Part 16 (1/2)
”Hey, Juliet? I hate to have to be the one to tell you this, but-you have a picture of a giant p.e.n.i.s taped to your back.”
I barely glance over my shoulder. ”Oh, that.”
Ben plucks the paper from my back and studies it closely. ”Hm. 'Will suck for money.' You were aware of this?”
I let out a slow breath. ”Yeah, I was going to take it off, but I forgot. Your girlfriend and the other sea harpies thought they were being sneaky in Spanish. I had my blazer draped over the back of my chair during cla.s.s-that's probably when they stuck it there. Then, when I went to put it on, of course I saw it. But they were looking at me, watching my reaction, so I made like it didn't bother me, and put it on, anyway.”
”Okay. Hey, what's that in the corner? Looks like a giant lollipop?”
”Oh, I think that's suppose to be me. See, that stick is my body, and I have a little tag with my name on it, in case there was confusion. I guess I'm not important enough to get arms and legs. No, don't throw it away-I was saving it. Isn't that a cool picture? Someone's an artist.”
Ben chuckles, smoothing out the paper he'd started crumpling. He hands it back to me, and I stick it in my notebook. ”That would be Arianna. She's pretty good, huh?” he says, a faint hint of pride in his voice.
”Yeah, she's super,” I mutter. I shake my head slightly. ”So, why exactly does she hate me so much?”
”Pretty girls always hate each other,” he says matter-of-factly. He stops so I can enter the room in front of him. ”Even when they pretend to be each other's friends.”
”Maybe when they consider each other compet.i.tion,” I say over my shoulder. ”I'm pretty sure she doesn't consider me compet.i.tion. More like something she stepped on that she can't quite wipe off the bottom of her designer shoe.”
Ben laughs at that. He swings his messenger bag onto his chair, and half-sits on his desk. ”If it makes you feel any better, Arianna doesn't really hate you. I'm pretty sure it's Kara who's the source of all this intense-and kinda hot-animosity.”
”I figured that, but I don't understand why. What have I done to her?”
Ben leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. ”Kara's just a b.i.t.c.h. She doesn't like sharing the limelight with anyone.”
”Yeah, well, she's welcome to it.”
I frown in annoyance. Looking up, I spot Sloane entering the room. ”Hey, what do you know about Sloane?”
He flicks a glance at her. ”What, other than the fact that she's a pill-popping princess whom I'd like to see naked some day?”
”Pill-popping?” Oh, great. When the Junkie met the Alcoholic. That's the last thing Heather needs.
”Oh, yeah. The good stuff, too. Why do you think she's friends with Kara? Her parents are both psychiatrists-the kind that give out Valium like candy.”
I stare at Ben, eyes wide in disbelief. ”Kara's parents are psychiatrists?”
He grins, running a hand through his short blonde hair. ”Right? How ironic will it be when she murders both of them in her sleep?”
I immediately picture this scenario in my head: Kara covered in blood with a macabre grin on her gore-covered lips, dangling a shovel from her hands as she looks down at her handiwork, lying in pieces on the blood-soaked bed. In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida is playing in the background.
I shudder a little. That image came way too easily.
Dean slides into his seat, bringing me back to reality. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye. He looks a little tired, I notice. How does that not detract from his looks? When I have dark circles under my eyes, I look like the living dead. Tired Dean somehow looks like the hot tortured hero on a CW show. And that's without the benefit of makeup. Unfair.
Mr. Shannon comes bustling into the room, so I take my seat next to Dean. He doesn't look up, which is fine. We've been mostly ignoring each other lately, since last Friday. I get the feeling he blames me for Johnny's deranged state of mind. If this is true, he can suck it.
I really wish Mr. Shannon wouldn't raise his arms. The s.h.i.+rt he's wearing is too short, and every time he gestures, the hem rides up and reveals the soft pale globe of his belly. Weirdly, no one comments, or even seems to notice. I, however, cannot look away.
