Understudy

I pick up a green one and eat it. “You’re kidding. Green and yellow are the best flavors.”

He shoves his script out of the way and looks up at me. He smiles and it melts away all the nervousness I’ve been harboring. “You’re insane.”

I eat another one to prove how delicious they are. “Plus green and yellow are the school colors.”

“School spirit is for chumps.”

“You’ve clearly never been to one of Lawson’s famous pep rallies.” Right as I say it, I feel like I’m punched in the gut with my own stupidity. Of course he’s never been to a pep rally—he spent the last five months in juvi. I wonder if he knows that I know. I mean, he has to, right? The whole school talks about him. My face burns. I grab my notebook and flip through it, hoping he doesn’t see how red my cheeks are.

The silence probably lasts a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity. Derek rests his head on his left hand and watches me as I flip through pages of the detailed notes Greg had made in my notebook. “Um,” I start, and my voice comes out all croaky. I clear my throat, and without looking at him I say, “Do you want to read through the notes I made earlier?”

“We’ll switch notes,” he says, taking my notebook and giving me his. “I was hella bored in calculus today, so I wrote down some ideas.”

Like Greg, Derek had broken the script into scenes and acts, and listed ideas for how each set should be designed. His ideas are a million times better than Greg’s.

“You’re right. I haven’t been to a Lawson pep rally.” Derek’s voice breaks the now comfortable silence a few minutes later, and thrusts us back into an awkward conversation. I look up from his notes. Should I acknowledge him? Play dumb? Make a joke?

“You didn’t miss much,” I say, when it’s obvious he wants a reply by how he won’t stop staring at me. I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that Mr. Harrison is not in his classroom today. How did Derek even get in here without the key?

Now it’s Derek’s time to clear his throat. “I was in juvi.”

My heart rate speeds up to ten thousand beats per minute. The spandex-wearing guy on my abs DVD would be proud. “Oh?” I say, taking the playing dumb route.

“Yes. And it sucked. Everyone in there is incredibly stupid.” He takes my pen and crosses out something in my notebook. “But I’m not a bad guy, and you don’t have to get all tense around me, you know.”

My skin pigmentation morphs into a permanent shade of crimson. My first thought is to deny it, say I have no idea what he’s talking about. But he’s right, I am tense around him. I am both captivated with how insanely gorgeous he is anytime he’s doing anything, and also terrified of him going off on some Hulk-like rampage and kicking my ass.

“Sorry,” I blurt out, wondering what I’m apologizing for. It just seems like the thing to say when someone calls you out on being scared of them.

“Want to start over?” Derek asks, his head tilted in exactly the right way that makes him look like a vintage Vogue model. Do psychos say things like this right before they murder someone? He slides the green and yellow Skittle pile in my direction as a peace offering.

How can a girl say no to green and yellow Skittles? And what’s the harm in being nice to the guy? I’m sure he didn’t beat up that teacher without a good reason. So I tell him, “Yes, let’s start over.”

He drops a handful of Skittles in his mouth. “It smells like a dumpster in here. Want to take this meeting to my house?”

I don’t know what I’m expecting when I walk into Derek’s normal-looking middle class brick home to meet his parents. Two deranged washouts, passed out on the floor with heroin needles sticking out of their arms? Okay, maybe not that bad, but what do the parents of a juvenile delinquent look like?

“I’m sure my mom will want to meet you,” Derek says, pushing open the screen door and motioning for me to go first. I duck under his arm. “So let’s get that nightmare out of the way, yes?”

The house is surprisingly normal and devoid of any noticeable drug paraphernalia. Also it smells like cinnamon. A stack of Latin Dance DVDs rests on the coffee table, next to a coffee mug that says TRUST ME, I’M AN ENGINEER.

“Mom, I’m home,” Derek calls out, tossing his backpack on the couch.

The sound of high heels clicking across a tile floor gets closer. “What do you want for dinner? I was thinking pizza because I’m sure as shit not going to cook tonight after painting all day.”

“Pizza is cool.” Derek steps out of the way, revealing me behind him.

“Oh!” Derek’s mom wipes her hands on her jeans and rushes toward me with her arms extended. “Who is this?”

“This is Wren. We’re building stuff for the play.” Derek slides his hand through his long hair and gives me an apologetic look. I go to shake his mom’s hand the normal way but she cups my hand in both of hers. Drops of blue paint decorate her bangs and parts of her messy ponytail. “Hi Wren, I’m Jody.”

“Hi,” I say. She’s a female version of Derek, with the same sharp nose and dark brown hair. The awkward handshake fina

lly ends. She wraps her arm around Derek’s back and pulls him in for a quick hug. “Now you call me Jody, not Mrs. Hayes. I hate being reminded that I’m old.”

“If it helps, you don’t look old.” I’m not even sucking up—she really doesn’t look old enough to be the mom of a high school senior.

“Married at seventeen, baby Derek at eighteen,” she says, poking him in the arm. “Not that I would recommend that route for you, Wren. It sucked, I assure you.”