That Punk

‘Ugh!’ I think to myself. ‘Why did grandma send me to public school in mom’s old catholic outfit?’

“Well look at that, freshmeat.” A guy said, who I’m guessing is a senior, says undressing me with his eyes. “Where are you from, sweets? Catholic school.”

“No, I’m from Baltimore.” I hiss.
The boy cocks an eyebrow. “Really now?”
For the first time, I get a good look at this boy. Brown hair, curled at the ends, green eyes, and pink skin. Taller than them boys back home and a lot dumber. I can take this fool.

“Yea, I am.” I say pulling my bag up on one shoulder with my face smug.

“Well maybe I show you how we in Chi-town get down.” The boy says giving me a smirk.

“And maybe I’ll show you how we do in Bal-da-more.” I say in my accent.

The boy chuckles and pulls out a pen. “Well here you go. Call and ask for Dylan.”

Dylan scribbles his number on my hand and I take his pen and write down the number to the armory where my grandmother works.

“Thanks…wait. I didn’t quite catch your name.” Dylan asks thinking he’s being a slick talker.

“Miranda,” I say winking and walking to my first class.
I had always despised my 1st name. It reminded me of my older sister, who was the epitome of perfection at home. Her name was Demitria Alexa Simmons. So yea, I dabbled in drugs to be different, but I’d never thought my life would be this different.

Thanks to my grandmother, Phil, and the essence of Chicago, I never would’ve thought I would be walking hand-in-hand with a man with “x’s” on his hands.