Wide Awake

by KB Anne

  “Gi, you look like shit, by the way,” Scott says.

  “Not all of us wake up pretty.”

  “Clearly,” Breas adds.

  I grind my jaw and pretend I didn’t hear him.

  No, I do better than that. I pretend he doesn’t exist.

  The woozy feeling in my stomach is the result of too much tea this morning. I do not possess anything remotely resembling feelings or attraction. I hate him, remember?

  “Gi, would you show me around school this morning? I’ve forgotten where my classes are,” Breas says in his stupid Irish accent.

  Scott catches my eye in the rearview mirror. He shakes his head just enough for me to notice, but it’s a waste of effort. Certain things I will not let go. Ever.

  A chosen handful call me “Gi.” Breas is not one of them.

  He waves his hand in front of my face. “Alloo? Can you hear me?”

  “Careful,” Scott says, “she’s not a morning person, and FYI, she does bite.”

  “I look forward to it,” Breas murmurs in my ear.

  Another flash of our lips mashed against each other pops into my head. A burn inches up my neck. It takes everything in my power not to lunge at him and either kiss him or burrow my nails into his larynx.

  “Don’t go there, man,” Scott says. “It won’t go well for you.

  “Guess, I’ll ask one of the lovely ladies I met last night. Any one of them would enjoy the opportunity to experience all I have to show them.”

  Sometimes I can’t keep my mouth shut. “You were at my house last night, and I believe we’ve established that I will not be showing you anything except the backside of a door.”

  “Gi, you truly are protected, aren’t you?”

  Before I can react or respond or figure out what he means by “protected,” he continues.

  “After you abandoned us during dinner, I excused myself to attend a get-together I was invited to by some enthusiastic and very friendly classmates.”

  I bite my lip. I will not ask him. I will not ask him. I do not care. I do not. Then I find a loophole.

  “Scott, did you go?”

  “No, I had a paper due. Kensey invited him.”

  My stomach drops. “Kensey? You went to Kensey’s house?”

  He rubs my arm. I’m not going to lie. I wet my lips. It’s like I lose my mind when he touches me.

  “She does care. Don’t worry, I have plenty left for you.”

  That is exactly what I’m afraid of. I want to hate him. I want to be repulsed by his flirtations. I want to fling my arms around him and find out if Irish kissing is better than French.

  9

  Coffee for Mickey

  When we get out of the truck, Breas wraps his tentacles around me. The moment his skin touches mine, a warm fuzziness travels through me. I hate that my body betrays me when he’s in close proximity.

  Curse him and his Irishness.

  I elbow him in the stomach and stomp away. His laugh circles around and follows me into the building. Scott murmurs a warning to him, but the damage has already been done. My inner voice has decided I will not remain in school today. And as we’ve already established, I always listen to my inner voice.

  Lizzie’s crouched down in front of her locker. When I get close, I wrap my fingers around her sleeve and pull. “Come on.”

  She fumbles to close the door before I drag her down the hall. “Where we going?”

  “Somewhere.”

  “What about school?”

  “What about it?”

  “We have classes.”

  “So.”

  She tries to stop my rhythm, but her resistance reminds me of a ladybug just before someone flicks it with her finger.

  “Come on.” I tug her outside.

  Fresh air rushes to greet us, making me feel like I am capable of achieving anything. Lizzie sucks in a breath of the cool morning air and sighs. She feels it too. Without me asking, she follows me to Scott’s truck.

  “Get in,” I say.

  “Does he know you’re taking it?”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you have the key?”

  “I don’t need it.” I dig under the dashboard and disconnect the starter. I pull the wires out of my earring loops and squeeze them into the power connector.

  “You’ve done this before,” she says. It’s not a question.

  I shrug. “Once or twice.”

  I unfasten one of my necklaces, which is really a wire with two clips at the end. I’m more about utility than fashion. I connect one clip to one wire and bring down the second clip to the other one. The truck rumbles to life.

  “That’s a good boy,” I murmur, patting the dashboard.

  “Won’t he realize his truck is missing?”

  I pull out of the parking lot. “He has practice after school. We’ll be back by the time he needs it.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Well, it’s your first time skipping. Where do you want to go?”

  “I don’t even know where to begin.”

  “We start with coffee at the pond. There’s something I want to show you.”

  I swear the spell book vibrates at the sound of my voice, just like it did with Uncle Mark.

  * * *

  An hour later, we’re sunbathing on the hood of the truck.

  “So why did you force me out of school?”

  “I didn’t force you.”

  “You dug your nails into my arm and dragged me outside the building.”

  My fingers flutter across the truck hood. “I just didn’t feel like going to school today.”

  She grabs my fingers. “You’ve never forced me to skip before.”

  I jerk my hand away from her and fumble with the zipper on my hoodie. “I thought you needed corrupting. You’ve been far too good lately.”

  “Gi, what’s wrong?”

  The tone of her voice. The care. The knowing. It’s what finally wears me down.

  “Breas came over for dinner last night.”

  She swallows her gasp. “How’d that go?”

  “I walked out halfway through.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He … he … the way he says stuff just makes me mad.”

