His voice is all raspy like he just woke up, and some of his hair falls into his face, covering his left eye. My stomach twists like a rubber band has been stretched across it way too many times. I feel like a thirteen-year-old girl with her first crush, not like a seventeen-year-old who’s made out with more guys than she can count.
I lean back a little just in case my Skittle breath is rancid. “It may sound stupid to you, but I notice things like that. I’m going to be an interior designer one day.”
He smiles a little, probably still mocking me. “Of course you are.”
His lips are slightly parted and I can’t stop staring at the tiny sliver of space between them. I shake my head, pushing all the thoughts of making out with him into the deep recesses of my mind. “I’m talking too much.”
He shrugs. “Your excessive talking just balances out my lack of talking.” Reaching into his backpack, he unfolds a piece of cardstock that’s shaped like the stage, flattening it on the coffee table.
Transfixed, I run my finger along the pretend stage, reading the notes he’s written in perfect uppercase letters. Dimensions for possible sets and furniture pieces are laid out with sticky notes cut to shape.
“What do you think?” he asks. “Does it suck?”
I fall back on the couch and cover my face with my hands. This is too good to be true. I’ve spent the last few nights lying awake in bed, agonizing over how I’m going to figure out the stage layout and manage being around a guy who I thought was a deranged psycho. Now, with no action on my part, I’m here with that same deranged psycho who happens to be normal and sexy and not a psychopath—and he’s done all the stage work for me.
“You hate it,” Derek says, biting his thumbnail.
“No…” A tingle runs down my spine. “It’s perfect.”
I watch Derek’s taillights slip into the distance, growing brighter as he stops at the end of the road before turning left toward his neighborhood. I sink into the porch swing, crossing my legs under me. A gentle breeze pushes the swing without my assistance as the events of this evening replay in my mind.
I’ve never had so much fun doing something for school. Derek is better than any lab partner I’ve ever had. We get along perfectly; his dry humor making me smile more in one night than I’ve smiled in weeks. My heart compresses inside my chest. Why does he have to be off limits?
A sinking ache of doom buries itself in my stomach. I’m crushing on Derek. Bad.
Why is it that when the perfect guy for me comes along, he’s riddled with imperfections?
The grinding lull of Jason Brigg’s garage door opening pulls me out of my Derek daydreaming. He lives across the street and is the lead singer in what I’m pretty sure is Lawson’s most untalented garage band.
Cymbals clang together as the drummer drags his drum set out of the corner of the garage and begins setting up. I hear Greg’s voice before I see him, and although he knows I live right across the street, he doesn’t seem to speak any quieter to avoid me overhearing.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he says, stumbling over something in the driveway as he walks into my view. “I gotta go give Wren Barlow a piece of my mind.”
“Liquid courage,” someone yells from behind a hard guitar case.
I lift an eyebrow and step off the porch swing. I haven’t exactly done anything to piss him off, besides maybe taking all of Derek’s better prop designs over Greg’s—but Greg doesn’t know that yet.
His steps are heavy as he plops his Nikes on the asphalt, heading toward my house with an odd swagger to his step. He runs his hands across his face and pulls a cell phone out of his pocket.
My phone beeps with an alert for a new email. Before I can grab it out of my backpack, Greg hears the sound and looks up. “Barlow.” He kicks a rock in my driveway. “You’re waiting for me.”
“Something like that,” I say, stepping off the porch to meet him in my driveway. The last thing I need is Mom seeing us sitting on the porch; she’d have a field day drilling me about him. And I don’t like Greg. I don’t.
A grin spreads across his lips. His eyes are glossy, his expression cocky and yet somehow relaxed. I sigh. “You’re drunk.”
“And you’re just the girl I’m looking for.” He reaches out and touches my shoulder, letting his hand slide down my arm before I shrug him off.
“What do you what?” I ask, crossing my arms. “You better not be planning to drive anywhere tonight.”
