Heaven And Hell novel Chapter 8

"Oof!" I breathed, bumping at something hard, but not quite so solid as a wall. It was something a bit softer than that, a bit...human.

My eyes widened. Lifting my head, I saw Michael staring down at me with bored, silver eyes.

"That's what you get for not looking on the road," he tusked, shaking his head like I was such a disappointment.

I squinted hard at him.

He lifted a hand and brushed my locks away from my face. He grinned as he gave a poke on my injury. I hissed like a cat, from the pain, and backed away. "I knew you got a bruise."

I could bite his head off. "Don't you?" I countered.

"As a matter of fact," he said arrogantly, "I don't." He lifted short locks of black hair that clung down rakishly on his forehead. I gaped. He didn't have a bruise! Why did I have one?

"Why do I have one?" I demanded loudly, voicing out my thoughts, barely resisting the urge to stomp my foot.

He chuckled. "You just don't know the key to banishing a bruise from your skin. It's a good thing you have a lot of hair to cover that angry lump, though," he said, approving immensely at my untamed curls and waves. "Because if you were bald, it would've been totally visible."

"Why would I want to be bald?" I snarled, slapping him on the arm.

"Why not?" Michael shrugged. "Natalie Portman looked hot even when she went bald."

I narrowed my eyes. "So you're saying I'd look hot like Natalie Portman, if I decided to go bald?" I asked in disbelief.

Michael stared at me as if I were daft. "Are you kidding me?" he scoffed. "I'm only saying you'd look good looking like a quail egg. I said Natalie Portman was hot when she got bald, not you."

"Hmmph!" I said, lifting my chin up defiantly.

Michael's eyes rounded. "You sound like my grandmother."

"Shut up," I groaned, stalking off.

"See you in home ec, partner!"

?????

"All right, class," Mr. Logan announced loudly, silencing the students. When everyone was quiet enough for him to talk, he began again. "I assume you got my email last night?"

We all nodded, murmuring our assent.

"And I'm sure you know who your partners are by now?"

"The flours will be distributed now," our teacher said. Some of the guys were gone, and when they came back, they were pushing a cartload of flour sacks. Everyone took their own "baby" and placed it onto their respective counter.

St. George's was probably one of the richest private schools in Southern California. Why didn't they get robotic babies instead? Ugh. Cheapskates!

"Caring for a baby is difficult," Mr. Logan started. "Being an uncle of seven, I sometimes get called by my sisters to babysit my nieces and nephews because they always say I am a pretty good babysitter." He grinned broadly. "What they don't know is that I basically can't help but spoil them!"

We all laughed at that. Except Michael, who was yawning. I looked at him in disgust, turning my attention back to my teacher.

"You have to feed the baby, clean the baby, dress the baby, change the diaper of the baby, tuck the baby in to sleep, and play with the baby even if you don't like it. It's stressful, yes, but you kids are lucky because you're only going to be taking care of a flour. Nowadays robotic babies are recommended, but I'm a little old-school."

Ah, that's why.

"This means that you just have to bring it wherever you go and take a stroll with it."

"Sounds like a pain," someone said, but Mr. Logan only laughed.

"Yeah, and we'd look like lunatics!"

"Furthermore," Mr. Logan continued, ignoring them, "you guys have to be with the flour for approximately two weeks. Consider it your advanced exam and project in my class. It's not going to be that simple, fellas.