I get ready for school in the morning. As much as I try to focus, Oliver is on my brain. I can’t think of anything else, not the paper I started last night for English, not the pictures I want to take to Yearbook to show Ms. Dante so she can see my style of photography; not even the fact that I have to work with the hyena today for a very limited amount of time. I so can’t stand her.
I chug down my mom’s tasteless carrot/kale health shake and try to borrow some positivity from her daily calendar on the kitchen counter before grabbing my gym bag I packed last night. The tee shirt for gym is mine this time. No more crop top Tuesday. What a nightmare.
I rush out the door and try to ignore the fact that I spent extra time on my hair and make-up today. I tell myself I like to look good for me, and that it has nothing to do with Mudpie Mojo and his delicious kisses. I snatch up JuneBug and refuse to acknowledge her funny looks as she side-eyes me over her morning cup of coffee that transforms her into someone who isn’t Medusa. “What you all dressed up for?”
I stomp on the gas. We fly into the school parking lot and throw a little gravel. “I like to look nice.”
“Hmm mmm.”
I side shove her. “Shut up and get outta my truck.”
She laughs, slams my truck door, and calls over my hood. “Get it, girl!”
Someone coughs. I whirl around to see Oliver standing by his Scout. I know I’m blushing as I whip back around to stick my tongue out at JuneBug. “Thanks a lot, JuneBug. Now I’m gonna be late.” I jog up to the building and rush off to yearbook. The hour flies by, and I text JuneBug.
K: I got through yearbook without scratching out the eyes of the hyena and her cackling crew.
J: LOL.
K: Seriously. Why some girls got to have a posse? Instead of having like the volume of one hyena, there’s three or four. They all act like Red is Queen Original, and no one has ever said anything so profound as her every time she speaks. It’s like she’s the law, except she’s so not.
J: You got me in stitches. This is hilarious.
K: Not meant to be. The struggle is real.
I stare at my desk and try to be kinder.
K: I hate to admit it—the Queen has mad graphic skills but she’s just so awful. I can’t wait for the rest of the day. TG for five minutes of phone time at the end of the hour.
J: Same. There’s the bell. Ttyl.
I rush to the next hour and sit in my seat with unwanted eagerness and expectancy. I’m disappointed when Oliver enters the room and sits all the way across the room. I whip out my phone. The second bell hasn’t rung.
K: He’s sitting away. Why?
J: Be cool, don’t wear your emotions on your face.
K: Right, cause I’m so good at that.
J: Be the ice queen…
The bell rings. I slip my phone in my pocket. Oliver ignoring me doesn’t matter. This will be better anyway. Now I can give my full concentration to the teacher because I won’t have someone staring at the back of my head, tapping my chair with his feet, brushing against me every time he gets up to go do something in the room. Who am I kidding? I’m bummed. Oh well.
Simone (me) gets through French, scoring a few extra points for being the only person in the room who read the assigned reading; well, besides Jean Paul, aka Oliver. He did the work too. Gotta give him creds for that.
I’m distracted when I hear the teacher near the end of the hour. “Anyone want to volunteer?” Old habits die hard. My hand shoots up. I look over. His hand is in the air too.
“Come to the front of the class, please. I’m going to give you these cue cards, and you’re going to act out a mini skit,” she instructs.
Jean Paul reads over his card.
He gets all cute and grabs a bunch of straws off the teacher’s desk and hands them to me, “Avoir des fleurs” he says, with relish, bowing as he holds them out to me.
I seriously want to salivate over hearing Oliver speak French. I sicken myself. I recover from being slapped in the face with his linguistic charm and turn up my nose like something smells bad. “Ils puent”.
He holds his ‘flowers’ over his heart and says, “Tu me blesses”. He makes a sad, sad face, and walks all hang dog back to his seat. He’s so a-dor-a-ble.
