Understudy

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.

“I’m helping you put this shit-ton of fabric in your car,” he says, popping open the trunk.

I laugh. Right. Of course that’s what he’s doing.

Derek loads the bolts of heavy fabric from his trunk to mine and then he closes the trunk with one finger, commenting on how damn dirty the car is.

“Stop whining and be grateful I’m not making you carry it upstairs to my bedroom,” I say with a playful smile. “Then I have to empty all the rolls and cut it to fit the stage. That’s way more work than simply using your man muscles to move stuff around a few feet.”

He stretches his arms up and over his head, making his muscles flex. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

“Huh?” I must have been transfixed by heart-stopping shadows dancing off his toned arms. He didn’t just offer to come to my house, did he?