All the Sweet Move (All The Right Moves 1)

“You what!” Alexis screeches from somewhere behind me.

She sounds like a banshee.

Dude, there is no way in hell I’m turning around, even though everyone within fifty yards turns to gawk. That chick is obviously batshit crazy, and clearly there’s a reason I had the good sense not to hook up with her. Instead, I book it to my regular lunch table and dump my backpack before making a beeline for the food.

“What the hell was up with Alexis Peterson?” someone asks me a few minutes later as I’m dunking five fries into the sea of ketchup at the edge of my tray at once.

I stuff my mouth. “Batshit crazy,” I mumble somewhat audibly.

“Well, I’d still bang her,” Erik Gunderson practically shouts, and a chorus of raucous laughter erupts.

“Gunderson, you’d bang your own sister for a slice of pie,” Rick hollers in his loud-ass voice. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the cafeteria attendant take notice of us and change direction, heading right for our table.

“Dude, shut the fuck up. Keep your voice down,” I hiss. I swear, my friends are freaking idiots, and I, unfortunately, am their leader.

“What the hell was Alexis blabbering about, anyway? I saw Kristy Rose haul her off into the bathroom.” This observation is from Rick. He’s sitting across from me, eyeing the last slice of pizza on my plate.

I cover it with my free hand.

“I don’t know, man. I wasn’t listening to a thing she was saying. Something about me going to her house this weekend and messing around, I guess.” As I’m saying this, I arrange the last of my fries on my pizza, fold it in half like a sandwich, dip it in ketchup, and bite down.

“That is fucking disgusting,” Rick says.

I shrug, chewing. “It all ends up in the same place anyway.”

Rick leans his arm over across the table, and his index finger lingers near the corner of my mouth. “Dude, you have a little ketchup right…here…”

I slap his arm away. “Get the fuck away from me, you idiot.” I am annoyed, but I also laugh, because sometimes he can be funny, even if he is a complete and total dick.

From where I’m sitting, I have a clear view of the entire area. On the opposite side of the cafeteria is a long bank of windows where someone has painted an advertisement for the upcoming football game and Fall Formal dance, and if you want my opinion, whoever painted it did a shitty job—as in, my half-blind cousin Stuart could have done a better job with it if both his eyes were bad.

Oh, and by the way—in case you’re at all interested—this year’s homecoming is against the Clarksville Panthers and…I’m pretty sure we’ll get our asses kicked, since all their “real” athletes play hockey.

There are also vending machines in the cafeteria, located right in the corner of the room, which just happens to be the place where Molly Wakefield eats her lunch, as I’ve recently discovered.

Yeah, discovering that little tidbit was exciting for me too.

I crack open a carton of cold chocolate milk and zero in on my target while I chug it.

Today, she’s had her back to me the whole time, but I watch her just the same from under the rim of my cap like I did in the library the other day. I lean back and stretch, flexing my back as Molly’s friend gestures wildly beside her. Her friend’s brightly colored T-shirt looks splattered with paint, and her long silver earrings catch the sun from outside with every shake of her head.

I rack my brain for the friend’s name. Jane. No, wait. Jennifer. Janna? Whatever. It happens to be the same blonde chick who has a small seizure every time I walk by.

No lie.

Someone steps in the way and blocks my view, so I have to crane my neck a little to the left. The voices beside me are gradually getting louder as they reenter my stream of consciousness.

“….no freaking way…”

“…Wes…date this weekend…”

“…she is so full of shit… Tell him you don’t have a date, McGrath…”

“McGrath? Are you listening?”

Someone hits my arm. “Huh? What?”

Rick and Derek exchange looks, then Derek, who is also sitting across from me, swivels in his seat to survey the room. He even shields his eyes with his palm, like he’s saluting the sea of students. What a wise-ass. “Okay, so who were you just checking out?”

“No one.” The lie rolls off my tongue, and I crack open another carton of milk and guzzle it down, crushing the carton on the table with my palm when I’m done. No way in hell am I going to tell these douchebags I have a date with Molly Wakefield, the one highlight of my dismally social-life-free senior year. I would never hear the end of it.