Tori Vega.
The name that used to bring a wave of nausea with it. The name that now just makes my head hurt. And now, as Beck fidgets awkwardly on the other side of the room and Sikowitz tells us about his russian neighbors and Cat draws tiny faces on her pink polished fingernails, I have the strong urge to leave class and never come back. Because she's sitting right next to me. I can smell her purfume, all beaches and sunshine and kittens and babies and whatever the hell else Vega bathes with at night.
(I stop myself before I can picture her doing just that)
Where the fuck does she get off sitting here? I run over all the times she's attempted it in the past, and I'm fairly certain I made it crystal clear she wasn't welcome.
(but now her fingers are tapping a beat onto her leg and I can't help but imagine running my fingers up, up, up that tan flesh until)
I try desperately to concentrate on Sikowitz's story. "...until he showed my that my pants were on fire."
Across the room, Andre pipes up. "How did you not notice that your pants were on fire?" A few other students murmer in agreement. Sikowitz gives him a blank look. "He's Russian," he says, as if that's explanation enough, and resumes sipping his coconut. Tori giggles under her breath and I swear to God it's the most adorable sound I've ever heard.
(don'tloseitdon'tfuckingloseit)
I shoot her a look that I imagine must stab through her long brown waves. Breifly, I entertain the notion of cutting them off entirely. She turns and faces me, as if she can actually feel the rays of hatred, and her stupid eyebrows narrow because perfect Vega doesn't understand why I don't worship her.
(Oh, but I do)