Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

I gasp. At first I think she must not know my dad is dead—maybe
gossip at the Academy is not up to Pacific Park standards.
Then she adds, “Oh, that’s right. Your dad’s dead.”
I don’t know how she knows, but she does. And she doesn’t
care.
Adara drops my pants to the cement floor, where they land in a
puddle of shower water. That’s the last straw.
My vision goes fuzzy, like someone is shining a really bright
light in my face.
With every ounce of power I can dredge up—fueled by desperate
fury and the Twinkie Nicole split with me between fifth and sixth
periods—I lash out violently with both hands, slamming my palms
against her chest. Adara flies off the bench, sailing through the air
until the cinder-block wall stops her.
She drops to the floor in a silent heap.
I watch, unemotional, as she struggles to regain her breath.
Guess the wall knocked the air out of her. I’m so sad. Then, as she
scrambles to her feet and dusts off her track shorts, I casually pluck
my pants out of the puddle and pull them on.
My hands are shaking with adrenaline. For a minute there I felt
invincible, like I could do anything. I guess I didn’t know my own
strength. My weight training is usually low weights and high reps
so I don’t build bulky muscles. Maybe I’d better drop down to lower
weights.
Her cheerleader groupie friends rush to her aid, but she just
shrugs them off. “You’ll wish you hadn’t done that.”
“You know, Adara,” I say, sauntering toward the door, “I don’t
think I will.”
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