Understudy

“It kinda turned me on.” He gives me an evil grin. I stick my tongue out like I’m just totally disgusted and it’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told. I reach up and take his wrists in my hands, sliding my hands up his until our fingers line up. My body is alive with energy, all scrambled and unreadable like a static channel on TV. He closes his eyes and I close my eyes and then his lips press into mine for real this time. My breath catches in my throat as I let him tilt my head slightly to the right. His lips are warm. His breath tastes like spearmint.

I slide my arms around his neck and kiss him again, harder and longer this time. Derek’s arms wrap around my back and lower me slowly on the futon. I feel every one of his fingers pressing into my spine and it sends a chill through my legs and out my toes. His hair falls down, covering our faces and making our own little world inside of his room.

And this is when I realize what’s happening. I’m in Derek’s bedroom and we’re making out. It’s such a simple concept but it has a ton of baggage with it. Derek is exactly what I want. He’s always been what I want, ever since that day in woodshop. But he’s some crazy guy with an anger problem and Margot would kill me if she knew I liked him. Plus he has a girlfriend and now he’s cheating on her. Cheating on her!

I shove him off me. He sits up, runs his fingers through his hair and looks around his room as if seeing it for the first time. “Whoa,” he says finally looking in my direction.

I sit up and fix my hair, pull my shirt back where it belongs. The electric feeling in my stomach is gone, replaced with nausea. Faster than the speed of light. I try to say something, but Derek beats me to it. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, you shouldn’t have.”

He points a finger at me. “You participated.”

“You’re horrible, you know that?”

“I hardly think kissing a beautiful girl makes me horrible.”

I stand up, the futon squeaking in protest. “You have a girlfriend, and that’s what makes you horrible. God, Derek.” I shudder. “Now I feel dirty.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Then who is Lexie less-than-three?”

Immediately he knows who I’m talking about, I can see it in his eyes. But instead of getting defensive, his face falls. “She’s a… close friend.” He scratches the back of his neck. “We can’t really hang out any more.”

“Was she your girlfriend?”

He shakes his head slowly. “No.”

“But you wanted her to be.”

“That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

“I can’t tell you.”

I grab my purse from his desk and shove my notebook inside it. It doesn’t fit that well but I don’t care if it gets bent right now. “That’s just a nice way of saying yes.”

He grabs my arm. “No, it’s not. It’s the truth. I’ve never liked her that way.”

“No guy is just friends with a girl who has a heart in her name.”

“Right,” he says, dropping my arm. “Just don’t believe me and think whatever the hell you want. I’m sure that will work out for you in the long run.”

My teeth grind together as I stand, fists clenched so hard at my side that my fingers hurt. I don’t know what to say, but I refuse to let him have the last word. I grab my bag and zip it closed.

“I don’t even like you anyway,” I snap, the words escaping my mouth before I realize how out of place they are. Derek’s hard expression doesn’t change and I leave his room with no intention of ever going back.

My history teacher finds a way to incorporate talking about the used Corvette he just bought into his lecture on the Civil War for the third day in a row. I rest my chin in my hand to stop from yawning. He bought a Corvette to celebrate his divorce. We get it. No need to bring it up every freaking day.

When he goes from talking about actual horses to the horsepower in his car, I raise my hand and ask to go to the restroom. A boring walk down the hallway is still more stimulating than listening to him brag about a used midlife crisis accessory.

After a ten minute stroll, I actually do go to the bathroom. Nydia Baker stands at one of the sinks, applying powder to her forehead.

“Did you see the drama?” she asks when I come out of the stall.

“What drama?” I wash my hands as she applies lip-gloss in the mirror.