Swiftly I take off as fast as my short knobbly legs will let me, before the second bell rings and I get a detention for being late. The last time I got a detention was when I forgot to bring my PE uniform... for the third time. Mum forgot to wash it three weeks in a row (and it really was her fault because she never lets me touch the washing machine), and it STANK of mud and dog poo since I caught a cricket ball and fell into it. That was year seven, I have stayed clear from muddy areas of the oval since. 

I hide in a corner and change into my uniform. I rush out onto the oval just as Mr. Alf calls my name out on the roll.

"Just in time Miss Kafka," he comments under breath as I stand there, panting.

He finishes off by calling out my peer's names, and then opens the rubbish bin full of softball mittens. I groan, the whole class groans.

"Yes, that's right!" Mr. Alf turns to us smiling, "this is going to be our most exciting unit! We're going to be learning how to throw and catch a softball in the most efficient way so we catch, and  not drop it!"

The whole class groans.

"Grab a glove and partner up."

Everyone rushes for the gloves, not wanting to get the dreaded mitts at the bottom, the left-handed gloves. By the time the crowd clears, the bin has been tipped over and spilt on the ground. I huff and bend and pick up the only glove left, which is undoubtedly left-handed. I wince and slip my hand through the leftover sweat. This is already doomed to fail. I am already doomed to fail. 

"You're left handed, Petria?" Mr. Alf asks, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"No?" I cough, "'twas the only one left."

"You need to get in there while you can, mate," he replies, and he hands me his glove.

I raise my eyebrows, "No, I couldn't use yours."

"I don't wanna have any concussions, plus I can use the spare."

We were set across our section of the oval. No one wants to be partners with me, as they know they'll spend the whole time chasing after balls or taking trips to the sick bay. Mr. Alf pairs up with me and shows me his technique, and the ball hurls towards my face. I'm not prepared, so I duck and throw my hands up in the air.

The ball crashes into my arm and I fall backwards. There is immediate pain that throbs and crawls its way to the tips of my fingers, "Ow."

Mr. Alf rushes over and helps me up, "That looks nasty, sorry Tria. Small tip: you are meant to catch the ball with your hands, not your arms!"

"I know, I know!" I insists, holding my arms in my other hand, "I just wasn't ready."

"You had better get some ice on that," Mr. Alf whispers, "You know, you should keep your eyes on the ball at all times, sense it approaching, feel it flow through your veins and forget about the worries of the Political System! Breathe in the ball and stretch out your hand to welcome it home in the warmth of your glove...!"

He closes his eyes and looks to the sky, his pointed nose high in the air. Some of the girls in my class sigh lovingly and glare at me jealously. Sometimes I wonder if Mr. Alf is actually meant to be a Drama teacher but got confused with the paperwork.

****

"Hey Tria!"

I'm sitting on a bench with an ice pack pressed against my sore arm, sure enough a violet bruise is starting to show through the red blotch. Clarke bounds up to me in his red and blue Badminton uniform and takes a drink from the drinking fountains beside me. He licks the water from around his lips and sits next to me, our knees touching. He spies the ice pack on my arm, and if he wasn't suspicious about me sitting out from sport, he is now.

"What... did you do?" he asks slowly, narrowing his eyes then opens his mouth wide, "Please don't tell me it was Klaer."

"It wasn't, it was just me not being able to catch a ball," I sigh, "a day in the life of Petria Kafka."

Clarke sniffs and tucks a stray piece of hair behind my ear, "Is it horrible to say that I believe that you're not lying for once?"

I turn to him to make sure he's being serious, not teasing, or being horrid. Sure enough, he has his signature mischievous look in his eye, but still looks straight-faced, "No, not at all."

"CLARKE!" yells Coach Saya.

His head turns to the Coach and he screws up his nose, muttering, "Ugh, the bastard."

"Careful, mind your language," I tease.

"Don't die," he bids farewell and runs back to the Badminton courts.

"It's harder than it looks, Clarke," I mumble.

