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Seven Minutes From You

Part 1

blamethebluebirds

Quick Note: I do not think anyone by the name of Josh or Jeff are douches.

Mr. Gordy stalks away, glaring at me after our little exchange about the price of a gallon of milk. Yes, it's more expensive than it was in 1969. Yes, I assure you the price is correct. No, I don't pocket the extra money.

The miserable, old fart throws me one last wrinkled sneer over his shoulder that I match with a syrupy-sweet smile.

"Yo," I turn, seeing my coworker and self-appointed "best mate" Warren sitting on his ass and rolling a bruised apple up and down the conveyor belt on lane three. "I don't know how you do it, Max."

"What?" I ask, glancing at my analog watch. It reads 9:32. Two more hours till closing. Thank glob.

Warren shoots me that look, the one where he's stated something obvious yet it's still gone over my head. "Geezer Gordy, duh. Every week he comes in here griping about something or other and not once have I seen you lose your cool. Talk about Zen."

If only he knew.

Just last week I rammed a full grocery cart into Mr. Gordy's '94 Buick. Twice.

Of course, no one—including Warren—would ever know since all I have to do is raise my hand and rewind time then go about my day like it never happened.

I shrug.

"Whelp," Warren sighs, popping the p. "The peaches aren't going to stack themselves. Think you can handle the front?"

I roll my eyes. It's late and Fisher's Grocery is completely dead. "I think I can handle it."

"Sweetness," he calls, already disappearing down aisle six.

I'm just about to start stocking the cigarettes in their case when the bell above the dingy door chimes, signaling a customer. I immediately regret looking as members of the Vortex Club come sauntering in like they own the place. And, yep, there's the reigning queen of Blackwell Academy herself, Victoria Chase, leading her posse of sheeple (sheep people).

I hate how every time I see her, I immediately notice things about her. Like how she stands out like an elegant centerpiece on an artless background. How her perfectly assembled outfit, all starched folds and tapered edges, accents her frame. How her hair always manages to look neatly coiffed and falls about her striking face.

The only thing that ruins the image is the nasty smirk that spreads slow as molasses across painted lips as those steely, blue eyes zero in on me. I've seen this look a thousand times throughout my high school career and its gut-wrenching effect hasn't lessened a bit. Victoria's mouth moves, eyes never leaving mine, and her mindless minion zombies crack up laughing right on cue. No doubt about some scathing remark she's made about me.

I'm the first to break our staring contest. I've never been brave enough to challenge Victoria at her own game. The popular girl has had it out for me the moment I stepped foot onto Blackwell's campus and, for the life of me, I can't figure out why. The way she bullies me, you'd think I'd hocked a loogie down the collar of her tailored, cashmere sweater or something. As satisfying a thought as that is, it'd be the equivalent of signing my own death wish and I choose life, thank you very much.

I pretend not to watch as the Vortex crew wanders off down aisle twelve. I take the moment to gather myself and prepare for the onslaught Victoria no doubt has in store for me. Now, wasn't I suppose to be doing something? Oh, right.

I am silently, calmly, casually replacing receipt paper like the well-to-do employee that I am when Victoria and one of her lackeys approach. I want to say his name is Josh. Maybe Jeff or something equally douchebag-esque. Either way he's just a glorified lapdog that follows Victoria's every command. The jock's arms are filled with onion dip, chips, a two-litter of Mountain Dew and some hot dogs. No buns. Staples to any half-assed party. Not that I've ever been invited to one.

I try not to stare at Victoria too closely. Despite the fact that she reminds me of a snake poised to strike, she just looks so damn pretty. How someone so nice looking on the outside can be so rotten on the inside is one contradiction I'll never understand.

"Well, well," Victoria drawls in that breathless way of hers as Josh (Jeff?) transfers his load onto the conveyor belt. I keep my eyes trained on the scanner as I swipe the hot dogs. "Looks like ratchet-patch kid has been shopping at Goodwill again."

Jeff starts up with this deep laugh that seems overly exaggerated. I wisely keep my mouth shut and focus on closing out the sale as quickly as possible. But in my haste, clumsiness gets the better of me and I watch horrified as the French onion dip bounces off the conveyor and rolls itself underneath the counter.

"Nice going, hobo." Victoria tacks on as I just freeze up and stare stupidly into space. Her patience for me is practically not existent as she barks, "What are you standing there for? Waiting for a handout? Pick it up."

"R-right," I stutter uselessly, practically throwing myself to the floor to retrieve the runaway food item. I have to lie entirely on my front just to reach the dip but I manage to roll it towards me and snatch it up, prehistoric lint included.

I'm so busy wishing the ancient dust bunnies would swallow me whole that I don't notice Josh making his way around the plastic bag dispenser. Just as I'm getting to my feet, jockstrap sticks his foot out and, because of my complete lack of coordination, my legs somehow get tangled up and I'm falling. My arms do their job of bracing for the fall but they don't take into account how close my face is to the counter. My nose slams into the lacquered wood hard enough that tears spring to my eyes. I bite down on an expletive as I fall on my ass, hands cupping my smarting nose.