“Nah, I’m crashing at Jason’s.” His smile grows wider. And cuter. But, not that it matters. “I have something to ask you.”
My eyes narrow. “Okay…”
“I think you should be my girlfriend.”
“That isn’t a question,” I say as a burst of some unidentified emotion flows through me. Greg doesn’t just want to randomly make out with me—he wants to date me. I could have never seen that coming.
“Aww, come on Wren. I want you. Let’s date.”
My unidentified feelings shift into negative ones. “That isn’t very romantic, Gregory. I don’t know what you expect me to say.”
He leans forward, flashing me a cheesy grin that I imagine is supposed to be seductive. “Say you’ll be my girlfriend.”
As shocking as it is to have Greg admit he has feelings for me, feelings that go deeper than making out, I mean, it’s a total turn off that he’s not being the least bit romantic about it. Girls don’t exactly daydream about drunken guys all but demanding they date them.
Greg’s eyes meet mine and he doesn’t glance away quickly like Derek always does. I know I’m going to turn him down, but I can’t help but entertain the idea that floats through my mind: Dating Greg sure would take my mind off Derek.
I pull Greg into a hug, my nose curling at the strong stench of liquor on him. “I’m sorry,” I say, as his hands fumble around my waist to return the hug. “I don’t think we should date.”
His face twists in confusion. He shuffles on his feet, but it’s probably more from being dizzy than my rejecting him. “Something tells me I’ll be pissed off about this in the morning,” he mumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets.
A guy across the street taps his drumsticks together four times and the garage explodes with the grunge rock sound of an electric guitar and Jason’s voice as he yells into the microphone.
“Maybe you won’t remember it at all,” I say, slapping him on the shoulder.
He nods like he’s going to forget this event even if the alcohol doesn’t do it for him. “Yeah, maybe I won’t.”
Back inside my house, I shower until the water runs cold. My whole body shivers before I notice the absence of hot water and jump out, my teeth clacking painfully together as I towel off and hold the blow dryer to my face in an effort to warm up.
I can’t stop thinking about what happened this afternoon. Greg freaking Hammond asked me to be his girlfriend. He’s only a million times more attractive, popular and smarter than any guy I’ve ever dated. And although he might try to forget the night he took a gamble on me and got rejected, I will never forget this day.
The day I turned down a wonderful guy for one I’m not even allowed to like.
Greg announces that he has to miss rehearsal the next day, stating that he has an important AP Chemistry project that needs his full attention. Ms. Barlow overhears him in first period and uses the opportunity to make her own announcement.
“Class, there will be no rehearsal after school today.”
Muffled confusion filters through the room and my heart sinks at the idea that I won’t see Derek today. Ms. Barlow takes off her glasses and rises from her desk, her arms floating at her sides as she makes her way to the front of the classroom. “I have a surprise for my actors. We are going to Lawson Community College tonight to watch their theatrical performance of Fiddler on the Roof!”
“I’ve seen that like a thousand times,” Gwen mutters, and I’m pretty sure we’re all thinking the same thing. Lawson’s community college theatre tro
upe is a standard go to for school field trips. If you’ve seen one play on LCC’s falling-apart stage with terrible acoustics and lighting, you’ve seen them all.
Ms. Barlow’s fingers twine together in front of her chest. “I have arranged a special Q and A session with the cast after the play. I do hope all of you can make it. I can speak to parents if need be.”
I raise my hand. “Yes, Wren?” She points to me, guessing that I’m about to object. “Ah, you and the other stagehands are welcome to stay here and work on the play. Now what is everyone sitting around for? Line rehearsal, go!”
My satisfaction at getting out of a lame field trip is quickly overshadowed with excitement by realizing that with Greg gone, Derek and I will be the only cast members still on campus after school. I know I’m slipping into dangerous territory by allowing him to fill my waking thoughts, but I don’t care. No one needs to know about my crush but me.
