Tears start to threaten while the two girls bicker back and forth as if we’re not even standing here.
“Hey,” Derek whispers in a gentle tone, “you okay?”
Great, he noticed.
“I’m fine.”
It seems like this conversation has been happening a lot lately.
“Come on.” He squeezes my shoulders some. “Let’s get out of here.”
So I let him lead me away, again.
I know, I know…but I’m grateful.
The last thing I want to be doing is listening to people argue about who I should be with and why.
——————
Derek doesn’t say anything as we drive to who-knows-where, apparently he likes surprises.
That’s fine with me…I don’t really feel like talking.
All of this is so embarrassing, and awkward. And weird.
Well, what did you expect?
That’s what happens when you fake-date your boyfriend’s best friend.
Ah the brain, my closest friend and my constant enemy.
It’s right, of course, or I’m right…it is my brain after all.
Right, so I’m right.
Anyway, obviously agreeing to fake-date Derek wasn’t my smartest decision, but I’ve made worse.
Like the time I ate guacamole at a mutual friend’s party (even though I can’t stand the stuff) and threw up right there and then.
I felt so bad, I’m sure it took a large toll on that poor carpet.
No more guacamole for me.
Or the time I wanted to prove that I was a “big girl” at five and jumped into the pool without floaties (not knowing how to swim yet) and almost drowned.
Compared to those, this isn’t so bad. Right?
I lean my head back and glance at Derek, who’s totally focused on the road ahead.
Doesn’t he listen to music?
I have so many songs saved on my phone, it’s not even funny. And anytime I’m driving around…it turns into a full-out concert.
Of course the only kind of music I’ll be listening to for a while is sad heartbreak songs; and those aren’t exactly good for a car concert.
I can totally relate to them though. I swear—it’s as if they were written for me. I can feel the pain behind the words…
Call me dramatic, but it’s the truth.
“Britt?”
“Huh?” I ask, now realizing that he’s talking to me.
Derek chuckles some. “I asked what you were thinking about.”
“Oh, I, uh…” I clear my throat some. “Nothing.”
Like I’m going to tell him about my sad songs obsession...
A: He won’t understand.
B: He’ll think I’m crazy.
Or my personal favorite, C: A and B, then laugh like a hyena.
“Nothing?” he echoes in disbelief. “I highly doubt that.”
“Of importance,” I add. “Nothing of importance.”
Of great importance anyway…
Thankfully, he doesn’t continue the conversation and instead he says, “We’re here.”
“Here?” I look around in confusion. “Where’s here?”
“Here” as Derek pointed out, is an isolated—somewhat wooded area with a small creek/stream running through it and a single bench several feet away from the water.
I don’t really think I have any reason to be worried that it seems like we’re in the middle of nowhere, but—yeah, I’m slightly concerned.
“‘Here’, is my place.” He shoots me a grin as he stops the car, then I watch as he unbuckles his seatbelt and closes his door after getting out.
“My place?” I wonder out loud as I unbuckle my seatbelt. “What the heck does that mean?”
Curiosity is slowly overriding my concern...
I open the car door and carefully step down before closing the door, and here I was thinking that we were going to get food or something.
Hey, a girl can change her mind.
“Derek,” I say, walking over to where he is. “What do you mean this is ‘your place’?”
“You don’t have a special place?” He raises an eyebrow at me. “Like a thinking spot?”
“Oh,” I reply, feeling somewhat dumb, “yeah…of course.”
Wherever I am though tends to be my thinking spot, obviously.
I can admit that I’m too much in my head at times.
And as for a “special place,” I usually chill in the kitchen when I can’t sleep at night, so…yeah.
“Well…” He extends his arms out. “This is my special, thinking place.”
Part of me is flattered that he brought me here, but then again, he has had other girls in his life—wait, what? Why am I even thinking about this?
“It’s nice,” I tell him honestly. “A little isolated, but nice.” I look around again. “Who owns it though?”
“Me.”
My head snaps in his direction. “You?”
He nods.
“Huh?” My eyebrows crease. “How do you—”
“This was my grandpa’s property,” he explains. “He left it for me when he passed.”
“Oh, Derek! I’m so sorry,” I quickly apologize. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s okay.” He waves me off. “It’s not like it’s your fault.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I mumble, staring at my shoes.
Only I could bring up such a sad and personal topic.
“Hey.” He grabs my hand. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”
I almost ask: “Show me what?”
But I just smile and nod. “Okay.”
He leads me through a section of trees and the next thing I know—I’m stuck.
Well, my hair is anyway.
“Ow!” I exclaim, trying to pull away.
And trying to untangle my hair from the branches isn’t working either.
“Hold on, hold on,” Derek says as he begins to slowly free my hair.
I’m pretty sure my cheeks are bright red now, seriously—only something like this could happen to me.
This is incredibly awkward.
I’m so glad I washed my hair last night.
“There.” His arms finally drop. “Done.”