  “I’ve always suspected you held some deep-seated hate against a particular ethnic group. Now I know. You’re racist against the Irish,” she says with a smile to her voice.

  “Yes, I hate myself, my gram, Uncle Mark, and Scott. Definitely Scott.”

  “What is it about Breas that bothers you?”

  “He’s just so smug. Like a know-it-all. Like he knows me. He makes me so mad.” I clench my fist and think about smashing the hood. But then Scott would know I borrowed his truck, and he’d probably ask if I’ve “borrowed” it before, and I’d rather not lie to him. That whole burning throat thing is a real drag. Plus, he’s rather fond of his old truck.

  “Kensey and her clan are huge fans of him,” she says.

  “And that. Did you know he went to her house last night?”

  “I thought he was at your house.”

  “After mine he went over. I can only imagine what she did with him.” An image of the two of us entwined together pops into my head.

  “If you hate him so much, why does it bother you?”

  I narrow my eyes at her.

  “Right, right. Forget I said anything.”

  I cover my face as I put my head against my knees. “When is this caffeine going to kick in?”

  “Alloo, love! Fear not, for I come bearing gifts.”

  My heart stops as I look over at the Irishman carrying a cardboard tray with three steaming paper cups.

  My spine immediately stiffens. “How’d you find us?”

  “I saw you kidnap this one and steal Scott’s truck.”

  “First, her name is Lizzie. Second, I didn’t kidnap her. She came willingly.”

  Lizzie widens her eyes.

  “Well, mostly willingly. And third, I didn’t s
teal his truck. I borrowed it.”

  He raises an eyebrow. A very sexy eyebrow. “Does he know you borrowed it?”

  I refuse to even dignify his question with an answer. Unfortunately, he takes my silence as an invitation to join us. As he pushes himself up next to me, his hand brushes mine before I snatch it away. A flash of our union last night triggers some unwanted physical responses.

  “Stalk much?”

  He laughs. “Your patterns have always been predictable.”

  My eyes slide over to Lizzie. I don’t even know how to respond to that. I do know where Scott keeps the tire iron. That’s something.

  “Oh, how rude of me,” he says. “Lizzie, I hope you like your coffee the same way Gi does.”

  Again, my eyes slide over to her. She, however, eagerly reaches for the cup with a greedy look in her eyes. Traitor.

  When her eyes roll back in her head in pleasure, I snatch mine and chug. Hazelnut, espresso, cream, and just enough sugar to take the edge off the bitterness.

  “Thank you,” she murmurs in coffee bliss. Lizzie’s parents don’t allow coffee either. The heathens.

  He leans back against the windshield. “My pleasure. I always take care of my ladies.”

  “Humpf,” I blurt out before I remember that I’m not supposed to care what he says or what he thinks aside from the fact that I’m supposed to be ignoring him.

  “I always do,” he says in low voice full of meaning. He touches the exposed skin on my lower back.

  I pretend not to notice, gulp down half my drink, then take off the lid and pour the rest of it over his mickey. Yes, I know the Irish word for penis.

  “Argh,” he yells. Even his curses sound Irish.

  I shove off the truck and stomp away.

  When I realize I’m alone, I turn around. “Coming, Lizzie?”

  She grips her coffee in both hands as Breas bends over, clutching himself.

  “What about him?”

  “The coffee will kill anything he caught from Kensey.”

  She grimaces and shifts away from him. “What about the truck?”

  “Ryan will bring Scott over after practice.”

  She takes another sip. Her eyes roll back in her head.

  “Just bring it,” I growl.

  She slips off the hood and hurries over.

  “Traitor.”

  She shrugs. “It’s really good coffee.”

  10

  Flying Monkey Asses

  Thankfully, Lizzie forgave me for the long walk back to school from Radley Pond yesterday. We spent most of the time talking about her crush on Ryan and the ongoing debate about when he’ll finally make his move. I suggested she make the first one, but she dismissed the idea with a flick of her hand. She wants him for the long term, and I guess that means she can’t be the initiator. If they commit to each other, it’ll be an enormous step for both of them. Not to mention that most of the school will be devastated that the hunky football stud and the easy hookup girl would be off the market.

  I’m not sure how the closed-minded townspeople would feel about it either, but then again, Ryan’s no longer the token new boy with two dads and skin a different shade than theirs. They stopped throwing their misguided, malicious gossip at him the night of the two seventy-five-yard touchdowns. Now he gets well-deserved pats on the back whenever he walks into a store.

  They still keep their doors locked at night though. Believe me, I’ve checked.

  Anyway, when we finally got back to the school, we left a note on Ryan’s car asking him to take Scott to his truck. I managed to avoid Scott’s wrath last night at dinner, feigning illness—which wasn’t that difficult at all, because Breas really does make me sick. And this morning, since Breas rode with us to school again, Scott couldn’t talk to me about it in the truck—even though he’s dying to. It’s like I can hear his thoughts shouting at me.

  And evidently a crowded hallway before class is as good a place as any to do it.

  “Why did you take my truck, Gigi?”

  I pull at my collar. It’s hot in here and hard to breath. And why is it so freaking crowded?

  “I didn’t feel like staying in school.”

