Sex King would swear off sex like I’d swear off Netflix. Isn’t sex like, his whole personality?”
Elise pouts. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Tanisha shoves the latest copy of the Statham Blotter at me. “Read it and weep. We all did.”
It’s the corner between sports and Westby Eats, the one usually saved for the Sex King’s column. But instead of a question-and-answer, there’s a little letter.
To my readers,
Thank you guys for everything. Really. But I’m going to be shutting down my column for now. Truth is, I’ve met a girl who I want to save all my time for, and so I don’t have any to spare on this column. So I’ll leave off with a question.
C—dinner on Friday?
“He’s basically confessing his love to you,” says Elise in awe.
June-Ann takes my shoulders again. “All our hopes ride with you now. With great power comes great responsibility.”
“Two words—dick pics,” adds Tanisha. “Actually, no. Seven words. How did you pull this off?”
“I don’t know!” I explode. Everyone stares at me. Soon they’ll be staring a lot harder, because I’m about to start tearing my hair out and doing a monkey dance. “I have no idea what I did. I’ve known the guy for literally five minutes. He saw my boobs, I volunteered to let him taste me in Psych Lab, I proceeded to taste him, and suddenly it’s his holy mission to get me to go on a date with him. He’s probably on crack. I’m probably on crack. We’re all on crack, because there’s no way this is real.”
I’m panting now like a maniac, and Tanisha slowly raises one finger and does the universal crazy sign around her temple, but I’m right. There’s no way this is real.
Except…it is real. Adrian King is into me, for absolutely no reason at all.
A tiny smile comes to my lips, and I banish it fast. I vanquish that smile with swords and fire. Begone, beast.
Because Adrian and I are complete opposites. It would never work.
I’m about to announce this to the group at large when my phone rings. I dive into my bag for it, praying to the gods of friendship that it’s Marie, finally relenting.
But it’s not—it’s my sister, Therese.
“Baby sis!” she trills into the phone, and I wave a hasty goodbye to the Cult of Adrian, formerly known as the Psychology Club. “How are you?”
“Oh, fine. My roommate hates my guts for spilling her deepest secret to the school Sex King, who is now asking me out in a manner verging on the obsessive. How’s your Thursday going?”
“Amazingly,” she gushes, not hearing a word I said. “Your life will be hell for the next couple weeks.”
Which is not, in fact, what she says. What she says is, “I’ve met someone.”
Same thing.
“Great,” I say in the cheery tone of someone having each tooth slowly pulled out and then fed to them.
“He’s not like all the others, Cleo. He’s sweet and kind and he has a great sense of humor!”
She’s doomed.
“And he’s drop-dead gorgeous. You’ll love him!”
I wince. “That’s great, Therese.”
“You’ve always so supportive,” she says in a singsong-y voice. “I have to run now because my phone’s about to die, but I wanted to let you know about my new squeeze.”
“Okay,” I say. For a second I consider asking her advice about the Cosmann Grant, but then I realize I might as well ask my big toe.
“Tootles, love.”
And she hangs up.
I let a long sigh escape through my teeth. The sigh doesn’t want to be around when Therese’s latest romance blows up any more than I do. And it will blow up. You know when you stick a bag of popcorn in the microwave and you don’t know exactly when the first kernel will pop, but you will know it’ll be soon, and you expect it, but it startles you anyway? And then suddenly everything’s exploding at once?
Therese’s romances are like that, but without the buttery reward at the end.
And I’m the one who has to pick up all the pieces off the floor after the bowl
Elise pouts. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Tanisha shoves the latest copy of the Statham Blotter at me. “Read it and weep. We all did.”
It’s the corner between sports and Westby Eats, the one usually saved for the Sex King’s column. But instead of a question-and-answer, there’s a little letter.
To my readers,
Thank you guys for everything. Really. But I’m going to be shutting down my column for now. Truth is, I’ve met a girl who I want to save all my time for, and so I don’t have any to spare on this column. So I’ll leave off with a question.
C—dinner on Friday?
“He’s basically confessing his love to you,” says Elise in awe.
June-Ann takes my shoulders again. “All our hopes ride with you now. With great power comes great responsibility.”
“Two words—dick pics,” adds Tanisha. “Actually, no. Seven words. How did you pull this off?”
“I don’t know!” I explode. Everyone stares at me. Soon they’ll be staring a lot harder, because I’m about to start tearing my hair out and doing a monkey dance. “I have no idea what I did. I’ve known the guy for literally five minutes. He saw my boobs, I volunteered to let him taste me in Psych Lab, I proceeded to taste him, and suddenly it’s his holy mission to get me to go on a date with him. He’s probably on crack. I’m probably on crack. We’re all on crack, because there’s no way this is real.”
I’m panting now like a maniac, and Tanisha slowly raises one finger and does the universal crazy sign around her temple, but I’m right. There’s no way this is real.
Except…it is real. Adrian King is into me, for absolutely no reason at all.
A tiny smile comes to my lips, and I banish it fast. I vanquish that smile with swords and fire. Begone, beast.
Because Adrian and I are complete opposites. It would never work.
I’m about to announce this to the group at large when my phone rings. I dive into my bag for it, praying to the gods of friendship that it’s Marie, finally relenting.
But it’s not—it’s my sister, Therese.
“Baby sis!” she trills into the phone, and I wave a hasty goodbye to the Cult of Adrian, formerly known as the Psychology Club. “How are you?”
“Oh, fine. My roommate hates my guts for spilling her deepest secret to the school Sex King, who is now asking me out in a manner verging on the obsessive. How’s your Thursday going?”
“Amazingly,” she gushes, not hearing a word I said. “Your life will be hell for the next couple weeks.”
Which is not, in fact, what she says. What she says is, “I’ve met someone.”
Same thing.
“Great,” I say in the cheery tone of someone having each tooth slowly pulled out and then fed to them.
“He’s not like all the others, Cleo. He’s sweet and kind and he has a great sense of humor!”
She’s doomed.
“And he’s drop-dead gorgeous. You’ll love him!”
I wince. “That’s great, Therese.”
“You’ve always so supportive,” she says in a singsong-y voice. “I have to run now because my phone’s about to die, but I wanted to let you know about my new squeeze.”
“Okay,” I say. For a second I consider asking her advice about the Cosmann Grant, but then I realize I might as well ask my big toe.
“Tootles, love.”
And she hangs up.
I let a long sigh escape through my teeth. The sigh doesn’t want to be around when Therese’s latest romance blows up any more than I do. And it will blow up. You know when you stick a bag of popcorn in the microwave and you don’t know exactly when the first kernel will pop, but you will know it’ll be soon, and you expect it, but it startles you anyway? And then suddenly everything’s exploding at once?
Therese’s romances are like that, but without the buttery reward at the end.
And I’m the one who has to pick up all the pieces off the floor after the bowl
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