Derek is one of the only people who actually uses their assigned locker. Everyone else just lugs around their backpack from class to class, proving that future generations are getting lazy like my grandpa always says.
When the final bell of the day rings, I head down F hall to where his locker is, where I see him twist open the lock and switch out textbooks between every class. I get there right when he slams the locker door closed and sling his arm through his backpack strap. “Whoa,” he says, stopping short when he sees me. “Is it my birthday?”
“What?”
He smiles, shaking his head. “Nothing. What’s up?”
“Rehearsal is sort of cancelled.” I say it casually like it’s no big deal but I’m watching his face anyhow, searching for some sign that he’s disappointed at the thought of not seeing me today. All he does is lift an eyebrow. “Ms. Barlow took all the actors to LCC tonight and I managed to get the stagehands out of it.”
He nods approvingly. “Right on. Thanks.”
I know I should turn and leave, and go home and do whatever it is girls who don’t have massive crushes on criminals do. But my mind scrambles for reasons to keep talking to Derek, searching through every excuse and idea I can possibly create to spend more time with him. My hands twist the glittery notebook in my hand. And then it hits me.
“Remember how you said we should use cellophane for the water on stage?”
He nods. “That was yesterday. Of course I remember.” We walk toward the parking lot and I’m aware of the random stares I get from people who think it’s creepy that I’m walking with Derek. Derek the bad guy. Most people recognize that we’re just talking because we’re in the play together. But even the ones who know this fact still stare a little. I stare ahead, strictly business-like. “I have a better idea. We’re going to use fabric.”
“What makes you think threads of cotton woven together is more like water than shiny, wrinkly blue cellophane?”
“You clearly don’t know your fabrics.”
“I’m more of a leather and denim kind of guy.” We get to the glass doors at the end of the hallway and Derek holds it open for us, his arm high enough for me to walk under.
“I’ve never seen you wear leather,” I say.
“You never will with that attitude.”
“Come with me and I’ll prove it to you.” I surprise myself with how much confidence I have. I can’t get Derek out of my head. Everything I do now is a well-planned scheme to spend time with him.
He examines his car keys as we walk, which is what a girly magazine would call a nonverbal clue that he’s totally not into me. “Or you can just see it tomorrow,” I say. “Once you see the fabric I want, you’ll be apologizing for doubting me.”
We stop at his car. “Where are you going?” he asks, unlocking the doors with a press of a button.
“Quilts by the Bay.”
He shakes his head. “The old lady store? No way.”
“Where else are we going to get fabric in this town?”
He sighs. “If anyone sees me I’ll say I was going to rob the place or something.”
I put my hand on my hip. “Why, because having people think you’re a criminal is better than them knowing you enjoy quality fabrics?” The words are out of my mouth before I realize what they mean. Everyone does think he’s a criminal. His smile disappears.
“Real mature,” he snaps, yanking open his door and tossing his backpack into the back seat. “Get in. I’ll drive.”
Derek keeps the radio at volume loud enough to not require small talk during the drive, but quiet enough so that my eardrums don’t shatter. It’s some kind of screamo metal music that I’ve never heard before, but I use the opportunity to nod my head along with the beat so conversation won’t be necessary.
My phone vibrates as we pull into the parking lot. Margot’s contact picture smiles at me when I dig my phone out of my backpack.
So Ricky is pissing me off. Wanna hang?
I type a reply as I unfasten my seatbelt. Can’t. I’m fabric shopping for the play.
After? Cupcakes & coffee?
Margot hates coffee and doesn’t eat cupcakes because of her perpetual diet. Cupcakes and coffee are my thing. She must be desperate to hang out, but the truth is, I’ve had my afternoon planned since I woke up this morning. And it doesn’t involve Margot. But if I tell her no, she’ll keep asking.
Derek hops over the sidewalk and pulls open the door for me. My finger swipes across the keyboard on my phone. Maybe. I’ll call you. I press send. I don’t plan on calling.
