Chapter Eighteen: "Rebels."
TO SAY that I was shocked would be an understatement.
I'm not sure if this chick did her research throughout the period or what, but I don't know how she came to that conclusion. I didn't tell anyone my origin; just only the secretary that I moved from LA. But even if that, you can put two people together, an American and Canadian, and there's a 50-50 chance that they're what your guess is.
Besides, it's not like everyone of different cultures or whatnot have big logos or tattoos showing their origin. I don't have a taco tattoo, and I highly doubt that Carly has hockey sticks or maple syrup permanently coloured on her skin.
Maybe she was kidding with me?
"What makes you think I'm not Canadian?" I ask her warily. Whether I liked it or not, I'm Canadian now.
"I don't know. It's just this vibe I get. Plus, your accent." Carly answers. She's halfway done her meal while I haven't even wolfed down a quarter.
"To me, you have an accent." I point out. Is that a Canadian thing?
Do they have accents?
Well no shit, Brooklyn, everyone to you has an accent.
"Fair point." She shrugs. "But was I right?" She says a minute after.
I sigh. A little bit of harm never hurt nobody, right? "Yes."
She squeals. Literally. "Yes! I knew it!" Out of her sudden happy outburst, she manages to fling some spaghetti across the table behind meâluckily missing my whole body in the processâand hits another student. "Oh shit. Sorry!"
She gets a growl in response before we silently laugh together. Carly seems pretty laid back; she seems really comfortable around me, and likewise. She kind of reminds me of myself when I lived in LA: carefree, happy, full of life.
"So, spill the beans!" She says, tapping my arm. She's a little too high on the adrenaline, but I wonder if she just ate a sugary breakfast and is having a sugar high, or if she is naturally like this.
I hope it's the latter.
"I'm from America." I say with a shrug.
"No way is that an American accent." She scoffs. "But hey, I know you're new to this place, so if you don't want to let me stare through your soul than by all means, don't let me. I'm just curious. I'm actually so nosy, I annoy myself."
This I laugh at. Jody is the exact same way.
"It's not, I moved to the U.S. about four and a half years ago."
"Really? From where?"
"Mexico."
"Wow!" She grins, "I've always wanted to go there. I heard it's really hot and the beaches are beautiful!"
"They are, I can't deny that." I chuckle.
"Isn't it dangerous there, though? I mean, I'm not one to judge, I don't judge a book by its cover without reading it or its description first, but I've heard things."
I shrug. It's a complicated place. Mexico definitely has its fair share of violence and danger, but every place does. It's just that we're not as authoritative as other countries. There are parts in the country where you can literally walk around with a rifle in your hand like it's a hand purse.
"It depends where you go, I guess. Some places, like Mexico City can be bad in some parts, but it all really depends on where you go, where you stay, and who you meet or approach. I was always told to have sources where you're going, but I don't know how that works around here."
"Wow." Is all she says. I am truly amazed with how easy and relaxed I am right now. Earlier I was a nervous wreck; now I'm having a casual conversation with a girl without worrying about speaking in something she most definitely wouldn't understand.
"I need to confess something." I speak up. Whether we become friends or not, it's totally not up to me because I will gladly befriend her, but I figured that since she's in a class of mine and possibly some others, then she might as well have the warning.
It's honestly the most I can do.
"What?" She asks, taking the last big forkful of her spaghetti and pushing her tray aside, giving me her undivided attention.
"I'm Spanish," I begin, but she cuts me off.
"Obviously."
"But I should probably let you know that I have a strong habit to say things without knowing. With that being said, whenever I'm drunk, speaking without paying attention, tired, nervous or angry, it will be in Spanish. It's something that I tried so hard to fix, but it's being a hard process.
"I figured that I should let you know in case I start ramblingâsomething I also can doâand then I watch your face go from calm and collected to confused and looking at me like I've grown two heads. I'm rambling right now; do you see my struggle now?"
She laughs for a few minutes, making me smile with her. "I do," she giggles, calming down a little, "I understand, though. Don't worry about it."
"So, what's your name?" She asks. "I kind of just dragged you away and never got a proper introduction."
I shrug, leaving it. "It's totally okay."
"Well, I'm sure you heard my talking with Ms. Ox, but I'll say it again. The name's Carly. Junior, hates school, loves guys."
I grin. "Brooklyn. Also Junior, sucks at school, hates it, does it anyway. Oh, and Mexican."
"Ah, God, I know I said this already but oh my God, I can't get over how much I love Mexico! They have better tasting tacos than Taco Bell."
"Thought you never been?" I ask, my eyebrows raised. Had I not heard her properly?
"I haven't." She answers. Nope, I did. "But my parents went there for their anniversary and brought home some of their tacos. Whether that's illegal or not I don't know, but God, they're so good."
We continue eating our lunch, well, my lunch, and have good conversation. I may have only been sitting in the cafeteria for twenty minutes, but it's felt like hours. Carly makes me feel like I've known her my whole life.
Just like Lacey and I. Gosh I miss her so much. Shit, isn't she supposed to be calling me?
I check the time on my phone to see that it's only 11:20 a.m.
She won't be calling yet.
Wait! Was I supposed to call her instead? Damn it, now I know why Justin was always the one who kept track of things!
"So how'd you break your arm?"
I'm pulled out of my thoughts and stare at Carly. "Fight."
"Must have been one hell of a fight then." She chuckles.
Oh you have no idea. "Yeah."
She's about to say something when the colour in her face vanishes, and for some suspicious reason, she's looking at me with some kind of adoration, but I swear to God that the look in her eye is lust. It's like her eyes suddenly go from playful and curious to heart eyes.
Please don't make this girl a lesbian and have her say she likes me.
Not that I have anything against lesbians, or gay people for that matter since one of my ex friends is one but I think this girl is checking out the wrong item.
It'd be a ripoff, not a discount.
"Oh. My. Hot. Hell." She says in extreme awe and intrigue.
My eyebrows sky rocket up my hairline. Do I have spaghetti on my face? "What?"
"I'm in heaven." She coos.
"You're kinda freaking me out. You're looking at me like a dog and a bone."
That seems to snap her somewhat out of her hypnosis and turn her eyes to me briefly before flicking them back behind me. "It's them. God, they're so freaking hot, Brooklyn, you have no idea."
"Who's hot?"
"The Canadian Rebels."
"I'm sorry, maybe I misheard you. Did you just say Canadian Rebels?"
"Yes!" She sighs dreamily, "Brooke, the Rebel Brothers are the hottest boys in school! That's why Atticus is fourth."
I still don't know who's fifth!
Anyway, I don't care about the Hottie Scale. Who in the bloody hell is the Rebel Brothers? Or Canadian Rebels or whatever it is they're called?
Still confused, Carly sighs annoyedly and gets up off her bench and comes over, grabbing my face in her hands and shoving it in the direction behind me.
I gotta admit, they're hot.
Hot-headed.
"Well?"
This is one secret I am definitely keeping hidden from her until I can't anymore. "They're. . . okay, I guess."
"You guess?!" She shrieks, "You said that about Atticus, and now them? Dude! They're hot as fuck! Brooke, look at them closely! Their hard bodies, sharp faces, kissable lips. You gotta be fantasizing with me right now!"
See, as much as I would love to 'fantasize' with Carly, I feel disgusted to do so. Not just because the boys walking to the opposite end of the cafeteria aren't hotâbecause God, they areâbut because I don't like them.
They're too cocky for their own good.
Plus. . .
They're my roommates.