Our French teacher is out of her seat. “Tres bon, tres bon” she crows and claps her hands. My eyes are on Oliver as I stumble to my desk. He gives me a wink. He’s hot and smart. I’m in so deep. The bell rings. I snap out of it. He caught me staring again. Dang it.
The next hour, it’s the same thing. He sits in the back of the room, tapping his pencil on his desk the entire time. The hour after that, he sits behind me, but again, he’s clear in the back of the room. Why is he doing this? His eyes are on me all day long, but he sits so far away. I try to ignore him, but it’s not working, especially when he has the nerve to start flirting with some other girl, which I pointedly ignore.
It finally sinks in. He’s acting all butthurt because I rejected him, and now he’s trying to make me jealous. This is so dumb. What a drama queen.
Gym class arrives, and we’re partners, but everything is different. We’ve kissed and body slammed each other literally a half dozen times, and now I’m super aware of everything he does. I hate it, but I love it. I stretch in spite of every muscle in my body protesting. I’m hella sore from my run last night.
We do calisthenics today instead of weight-lifting; sit-ups and push-ups. Easy stuff. I used to do all of this when in Florida. The traveling teams were full-on legit. My coaches were all work and no play; I can still hear Coach Jones in my ear. “If you want to play like a pro, you need to think like a pro. Keep your body in shape, always be on the ready. If you want to outrun the other team, you have to out-practice the other team.”
I zone out again, reliving all of what happened last night. Oliver’s hands are on my ankles. I blush. I snap out of it as I complete another sit-up. Our eyes meet. Dang it. He’s smirking as if he knows exactly where my mind is. His eyes twinkle. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“Oh shut up,” I say. I stand up and walk past him, bumping his shoulder hard as I head to the water fountain in the hall.
He follows. I take a sip. He touches my arm. “Hey.” His voice is all quiet.
I turn around and face him. “What?” I’m not exactly friendly, but he’s all up in my space.
“You um, well, would you think about being my girl?”
His sincerity and manner throw me off guard, and so I say the first thing I can think of. “Don’t take it personal, Oliver. I don’t know if I want to be anybody’s girl. I mean, I just got here. I don’t know that many people yet.”
His jaw hardens. Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. “What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t know if you want to date, or you don’t know if you want to date me? Like I’m not good enough for you? Is that what you mean? Like you might meet someone more interesting? Because you seem to like kissing me just fine.”
Now I’m mad. “Hey! Both times we ran into each other were an accident, okay? It happened. Whether or not I want to date you has nothing to do with who you are and if I’m waiting to meet someone else. All I’m saying is, give me some time.”
By the look on my face, this answer isn’t good enough either. “Well, how much time? I mean, what else do I got to do for you to decide?”
I sigh. “This isn’t about you, Oliver. It’s about me. I don’t know If I want to date anyone right now.” I cross my fingers behind my back. “Besides, I’m kind of seeing someone.” I can’t believe I just told such a huge lie, but I seriously need him to back off.
He grins at me. “What’s his name?”
He doesn’t believe me. So what if I’m totally lying. He’s got a lot of nerve! “I don’t have to tell you that.”
He smirks, and my anger thermometer goes through the roof. Why did I ever think his smirk was cute? “I don’t believe you. I think you’re saying this because you don’t know how to handle me.” He crosses his arms on his chest and leans back on his heels. His eyes sparkle and tease.
I tap my toe and stare at the floor. “He doesn’t live here. We met online.”
He laughs. “Ha! I knew it. Either you’re pulling a guy out of thin air, or you’re more gullible than I think, and you’re in a relationship with some creeper who’s on parole and lives in his mom’s basement.” He wrinkles his perfect nose. “I can’t decide which one is more pathetic.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Well, good luck with that.”
He spins around and walks off. I watch him walk away. That was very anti-climactic and stupid of me. Not only did I just lie my butt off and invent a fake boyfriend; now Oliver either thinks I’m a liar or an idiot. I don’t know which is worse.