****

By the end of the day, the bruise has turned full out faded blue. Which doesn't make sense according to the diagram Clarke showed me on his phone, it should be turning blue tomorrow. My arms aches whenever I pick up my bag or move my arm too swiftly. I'm considering getting an amputation. 'Bruised and battered' should be my new motto.

But there is something that's been prickling away at the back of my mind. What happened to Klaer? Has she just come down with a cold? Or is she purposely avoiding us? Shouldn't it be me avoiding her? Why does Alisha think I caused this mess? I didn't want them to record it! I just want to forget it! Klaer has a mind of her own, if only I knew what was going on inside that thing.

"One more day," I mutter to myself, "One day left and then it's the weekend."

Mianna and I scoot along extra quick to the train station, this time not getting swept up by staring at boys at Badminton practise. We both knew what trouble that led us into last time. I We both hear Alisha screaming at us and pushing through the crowd of students behind us so we brake out into a run. As we reach the train station Mianna turns to me, "Why won't she leave you alone? After what you told me she did this morning, I thought that senior must have scared her off."

"Apparently not," I mutter as we tap our Smart Riders to the ticket machine, "She's going to keep on pushing until she gets an answer out of us."

"Do you reckon?" Mianna wonders as out train reaches the platform and we take a step back from the yellow line.

"Yes," we board the train, "That's what humans are like, selfish, only wanting what they want."

"That's deep for a Thursday afternoon," Mianna grunts.

"But it's true," I press on.

"It is," Mianna sighs, then her eyes turn bright as we sit down, "There was this Barbie movie I watched as a kid. An adaptation of A Christmas Carol by Dickens. One of the lines were 'in a selfish world, the selfish succeed.'"

"Ten cents that'll be Klaer's next Instagram caption," I mutter.

"You're on," we shake hands.

For the rest of the trip, Mianna babbles about Darrin. Today he'd spoken to her 27 times. She keeps a count in her school planner. She's got it out and is giving me a full rundown of the past five weeks. She's done the maths. There's been a 48% increase since I've started dating Clarke.

"Um Mianna?" I interrupt, "we started dating yesterday."

"Yeah, there's been a 48% between Tuesday and today, Thursday," Mianna sighs, then turns to me, face suddenly serious and frail... quiet, "do you think I have a chance with me? Or is this whole thing a joke?"

I don't know what to reply to that, "Mi, you've been my best friend, since when?"

"Kindergarten," she smiles.

"I know you better than any other kid in this school. I think you're beautiful, you're stunning. You've been there for me when I needed you most, look what you're doing now! I think you do have a chance, the way he smiles at you sometimes. This whole thing is not a joke! You have a chance."

"Thanks, Petria. I guess I'm a little jealous because you have Clarke now..." she looks away, then shoots her gaze back to me, "You've had a crush on him for a while, hey?"

"I don't know, I think I have. The way my stomach would protest when I caught his eyes, or how made I got inside when Klaer talked to him," I mumble.

"I wonder if she's just been jealous."

"I'd like to think there is a deeper meaning to why she's tearing us apart like this."

"But Tria, jealousy can do weird things to people," Mianna protests.

She picks up my hand up and flicks it up and down clumsily. The unknown train lady's voice fills our carriage, announcing my stop. I stand up and hug Mianna's head, like you do.

"See ya, gorgeous," Mianna beams.

"Bye ma'am," I curtsey and stand and wait by the train doors. 

Of course, as I leave, I see dad there waiting for me. He has toothpaste on his cheek, but he's wearing dress shirt and slacks. As if he is going somewhere, or maybe back to the office. He wraps an arms around my shoulder and I point out the toothpaste.

"Hello dad, I love you dad," he rolls his eyes, licking his fingers and wiping away the white muck.

"Hello dad, I love you dad," I echo, and he shoots me his winning smile, "by the way, what's with the fancy clothing?"

"I'm taking your mother on a date, she deserves it!" my father declares.

"On a Thursday?" 