Shitfuck! Is that blood?

Jeff is guffawing even more loudly than before, his face a mixture of surprise and amusement like I had performed some elaborate circus trick. He immediately turns to Victoria, seeking approval and both of us freeze because, woah, Victoria looks livid.

I'm just beginning to wonder if my blood somehow spewed far enough to stain the girl's outfit when Victoria rounds on Jeff like a raging lioness.

"What the fuck was that?" She yells, tearing into him and I'm stare in awe as she steps right up into jockstrap's face.

"Chill, Vic. How was I supposed to know she was gonna eat it so badly?" He quickly explains, hands hovering in the air like he isn't sure what to do with himself. "I was just having a bit of fun."

"I know your IQ is just as tiny as your dick so let me spell it out for you: No. One's. Laughing." She bites out each word. "Now, do yourself and favor and get the fuck out. And don't even think about getting back in my car. Find another way home."

Jo-Je-whoever the fuck manages to stand his ground for a long, heated moment but his pride is no match for Victoria's ruthlessness. Finally, he backs down, looking somewhere between wounded and offended and I let out a breath I was unconsciously holding. Shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his letterman jacket, he turns tail and bumbles out the front door, bell tinkling behind him. Victoria stands coolly poised, watching him go.

I'm gawking, I know.

I'm just having a hard time believing Victoria—the Joker to my Batman—stood up for me. Did I cross over into the Twilight zone without realizing?

The queen of Blackwell eyes me with uncertainty for a moment before tucking her skirt around her thighs and crouching to my left.

"Let me see," she says bossily, tugging at my hands.

I struggle to keep my hands glued to my face but Richie-Rich is persistent. When I finally uncover my nose I ask, "Is it bleeding?" in a voice now annoyingly stunted and nasally-sounding. It's a rhetorical question since I can feel the blood pooling on my lips and dripping from my chin.

Victoria answers me anyways. "Obviously. Tilt your head back and hold still."

I do as she says and watch as she plucks a load of tissues from her designer sling bag. She holds the wad of tissue up to my throbbing nose and dabs at the stream of blood more gently than I thought her capable.

A silence hangs between us, broken only by the lame, poppy tune coming through the sound system and the distant racket of Victoria's trolls goofing off near the back of the store.

"Why'd you do it?" I mumble, the tang of blood on my tongue.

She scoffs as if I've offended her. "Just because I make fun of your hipster ass doesn't mean I want to cause you bodily harm."

Oh no, I can feel a word vomit coming. It comes spilling out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop it. "Could've fooled me."

Cornstarch-blue eyes look up from their task to lock gazes with me and I see a flash of something moving behind her eyes. It's gone before I can put a name to it.

"Sorry," I continue. "I didn't mean that."

"Yes," she states, not at all unkindly. "You did."

I suddenly realize that the dynamic between us has changed, warped into something alien and altogether different. The lines are a blur now, leaving us both unsure of where we stand. It's sad but if someone had told me I'd be having a civil conversation with Victoria today, I would have got Chloe to punch them in the face; this coming from the human time machine.

"Here," Victoria says, gesturing for me to take the bloody tissues from her. "I think you can take it from here."

Plugging my nose, we both get to our feet and stand there kind of awkwardly until I start, bending at the waist to pick up the forgotten onion dip at my feet. Mid-descent, I open my mouth to say something but it's quickly forgotten as I chance a glance up and notice Victoria's eyes are glued to my ass.

Uhhh…wha?

Blackwell's queen catches my eye and her gaze darts quickly away but it's too late. I know. And I know that she knows she's been caught.

Ho-ly mo-ther of—

I snap to attention which temporarily results in a head rush, and watch helplessly as Victoria's face runs through a range of emotions before settling on her usual go-to; anger. I'm almost relieved to see it because at least it makes sense—at least it's familiar territory

My brain goes into overdrive; a collage of whatthefuck's bouncing around my skull and ricocheting across misfiring synapses.

No, for cereal, like what the fuck?

And because my head is all jumbled to shit, all I manage to do is hold up the wayward dip stupidly and spew out, "Will this complete your transaction?"

I immediately know it's the wrong thing to say when Victoria slaps the container from my hand and it goes careening across the room. The abused container finally calls it quits and spills its contents all over the floor.

"You know what?" she asks in a sickly, sweet tone that curdles my insides. "I kind of like your nose like this. It's an improvement for that sad excuse you call a face."

With that, she spins on the heel of her designer boots and strides out the door. I'm left in her wake, too baffled to even consider turning back time for a restart.

Author's Note: So, originally I had planned for this to be a one-shot but my girlfriend behooved me to write more. I agreed as long as readers showed some interest in my continuing this. Let me know what you think.