“I love that you said procurer,” I say, mimicking his deep voice. “Your big brain is amazing—and has lice on top of it.”
“Real funny, Princess.” His fingers fly over the phone; then he looks up at me. “Question: Do they bite?”
“They’re biting your head for blood. They lay eggs on your hair called nits? I can’t remember it all. I had it once. Mama treated me for a few days.”
“A few days!”
“I’m sure Mama went overboard.” I stretch my arm way out and pat his.
“Sonia better get her ass down here as soon as—”
Sonia whips open the door and steps inside. “Show me the little wanker.”
“Shut the door!” Ronan calls.
She clicks it closed, a jar in her hands. In her excitement, she jostles into me, and the hat falls to the ground. I yank it up but . . .
“He escaped!” I get on my knees and search.
Ronan groans.
Sonia wails, then points at Ronan. “I need to find another one.”
He looks up at the ceiling. “Sonia, I swear to God, I am not letting you—”
“Pleeease,” she begs, her hands up in a prayer, the jar between them. “Come on. Let me. It will only take a minute, and this is your contribution to science. Think of the bright young minds that will benefit from your donation.”
His shoulders slump. “God, you’re ridiculous. Fine.”
We hunt around the room and find an old stool tucked away in the back corner. After pulling it to the center of the room, he sits on it. I pull out a little flashlight I have on my keys and waggle my eyebrows. “We’ll find ’em.”
Sonia gives me a side hug. “You’re the best mate ever!”
“Can you two stop the girl party and get your louse?” Ronan mutters.
“Grump,” I say with a grin; then, just to spite him, I turn music on from my phone: “You Got It,” by Roy Orbison. I’m so happy with my selection that I do a little shimmy, and Sonia joins me to dance.
Ronan glares daggers at us.
“So, so funny,” he bites out.
I click the song off, wiping the tears from my eyes. Who knew high school could be so fun? I love that he has lice!
“Let’s get this over with, Sonia.”
We get down to business. He bends his head over while I hold the flashlight, leaving Sonia’s hands free to pick up Ronan’s hair.
Skeeter opens the door, not looking up, his phone in his hands.
“Shut the door!” Ronan snaps, and Skeeter jumps, his eyes big as the door clicks behind him.
“Uh, Coach, is this one of your, you know, sex things?”
“I don’t have sex things! It was a bra! Just a bra.”
“There’s a good story,” Sonia hums. “What happened?”
“Ronan put on my bra. Red lace. It was very sexy,” I reply. “He likes to wear lingerie.”
Ronan heaves out a gusty breath. “Girls. Please. I have lice. Focus.”
Skeeter’s been silent, his eyes darting from Ronan to us. He pales and presses back against the door. “No, no, no.” He gulps air. “Coach . . . you . . . have . . . lice?”
“Apparently,” Ronan mutters. “One got away already. On the floor.”
“That’s it. I’m out of here—” he calls, his hand on the doorknob.
Sonia throws him a glance. “Best not. You might have it if you’ve sat in the same chair or worn the same hat. I’ll do a check. Just stay over there.”
He gapes at her. “You think I’m going to stay in this closet? I came in here to call my mom! She was going to tell me what’s for dinner!”
She shrugs. “You’re safe, Skeeter. They can’t fly or jump. They’re attracted to people with clean hair. Has your scalp been itching, particularly at night?”
Horror rises in his eyes. “I did wake up last night and scratched my . . .” He pinches his nose. “Oh my God!”
“Gotcha, you little bugger!” Sonia swoops a small thing into her jar, then twists the lid on tight. She glances around. “All right, that’s done. We need to check each other. Who’s up?” She snaps her fingers. “I have class in five minutes, and these things only live for forty-eight hours, and I don’t know how long it’s been alive, so let’s get this thing going.”
“Me! Check me!” Skeeter skates around Ronan and sits on the stool. Her fingers dance through his hair while I hold the light.
“So, um, is head lice—can it get on my, um, my privates?” Skeeter asks.
Sonia snickers. “That’s called crabs, and it’s a different parasite. They like your genitals and make you feverish or irritable. And itchy, of course.”
He breathes out a long exhale. “Thank God. I’d hate to put mayonnaise on my balls.”
“No mayo,” she says. “But if your privates are itching, get that checked out by a doctor.”
He flushes. “They aren’t! I was just trying to learn, you know, for science stuff, and I figured since you’re so smart, you’d know.”