by Abby Knox
Without looking up at her I ask, “You trying to catch flies with that mouth?”
“I’m Wren,” she says.
I tear my eyes away from the page and look at her. Her pretty eyes are full of gratitude. “Like the bird, not like Ren & Stimpy.”
I shoot her a questioning look. “Ren & Stimpy?”
“My mom’s a hippie. She named all her kids after birds. My younger brother is Raven. My older sister is Dee. Or sometimes Chick. Short for Chickadee.”
I don’t want to know any of these things about anybody’s family. The way people come up with names nowadays, I just don’t want to know.
“Sam,” I say, automatically reaching out my hand. She slips her small hand in mine. As I gently squeeze her fingers, I can’t help but wonder what those hands of hers are normally doing when she’s listening to that sexy story in the privacy of her own home.
One side of her mouth curves up when she smiles at me. “Hi, Sam. That’s the perfect name. You sort of remind me of—"
“Number 47!” calls the bailiff.
I watch Wren startle, pop up, and scamper away toward the front of the room where a court clerk sits behind a desk, confirming the validity of the questionnaire answers previously filled out by each juror. With a walk like that, I wonder if it would be all that terrible if she and I got chosen to serve on the same jury. Might make it bearable. Or terrible. She’s definitely a handful; I can just tell.
Her butt in those short shorts is round and squeezable, her hair is wild. The top half of her body is covered by a long cable knit sweater, the really soft kind that makes women’s curvy bodies look extra huggable. Dropping my gaze lower, she’s got even more tattoos decorating the backs of her thighs. When I sort out the words on one of them, I realize I’m in big trouble with this girl.
“Save a horse, ride a cowboy,” it reads.
No need to worry. I probably won’t get picked.
