spending time with Natalie Scatorccio.
“I’d be happy to help.”
Now, the hall is crowded, bodies moving in slow currents between classes. Conversation bounce off lockers. Somebody is laughing too loudly near the trophy case. Somebody else is arguing with a teacher about an overdue assignment.
Nat stands alone near the end of the science wing.
It annoys you how easily your eyes always find her.
One shoulder rests against a locker. A battered backpack hangs from her arm. Her headphones sit around her neck. She looks exhausted in the particular way only Nat ever does, like she’s spent the night fighting something invisible.
A part of you feels it, too. For a second you simply watch how the sunlight from a nearby window catches in her blonde hair. Then you remember yourself and cross the hallway.
“Hey.” You stop in front of her, blocking the hallway slightly. She turns her head slowly, like she’s been expecting this. Or maybe hoping for it. Her dark brown eyes lock onto yours, unreadable as ever.
For a second neither of you speaks.
Then Nat pushes off the locker and crosses her arms over her chest. “What?” Her voice is flat, but not hostile exactly — just guarded in that way she always seems to be around people who aren’t Kevyn or Van.
“You’ve got tutoring after school.”
Nat blinks. “What?”
“History.”
She stares at you incredulously for a moment like she’s making sure she heard you right. Her gaze feels surprisingly intense, but you meet it anyway. Then her expression shifts into one of annoyance. “You’re fucking with me, right?”
I wish, your brain supplies, you almost hit your own head so it could disappear. You don’t know in which way that voice meant it, either. “No. The principal assigned me to tutor you.”
Nat exhales sharply through her nose. “Oh, come on.” She drags a hand down her face like this is the most inconvenient thing that’s ever happened to her. “I didn’t ask for a tutor,” she snaps. “Of course it’s you. Because why not.” She sounds more like she’s talking to herself than you.
Your jaw tightens at the obvious implication. “What, you’d rather have someone else?”
Nat scoffs. “Honestly, yeah.” Her gaze skimm over your face as if taking inventory.
Your fingers curl into fists at your side. Nobody knows how to get under your skin the way Nat does. “I didn’t ask for this either,” you shoot back, frustration bubbling up now too. “You think I wanted to be stuck tutoring some burnout who smells like cigarettes?” Her jaw clenches at that one.
“Oh, real fucking classy.” Nat rolls her eyes. “Then tell the principal no,” she snaps, voice sharp. “I don’t need help.” She adjusts her headphones like she’s done with this conversation and turns to leave. You reach out without thinking, grabbing her wrist before she can walk away.
When you do, she stops and looks down at your hand wrapped around her wrist. The gesture feels oddly intimate, even with how tight your grip is. Her pulse thrums quickly under your fingers. Her wrist stays limp in your grip for a second before she yanks it back hard. “Don’t touch me.”
You’ve seen animals move like that before. Like they expected every interaction to become a fight. “I’m fucking serious, Natalie.”
“So am I. I’m not doing tutoring.”
She moves to brush past you, but you step directly in her path. “You don’t get another choice in this,” you retort. “You either do it or let yourself fail—”
Nat leans closer so she’s almost right in your face. The space between you gets more charged somehow. She glares at you through a curtain of dark blonde hair, dark eyes flashing with irritation. “And who are you to tell me what to do?”
She’s close enough that you can smell the cigarettes clinging to her clothes. You resist the urge to recoil. “I’m the girl you’re stuck tutoring.”
She makes a harsh sound from the back of her throat. “I’m not stuck tutoring anyone. I don’t need help—” Your hands ball into fists at your side, trying to control your own temper but then you realize what the real problem is.
It’s not embarrassment. It’s pride, now you can almost see it physically. The same stubborn streak you’ve noticed at the creek. Refusal to let anyone get close enough to help — like she’d rather drown than let someone throw her a rope.
You find it ridiculous — and weirdly fascinating.
“This isn’t about you needing help. It’s for the grade.”
Nat narrows her eyes. “Since when do you care about my grade?” Her tone is mocking now, skeptical in a way that makes your skin prickle with irritation.
“I don’t,” you say honestly. “But I’m not failing because of you. If people find out I tutored someone who still failed history? They’ll think it was my fault.”
Silence envolves you two as Nat glares at you, and you glare right back. This isn’t exactly unusual. You and Natalie arguing have become something of a spectator sport.
“Go tutor somebody who cares.”
You laugh. “Oh trust me, if I had literally any say in this, I would.” That earns another glare — a particularly good one. Nat really did have impressive glaring abilities, you’d give her that.
Something in her expression shifts just slightly. Enough that you notice. Her shoulders sag just a little bit, the tension in her jaw relaxing a fraction. You realize that she wants to argue more — that maybe she needs something to fight against to feel real. And that maybe, in her life, fighting is all she knows.
“Look,” you start, the words come out softer than intended. “I don’t want to do this either." You ignore the sarcastic comment under her breath. “This is just to get the principal off your back so he doesn’t have anything to complain about or any reason to expel you — because, as far as I know, he’s already keeping an eye on you.”
She doesn’t answer for a long moment, eyeing you closely like she’s weighing the pros and cons. You try not to fidget under her gaze. Finally, she turns her head away from you and her jaw clenches again. Her voice comes out almost as a growl. “Fine. I’ll do the stupid tutoring.”
You smile. Nat raises one eyebrow at your reaction. Like she wasn’t expecting you to win. Like she wasn’t expecting anything from you — but she’s stuck now. You remember yourself and step back into your role. You should not be smiling at this mess.
“Good. Glad we agree.”
Another long, awkward pause as you stare at each other, neither of you quite sure what to say next. You look away first, crossing your arms over her chest and shifting slightly. She pushes a hand through her hair. It looks like the fight has gone out of her, for the moment at least.
“Meet me in the library after school.” You tell her, voice flat again.
Nat scoffs. “The library? Really?” Her nose wrinkles like you just suggested meeting in a sewer.
“Yes, the library,” you snap back. “Unless you’d rather study history in your trailer where it smells like beer and regret.”
She glares at that one but doesn’t argue further. Just exhales through her nose again, that signature annoyed Nat sound. “Whatever.” She turns on her heel and leaves.
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