I immediately run a hand through my hair and then try to smooth it out some, hoping it doesn’t look that bad.
Not that I’m trying to impress him or anything...but still.
“Uh, thanks.”
He shrugs. “No prob.”
He resumes walking and I hurry to shake my hair out, then flip my head upright and fix my hair the best I can because I’m convinced that it still looks terrible.
Stupid branches, I probably—
“You coming, Britt?” he asks, not looking back.
“Uh-huh,” I reply, following after him and some kind of blue bird suddenly catches my eyes. “Aw, look, a little—OOF!”
Not again...
I rub my face some as Derek turns around. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I mutter, tired of bumping into him. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine, what were you saying?”
It’s totally not fine, but I let it slide.
“Just a little bird…” I point to where the bird is and then realize it’s not there. “That’s—gone…now.”
I let my arm drop—he so thinks I’m crazy.
Who can blame him though?
It’s me we’re talking about here.
“It’s all right,” he assures me. “I’m sure you’ll see another one…there’s plenty.”
I manage a weak smile, wishing the dumb bird had been there.
My phone buzzes and I pull it out of my pocket. “It’s Del.”
“Go ahead.” He nods. “Answer it.”
So I do.
“Hello?”
“Where the heck are you?!” Delanie shrieks. “Class starts in like five minutes!”
“What?” I yell into the phone, getting a strange look from Derek. “I’ll be right
there.”
“Hurry!” she exclaims before hanging up.
I end the call and shove my phone back into my pocket. “We’re late for class!”
And then we’re rushing back to his truck, throwing open doors, practically jumping into the car, slamming the doors and fumbling with our seatbelts.
“Mrs. Kempton is going to give me detention for sure,” I half-whine/half-grumble as Derek starts driving. “I can’t believe this!”
“Relax,” he drawls, “it won’t be that bad.”
I turn my gaze from the window to him. “It’s Mrs. Kempton, she hates when students are late.”
He nods. “I know.”
“Well, if you know, then how can you say ‘it won’t be that bad’?”
“Easy.” He shrugs. “I’ll be in detention with you.”
“Huh?” My eyebrows crease in confusion. “You don’t have Mrs. Kempton this period...so what did you do wrong?”
“Nothing yet…” he trails off. “I’ll think of something.”
“What?” I stare at him in disbelief. “Why?”
He glances at me. “That way you won’t be by yourself.”
My mouth literally drops. “Why the heck would you do that?!”
He just shrugs again as he continues to drive.
Unbelievable, how does he not see the problem with this picture?
Once we’re at school and he parks the car, I rush to get out.
As terrible as it sounds—I don’t even wait for Derek, I run straight into the building.
Obviously I’m going to still be late, but at least I won’t be as late.
I rest my hands on my knees, leaning forward as I try and catch my breath.
Then I groan when I see two, dark loafers in front me and I slowly look up to see the hall monitor—Mr. Timson.
I gulp. “H-hi, Mr. Timson, sir…how are you?”
He just taps his foot and drawls, “Hall pass.”
Chapter 11: Witty-Britty
——————————————————
Here I am, in detention.
Not only did I get detention today because of being late in Mrs. Kempton’s class, but I got detention for Monday too, because I didn’t have a hall pass.
Coach Summers isn’t going to be happy, and I feel terrible for having Liv explain to her…again.
Unlike yesterday, though, I’m the only one in here.
The door suddenly opens and Derek walks in.
Never mind…
He hands Supermodel Winnows his detention slip, then after she signs it, she gives it back to him with a smile. “Sit anywhere.”
And he sits next to me—of course.
I saw that coming.
“Hey,” he whispers to me.
I cross my arms and stare straight ahead, determined not to acknowledge him.
After all, it’s his fault that I’m stuck in here.
“What’s wrong?”
Like he doesn’t know…
I continue to stare ahead, even though it’s totally boring watching Miss Winnows click away on her laptop.
What is she typing anyway?
Some kind of novel?
A loud screech and a thud cause me to jump some before looking to my left where Derek’s sitting right next to me.
I blink. “What the—”
“Are you mad at me?” he asks, leaning in toward me.
I ignore him and glance at Miss Supermodel, who’s now wearing earbuds.
I guess we’re too noisy for her.
“Britt!” he hisses.
I turn to him. “What?”
“What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” I echo in disbelief. “What’s wrong is that I’ve gotten detention twice because of you…and Monday will make three times!”
He sighs. “I had a feeling that was why.”
Then why bother asking?
Honestly…
“I’m sorry, Britt,” he apologizes, looking sincere. “I wasn’t trying to get you detention.”
“I know you weren’t.” I sigh as I uncross my arms. “I don’t think we should have any more ‘outings’ during the school day though.”
“All right.” He looks reluctant, but nods. “No more outings during school…but that means after school we get to hang out.”
He extends his hand to me. “Deal?”
My gaze drops to his hand. Should I agree?