Mrs. Quilts by the Bay (I don’t know her name because she’s not one of those nice old ladies who talks a lot) glares at Derek and me as I lead him into the store. He’s being skittish about entering the place, as if just his being in a place like this will somehow castrate him and his manliness, turning his name into Dereka.
“Hello,” I say, using my Talking to Grandma Voice, the voice that makes me sound innocent and like I can be trusted. Not one that gives away how all I know about sex and blow jobs.
“Can I help you?” she asks, holding her body close to the back of the counter. I wonder if she has a panic button under there that will alert the police to teenage thugs coming to rob her.
“We’re looking for your novelty fabrics for the Lawson High school play.” I can already tell where they are by the flashy colors so I walk toward the back corner of the store. Tucked between faux leopard fuzzy fabrics in all colors and fleece, is an array of shiny metallic fabrics. I go straight for the dark blue bolt, pull it out and turn to face Derek, making sure the triumphant I Told You So look is on my face.
He doesn’t see me right away because he’s playing with the fake fur fabrics, shoving his hand between the bolts of purple and hot pink zebra print. “This is so kick ass,” he says. My chest doesn’t feel as tight now that the tension from earlier has dissipated.
“Check out this pile of water,” I say, swooshing the blue fabric in my hands.
He grabs some of the fabric and feels it between his fingers. “Wow.”
I unroll some of it and let it flounce on the floor, rippley like water. Derek takes part of it and presses it to his cheek, which isn’t as weird as it sounds because this sort of fabric makes you do those things. It is so soft and silky it feels like you’re running your hand across a rose petal. And it shimmers in the light with a small bit of sparkle that reminds you of the sun shining on a bright blue swimming pool in the middle of summer.
“This is perfect.” Derek takes the bolt from my hands and throws it over his shoulder. It’s probably the most caveman like thing I’ve ever seen happen in the fabric store. We buy three bolts of it and charge it to Principal Walsh’s school credit card.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” Derek says as we climb back in his car and drive away from Quilts by the Bay.
“It’s fine, but you should trust me next time I mention anything about fabric because I know my shit.” I smile a little, but the look on his face stops me.
“I didn’t mean that. I meant earlier, when I snapped at you. It’
s not your fault I fucked up my senior year.” I can’t help but feel like he waited until he was on the road to say this so he wouldn’t have to look at me. Fine by me though. Awkward talks aren’t exactly my idea of a great pastime.
His fingers tap the steering wheel. “I didn’t mean to curse at you.”
“It’s… fine. Really, I shouldn’t have said that.” I swallow, forcing down the desire to keep talking about this subject. To peel back the layers of his personality and figure out what actually happened with him six months ago.
He shakes his head. “Like I said, it’s not your fault I fucked up. I’m sorry I spoke to you that way. It won’t happen again.”
I’m not sure if this is his way of opening up to me or not, but I seize the opportunity. “What did you do to get put in juvi?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard the stories by now.” His jaw tightens and his hands grip the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
“Not really,” I lie. We zoom past the school. “No one tells me anything.”
“Well it’s for the best because the rumors aren’t true.” Derek slams on the brakes and makes a U-turn in the middle of the highway. “Shit, I forgot your car is at school.”
He pulls up next to Mom’s Corolla, which she lets me drive to school most days because she never goes anywhere by herself during the day. I wonder how he knows what car I drive, but I guess it’s no mystery since only about three cars remain in the school parking lot this late. The other two are monster trucks covered in mud.
“Thanks for going with me,” I say because it’s the polite thing to do. What I really want is to tell him that I think about him all day, every day. That I would have been crushed to the core if he didn’t go with me to the fabric store and I would have probably curled up in bed all night thinking about him. Who am I kidding? I will do that anyway.
I open the passenger door to get out and Derek opens his door as well. “What are you doing?” I ask slowly, my mind going into daydream mode about how he could walk around the car, press me against the hood and make out with me right here at school.
Understudy Page 4
