Understudy

I shrug. “It doesn’t bother me because it’s my own saliva.”

“And if I did it?” He slides his tongue across four of the fingers on his left hand and hovers them over the bowl in anticipation of my answer. The way his tongue lingers in the air makes my stomach flip.

“It would be gross,” I say.

He dries his hand on his jeans and turns back to the movie. “Women and their double standards.”

“Get used to it.”

Derek shoves a handful of popcorn in his mouth and then speaks, probably on purpose to annoy me. “I meant to ask you about the last text you sent out. Why aren’t we having rehearsal all next week?”

“The prom committee has taken over the auditorium to sell tickets, and all the actors threw a fit about rehearsing in front of people,” I tell him. “They’re all doing pretty well, so they can have the week off. We’ll have to keep working on the sets though. We’re way behind.”

“I wouldn’t say we’re behind.” He winks at me. “We have furniture now. We got this.”

Derek grabs one of the half-popped pieces of popcorn—my favorite ones—and offers it to me. I open my mouth and he drops it in, letting his fingers touch my lips. “Do you want to go to prom?” He asks it like he’s asking if I’ve changed the oil in my car lately.

“No,” I say, a sudden uncomfortable feeling settling in my stomach. “Plus there’s an interior decorating exhibit on the same day.”

“You’d rather see a bunch of furniture than go to prom?”

“It isn’t furniture,” I say. The butterflies that had woken up at the mention of prom sink back down where they belong. “It’s interior decorating. It’s fancy and it’s professional and it’ll be great experience for my future career.”

“It’s fancy, eh?” He adjusts an invisible collar on his shirt and straightens an invisible tie. “Can I come too? I’ll dress all dapper and shit.”

“Sure.” I almost leave it at that, but then I can’t help myself. “But only if you wear a tie.”

We drift back into watching TV for a few moments. Derek straights up and turns toward me. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to prom? Or is that just something you’re saying when what you really want is to go?”

“No, I’m sure.” I say it like when you’re thirsty but you’re at a friend’s house so when they offer you a drink, you just say no because it’s easier. But I don’t exactly want to go to prom either, right? I mean, yes. I don’t want to go.

But I would if he twisted my arm about it.

I drop my handful of popcorn back in the bowl. I’m not hungry anymore. “I want to go to the exhibit. Plus you don’t seem like you’d want to go, so I don’t know why you’re berating me about it,” I say, letting my words trail off.

Derek eyes me suspiciously. “I’d go for you.”

“Oh, Gosh!” I say, in a high-pitched tween girl voice. “Aren’t you just the sweetest guy, evar!”

He laughs at my crappy juvenile impression. “Okay, okay, we won’t go. I really don’t care for the selfish materialism that is prom.”

“Look at you,” I say, poking him in the ribs. “All full of moral fiber.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go?”

“I’m sure. I hate dresses.”

“Okay, because I don’t want this thrown back in my face later.”

“I shall throw nothing in your face.”

Derek sets the bowl on the coffee table like it’s no big deal. Like he didn’t just remove the one thing that’s keeping us from touching each other. With the melted butter smell gone, I can now smell his cologne, but just barely. And the faint scent of man makes me wish I could dive across the couch and bury my face in his chest. The small space between us feels like the Grand Canyon. Derek chuckles at something on the TV. His elbow is on the back of the couch, right next to my head. When he catches me staring at him, he rests his head in his hand and stares back.

“I don’t want to be blamed for making you miss an important high school rite of passage.”

“A what?” I hope he doesn’t notice how my voice cracked. It’s not what he’s talking about that causes my brain to short-circuit, it’s the fact that he’s right here, inches away from me.

“Prom. It’s a rite of passage.”