”Okay!” he says, clapping his hands together. ”First off, all those of you who haven't already e-mailed me your essays, go ahead and hand 'em in now. That's it, boys and girls, keep 'em coming.”
Megan pa.s.ses me a bunch of papers. I place mine on the top and hand it to Dean. He takes it, glancing down. He appears to do a double take, and looks at me uncertainly. I glare at him. If this is about the tiny chocolate stain-barely noticeable-on the top left corner of my paper, well he can just save his judgment. Not all of us can be neat freak perfectionists.
”Now, I told you I would have you all a.s.signed your partners for our very first project-and I haven't lied. So...” He adjusts his gla.s.ses, and shuffles through the papers on his desk, before picking one out with a big ”ah-ha!” ”Now, these pairings are completely arbitrary, and if you have a problem with your a.s.signed partner-well, you'll just have to work it out amongst yourselves.”
Mr. Shannon calls out names-and I'm disappointed when Ben is paired with Zoey-aka Gla.s.ses Girl. I really think he and I could have been a good team, and our presentation would have been full of epic memes and sarcastic observations. Now he'll be forced to work with someone he doesn't like, and who doesn't like him. Talk about a personality clash. I would hate to- ”Dean and Juliet.”
Ugh. Really?
Well, Dean looks about as thrilled as I do. Does he have to look so annoyed, though? He should be happy he didn't get stuck with one of his fangirls.
”Is everyone sitting with their partners?” Mr. Shannon asks after most of the cla.s.s resituates themselves next to their a.s.signed person. ”Okay, like I said before, we're doing this lottery style.” He holds up a gla.s.s bowl full of sc.r.a.ps of papers, and shakes it around a little. ”If you don't like what literary work you pick, I'm afraid you're stuck with it, anyway. You remember the last time we did trade-offs-it was a terrible mess!”
The bowl comes to us, and Dean gestures for me to pick. I quickly grab a sc.r.a.p off the top and unfold it.
Romeo and Juliet. Super.
”Ah, how auspicious,” Mr. Shannon says, leaning over to read my pick. ”'For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo.'”
Dean and I exchange unimpressed looks. From across the room, I can hear Ben snickering. To make matters worse, when Mr. Shannon tries to move past my desk, he miscalculates the s.p.a.ce he needs to get by. In seemingly slow motion, his naked belly slides against my cheek as he squeezes past. His skin is ridiculously smooth.
That was awful! From here on in, I declare The Belly a separate ent.i.ty.
Holding my cheek, I cut my eyes over to Dean to see if he's witnessed my close encounter, but he's looking away from me, so I can't see his expression. He'd better not be smiling.
”I really want to see some creative ideas,” Mr. Shannon is saying blithely. ”Have fun with it. Turn it into a quiz show game for the cla.s.s. Act out your favorite scene. Or for those of you with computer skills-make a movie trailer. You see what I'm saying? Talk it over with your partners. I'll need an outline of your ideas by the end of this week. Think outside the box!”
I turn to my new partner with a sigh. ”This should be fun. Any ideas off the top of your head?”
Dean s.h.i.+fts uncomfortably in the desk that's really too small to accommodate his big muscular frame. ”I don't act,” he mutters.
”Shocker. Neither do I. So let's agree on something with the minimum potential for embarra.s.sment.”
”Fine.”
Fine? That's it? Wow, the looks of a G.o.d, the personality of a tree stump. Nature's way of balancing things out, I guess.
So our brainstorming session consists of me coming up with various ideas, and Dean shooting them down. He doesn't like ”Romeo and Juliet: How Facebook Saved Their Lives,” or ”Dumb and Dumber: Why we Should be Glad they Didn't Live to Reproduce.”
I glance at the clock, growling in frustration. ”Look, we're running out of time. I know you have practice after school, and I work from four to nine, so I don't know how we're going to plan this. Unless we do it over texts, or something.”
”I hate texting.”
I knew he was a cyborg! What kind of teenager hates texting?
”Okay,” I say slowly. ”I guess we-”