"Her boss let her have a day off. Emmet's mum is letting you over for dinner."

My heart drops. I wanted to spend my night on the couch watching a documentary or drawing at my desk. But I try to act excited, "Oh, fun! That's sounds romantic for you."

My father winks, and I snort. I take this opportunity where he's in a good mood to ask about Saturday.

"Are we doing anything on the weekend, dad?"

"Not that I know of, but you'll be doing homework, no?" he leans down, "have you got a date with your boyfriend?"

I blink a few times; how does he know? "No, it's about homework."

"Yes! Homework!" Dad cheers, "what about it?"

"Um well for science I've been put in a group with Mianna, Clarke and Darrin, you know them, right?"

"Yeah, of course I know Mianna, and the boys on the Badminton team, nice boys, they are. Good looking too, your mum would approve," he winks at me again, I'm starting to suspect her has an eye-twitch. "So what is the point of your question?"

"If you'll let me, we're going to go over to Clarke's house to work on the project."

"Can I trust this boy?" he asks with his eyes narrowed suspiciously. The he looks to the clouds, "Yeah I think I can. You can go on Saturday, then your mother and I can have the apartment to ourselves."

"Thanks dad," I smiled, excited that I'll be able to spend the day with Clarke and my friends. Even if it is to do Science.

As we file into the lift dad whispers in my ear, "So you have your eyes on Clarke, hey?"

"What?!"

"You blushed every time you mentioned his name. I'm trusting you to be responsible, you know!" He looks serious now, the way you do when you're focused on something and will stop at nothing to complete it.

"I promise I will, I really will. They're my friends, you trust my judgement?"

Typical Petria Samantha Kafka always turning things around so it's other people's responsibility. Good job, sweetheart.

"I never said I didn't," dad says with a frown.

I wonder if dad and I only really have an older brother and younger sister relationship, only telling me off when he really must. Letting me fend on my own. Still loving and protecting me. But almost as if he's confused by how I act and sometimes annoyed by what I do.

"Okay," I whisper, as we reach our floor.

Mum comes out in a beautiful sapphire dress. Her hazel eyes pop and her makeup has a sense of natural elegance. She looks suddenly bright and young. Less tired, alive. Dad's mouth drops to the floor. Dad's pupils dilate and I have to shake my head to remember I'm not watching a movie.

That's when Dad walks towards mum and he kisses her on the lips gently and they don't tear apart. I sneak off into my room and get changed to go over to Emmet's. Jeans, a shirt and a hoodie take the place of my blazer, blouse, skirt and tights, changing my black school shoes for vans. Nothing compared to mum's elegant dress and silver heels. They must be going somewhere prestigious and upper class.

I remind myself it's only twenty-to-four and check my phone, millions of mindless social media notifications but one gets my attention, a screenshot from Mianna, of Klaer's most recent post.

@x.klaerdale.x

The caption lay: Some people must be aliens from a different milky way. They have no feelings for others. Some people are idiots. They steal what I want in life. She a b***h don't anyone go near her or you'll be hurt like I was. She may seem weak and small but it's all for show. She's a b***h. Don't trust her she's a backstabbing b***h.

My heart begins to speed up, running thousands of kilometres an hour around a four hundred metre track. Swimming faster than Michael Phelps in a backyard pond. No, she can't be talking about me, can she? The picture is her eating a block of chocolate under a fluffy blanket, perfect makeup except for a running streak of mascara.

I don't get it? What did I do? If anything set her off, it may well be the fact that we have proof that she abused us and could report her whenever we could. Perhaps she is scared of what people may do to her if they found out she isn't the perfect angel she is perceived to be. What if I'm thinking too far into this? It could be about someone else... 

Is she finally feeling guilty? 

Then why am I feeling like it's all my fault? 

(Well I've lost a percious ten cents now...) 

AN: Is it easier to have someone hate you, than be jealous of you? 

Merry late Christmas/ Happy Holidays and Enjoy the dying days of 2017...!