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.