What does he mean? Every day after school? Or just some days?
“Britt?”
I look up at him and he raises an eyebrow.
Oh well.
I shake his hand. “Deal.”
He smiles, looking proud of himself and leans back in his chair.
I on the other hand, sit rather stiffly…like a pencil.
I just agreed to spend all of my afternoons with my boyfriend’s—ex-boyfriend’s best friend.
Stupid me…
Wait. Are they even still best friends now?
Derek told me that this whole thing wouldn’t ruin their friendship, but I haven’t seen any friendliness going on.
“Hey, Britt?”
I look at Derek, who’s now sitting up straight. “What?”
He holds his hand out. “Thumb war?”
Thumb war? Really?
What are we…in kindergarten?
He looks at me with this puppy-dog face and I find myself sighing in defeat.
“All right, I’ll play.” I grab his right hand with mine. “But I’m warning you—”
“I know, I know.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re going to cream me.”
“No, actually I suck at thumb war. Like big time.”
He gives me a disbelieving look. “I’m sure you’re not that bad.”
“You’ll see.” I shrug. “Go ahead and count.”
“One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war,” he chants as we move our thumbs back and forth, “five, six, seven, eight, try to keep your thumb straight!”
Our thumbs shoot straight up and then he starts moving his thumb around.
“Come on, Britt,” he urges me. “You have to move your thumb.”
I know you have to move your thumb.
I just don’t want to because I know what’s going to happen.
“Britt!”
Tired of his whining, I give in and move my thumb around, and just like I expected…his thumb successfully captures mine.
“One, two, three!” he exclaims, holding my thumb down. He lets it go then looks at me expectantly. “Rematch?”
“Yeah…” I pull my hand away. “Definitely not, thanks anyway.”
“Oh come on, Britt.” He pouts at me. “Don’t be a sore loser.”
“I’m not!” I defend myself. “I just—”
“Don’t want to lose again.”
I cross my arms. “You’re a sore winner.”
He leans back in his chair with his hands folded behind his head. “At least I’m a winner.”
I roll my eyes at that, who knew Derek could be so cocky...
“Wanna sing a song?”
My eyebrows crease as I look at him. “What?”
“A song,” he drawls, “you know—”
“I know what a song is,” I half-snap. “I just meant ‘what?’ as in ‘why?’.”
“For fun,” he says in a “duh” voice. “Come on.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
He gives me an unimpressed look. “Come on, Witty-Britty.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be my new nickname?”
Witty isn’t the word I’d use to describe me…
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “You don’t like it?”
“Well…” I trail off, “anything’s better than Britt-Brat.”
He starts to laugh. “Britt-Brat? Who calls you that?”
“Zach,” I mutter under my breath. “And when he first said it, I couldn’t think of a good comeback.”
Again, witty—i
sn’t a very good adjective when it comes to me.
“Okay,” he says, recovering from his laughter, “back on topic...what song?”
“We’re not going to sing a song.”
It’s not that I’m a bad singer or anything, but let’s face it…randomly singing in detention is kind of stran—
“Brittany doesn’t wanna sing with me,” Derek starts singing in a very high voice, “but I really, really wanna singggg—”
“Derek,” I hiss, “no—stop!”
He ignores me of course and proceeds to continue, “Maybe she’ll wanna sing toooooo!”
I bury my head in my arms on my desk, trying to block him out.
How can he be so annoying?
His singing stops and then my hair’s gently being pushed aside to reveal Derek, who looks like he’s trying really hard not to laugh.
“Do you wanna sing with—”
“Derek, enough!” My head shoots up. “Please!”
At that, his bottom lip starts quivering. “You—you don’t like my singing?”
I stare at him with wide eyes. Please tell me he’s joking.
He sits back down at his desk and buries his head in his arms just like I had been doing.
I’m begging here.
“Derek?”
No reply.
“Derek,” I attempt in a singsong voice.
Nothing. This can’t be happening…
I poke his arm. “Derek!”
“Leave me alone,” he mumbles into his arms.
I tap my fingers on my desk, not really sure what to do.
How was I supposed to know he was that sensitive? Goodness!
With a sigh, I get up and crouch down next to him.
“Derek?” I bite my lip. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
Silence.
I clear my throat some. “I’m sorry, really I am…Derek?”
Instead of him ignoring me, or slowly lifting his head up with tears in his eyes, I hear him chuckle softly.
Ugh, the jerk!
I jump to my feet and march over to the farthest desk away from him.
Oh my gosh, I can’t believe—
“Britt, it was a joke,” he says, coming toward me. “I was just kidding.”
“Well, I’m not laughing,” I snap at him. “As a matter of fact, I’m not talking to you.”
And to prove my point, I cross my arms and look at the dull grayish-blue wall next to me.
Call me childish, but I don’t care. It was rude and—
“You can’t ignore me forever,” he interrupts my mental rant, “I am your boyfriend.”
My Boyfriend's Best Friend Page 6
