Part 11 (2/2)
I hate seeing her with other guys. The way she flirts with them and laughs at their stupid jokes.
I saw her talking to that dirtbag. So I called her. I had to set things straight. To put her in her place. And to warn her.
She needs to know I'm not going anywhere.
Then maybe she'll think twice before she tries to make me jealous.
25.
Unable to reach Wes over the weekend, I track him down first thing Monday morning to ask if he had anything to do either with calling me Sat.u.r.day or with the gift left outside my window.
”How would that be possible?” He drapes his camera strap over his shoulder, en route to the photo studio. ”I wasn't even with you guys when you went to the undies store. How would I know which pajama set you picked out?”
”Any chance you were spying on us in the store?”
He lets out a laugh, but then realizes I'm not joking.
”I know. It's stupid,” I continue.
”Of course, the proof is in the ”pj's,” he jokes.
”And obviously someone was was spying on me.” spying on me.”
”It wasn't this someone.” He slams his locker door shut. ”I don't even know your size.”
”And you didn't call me Sat.u.r.day?”
”Not that I can remember,” he says, tapping his finger against his bright orange chin-victim of the self-tanner. The poor boy looks like the Sunkist factory exploded on his face. ”However, I could be bribed to rethink it with, say, a week's worth of English homework.”
”Be serious.”
”Take it or leave it.”
”Do you know something?”
”Do you have the answers to the Macbeth Macbeth questions?” questions?”
”Don't be a jerk.”
”Me? Did you not just accuse me of spying on you, prank-calling you, and trespa.s.sing on your property? Not to mention buying you skeevy lingerie?”
”It wasn't skeevy,” I say.
”Well, that figures.” Wes fakes a yawn. ”Bottom line, I'm not the one dating a murderer, remember? So, why don't you go bark up his guilty a.s.s?” He attempts to brush pa.s.s me, but I'm able to stop him by grabbing the sleeve of his brand-new, Kimmie-selected, Abercrombie s.h.i.+rt.
”Don't be mad,” I say. ”I was actually hoping it was you.”
”You were?” He raises an eyebrow.
”Well, yeah,” I say, remembering what Kimmie said about him possibly having a crush on me. ”I mean, I'd obviously rather it be you than some wacko.”
”There's a compliment if I ever heard one.”
”That's not what I meant,” I say, suddenly hating the sound of my own voice.
But, instead of indulging me in even one more syllable, he pulls away and heads off to homeroom. Great.
In pottery cla.s.s, Kimmie is all abuzz, telling me how she heard-but can't confirm-that Spencer is the subst.i.tute for today. ”And we didn't even need to give Ms. Mazur whooping cough,” she says.
”Right,” I say, playing along.
Not even thirty seconds later, the rumor's confirmed. Spencer walks in, grabs a dry-erase marker, and writes his name on the board, explaining that Ms. Mazur is out for some professional development thing.
”Will she be out tomorrow, too?” Kimmie asks.
”Nope,” Spencer says. ”Now, let's get to work.”
”So much for small talk,” Kimmie coughs out, adding a coil to her clay pot.
I'm making a coil pot, too-one with a bubblelike base and a twisted handle.
Just as Ms. Mazur always does, Spencer takes a trip around the room, making comments and suggestions about everybody's work.
”What do you think?” Kimmie asks once he reaches us. ”Too floppy?” She dangles a wormlike coil at him.
”No substance,” he says, correcting her.
Kimmie looks offended. ”What's that supposed to mean?”
But he ignores her (and the worm), instead looking down at my coil pot. ”You didn't stick around at the studio on Friday.”
It takes me a moment, but then I remember how he'd offered to chat. ”Too much homework, I guess.”
”Right.” He nods.
I look down at my work, suddenly conscious of my every move.
”Another bowl?” He gestures at my piece.
”A pot,” I say, as if there were some significant difference.
”Don't you ever get tired of sculpting bowl-like things?”
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