  “You never feel like staying in school, but you don’t normally take my truck.”

  “How do you know? You always have practice.”

  “You’d be surprised how observant I am. For instance, you don’t like Breas much.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Why?”

  My evil eye activates.

  He swats at the air as if he’s combating an enemy. “Don’t even try that on me. It doesn’t work.”

  I punch his arm. “It always works.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself and don’t avoid my question. Why don’t you like Breas?”

  “He’s cocky.”

  “You’ve liked plenty of guys that are cocky. Plenty.”

  “He’s a bastard.”

  “You’ve liked plenty of guys that are bastards.”

  I can’t argue with his logic.

  “What is it about Breas?” he asks, staring at me, trying to weasel his way into my soul.

  I avoid his gaze.

  He grabs my hand. “What is it, Gigi?”

  I pull back. “I don’t know, Scott. I don’t know.”

  Ryan tugs us into a bear hug before releasing us. “What don’t you know? Do you not know that I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to Vernal Falls? Because I thought that was common knowledge.”

  I laugh. “Someone thinks a little too highly of himself.”

  He waves his hands in front of him. “No, no, just honest. I mean they’re still talking about my sixty-yard TD last weekend, followed by two more dive-bomb TDs. Scott and I were literally on fire. Aliquippa’s grounds crew won’t be able to get those flame marks out until next year, and then we’ll rip them up again.”

  “They play here next year,” Scott says.

  “Even better. Like when we hand Central their asses Friday night. Gi, you and Lizzie are coming, right?”

  “I don’t …”

  “You have to. You always come. You never miss our home games.”

  They morph into pitiful puppies that convince me to agree to anything they ask, including the participation in archaic institutions like Friday night football. “Please, please,” they beg in unison.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “And Lizzie too?” Ryan asks, wagging his tail hopefully.

  “And Lizzie too.”

  “Yay,” they clap together. Yes, two oversized football players clap like giddy school girls.

  Well, not this school girl, but other school girls that get annoyingly giddy because they grew up with a mom who made them peanut butter and fluff sandwiches sliced on a princess-cut angle and braided their hair in perfectly symmetrical French braids. Girls who had their fathers take them to father-daughter dances and didn’t have to rely on an honorary next-door neighbor adopted uncle. Girls who didn’t spin complex tales that would make James Bond proud. Lies that mostly relied on acronyms like CIA, FBI, and NSA. No, this school girl does not get giddy.

  “Make sure to get there early so you can cheer for us when we run out of the locker room,” Ryan says.

  “Are you really going to subject me to that sort of torture?”

  “Most girls don’t consider cheering for their friends torture.”

  “I think we’ve established that I am not like ‘most girls.’”

  Breas slips his arm around my waist from behind. “No, you’re not, Gi. You’re all woman.”

  “I wouldn’t if I were you,” Scott warns him, but he’s too late.

  Learning my lesson from last time, I don’t stomp down on his boot. Instead I lift my knee high and swing backward. When my boot connects to his knee, he cries out. I find this response very satisfying, but instead of turning around to receive more satisfaction in his hunched-over frame, I storm down the hallway.

  “OMG, Breas, are you okay
?” someone calls. A female someone.

  My stomach drops. I know I shouldn’t look. I know I shouldn’t give one flying monkey’s ass who’s coming to Breas’s aid, but I do look, and my tarnished soul might even care. Dread spawns in my gut as I watch Kensey, with her low-cut V-neck shirt, shove her exposed mounded flesh into Breas’s face as he’s doubled over.

  He tilts his face. He very clearly sees me, and I very clearly see him. He raises an eyebrow. An invitation to return to his side and do all the things I’ve fantasized about. I take a step in his direction. More compulsion than anything else. His lip raises before burrowing his nose into Kensey’s chest. He moans.

  She pats his back. “There, there.”

  Mother effer.

  I kick the closest locker. Nothing happens. I kick it again. Harder. Angrier. The door pops open. I rip out neatly stacked binders. I tear up organized notebooks. I shred color-coded folders. Tree pulp carcasses swirl around me as I pull out the occupant’s ridiculous feather-trimmed mirror and smash it over my knee. The jagged plastic cuts into my skin.

  As blood bubbles to the surface and oozes down my leg, some rage releases with it. It’s the most pleasure I’ve felt in months. Years really. I grab a shard and slice at my wrist. More rage slips away. I swing to slice again. A white hand wraps around my wrist. Then a black one. Then another white one. Then a black arm.

  I kick.

  I claw.

  I swipe.

  Arms tense. Hands tighten.

  “Get her outside,” Scott shouts, his booming voice deafening to my ear.

  “Easier said than done,” Ryan grunts, dragging me down the hall.

  “Find Lizzie!” Scott says, his voice sounding farther away.

  “Yeah right,” Ryan mumbles.

  I dig my boots into the floor, but his meaty football-catching arms won’t drop me any more than one of the pigskins Scott will throw him Friday night.

  “Gi, stop fighting.”

  I kick.

  I claw.

  “Ouch!” he groans. He clamps down on me like a vise, removing any chance of movement. He pushes through the side door. Alarms blast.