our fake water. We make a great team.
I have to quit thinking of him like this.
“Are you gonna answer that?” he asks, nodding toward my cell phone on the bed.
I was so caught up in my idiotic fantasies of Derek that I hadn’t even noticed it was ringing. I take a look at the flashing screen: Margot. I sigh and place the phone back on the bed, letting the call go to voicemail. There’s no way I can explain what I’m doing right now. “That wasn’t anything important,” I say, my last word distorting as I yawn.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get out of your hair now.” Derek smiles from the floor as he rolls up the last piece of fabric.
It takes everything I have not to yell No! Don’t go! I can’t bear the thought of being without you next me!
But, instead I say, “I’ll walk you to the door.” I may be delusional after all, but I’m not psychotic.
It’s Monday morning, and that’s not even the bad news. Aunt Barlow is in a mood. Her moods range from jumping around the room, so ecstatic that I think her bright orange head might pop off, to sulking in her apartment for an entire weekend without consuming anything but coffee and lamenting about what life could have been.
Today is one of the bad days. She gives everyone a pop quiz as we walk in the door. It’s not even about Shakespeare or one of the theater type things we were learning about before the auditions. It’s a quiz about LOVE & SUICIDE.
Since they are the two lead actors, Gwen and Ricky finish the ten questions first and then return to their desks with equal grins of smugness as the rest of us rack our brains to remember the answers.
I’ve only skimmed through my copy of the script, so I’m totally screwed. Question number three asks who Gretchen’s father works for. I’m pretty sure Gretchen’s father isn’t even cast as a character in the play. I take a wild guess and write K Mart.
Greg psssts me until I turn around and raise my eyebrow and give him this look that means “What do you want? GOD CAN’T YOU SEE I’M WORKING ON THIS QUIZ?” But of course, he doesn’t take the hint.
“I need answers,” he whispers.
“Me too,” I whisper back. Ms. Barlow jumps out of her director’s chair so fast it almost topples over. “Do I hear cheating?” she asks, glaring at Greg and me.
“Nope,” I say under my breath but loud enough for her to hear. The next question asks what day of the week it is when Jeremy threatens to jump off the bridge. I think I know the answer to this, so I write Friday and ignore the fact that my aunt is still glaring at me.
She comes over to my desk, her six foot frame towering over me as I stare at my paper and try to focus on the next question. “It certainly sounded like cheating.”
“Well, it wasn’t.” I’m totally not a smart ass to teachers, I swear. Just this one.
“Tell me, Greg.” She steps forward and puts her hand on his shoulder. “If two students are whispering to each other during a quiz, and they aren’t cheating, then what would they possibly be talking about?”
“Uh,” he says, crumpling his paper at the corners. “I don’t know.”
“Seriously, Ms. Barlow,” I say. “He wasn’t cheating. He was only trying to.” I smirk because it’s funny and I’m trying to lighten the mood and maybe pull her out of her bad day, but it totally backfires.
“Zeros for both of you.”
“What the fu-?” I say, faster than my brain can register. “FUDGE! Fudge, fudge, fudge.” Ms. Barlow slaps her hand on her head so hard it makes a few students jump. She grabs a handful of orange hair and pulls. “Say another word in this class, Wren, and you’re out of here.”
I nod, but I’m not that intimidated. Had another teacher told me that, I’d probably be holding back tears like some kind of baby.
After the quiz, which judging by the defeated faces of my classmates was a total fail, Ms. Barlow sits at her desk and reads through the papers for fifteen minutes.
I have to quit thinking of him like this.
“Are you gonna answer that?” he asks, nodding toward my cell phone on the bed.
I was so caught up in my idiotic fantasies of Derek that I hadn’t even noticed it was ringing. I take a look at the flashing screen: Margot. I sigh and place the phone back on the bed, letting the call go to voicemail. There’s no way I can explain what I’m doing right now. “That wasn’t anything important,” I say, my last word distorting as I yawn.
“Don’t worry, I’ll get out of your hair now.” Derek smiles from the floor as he rolls up the last piece of fabric.
It takes everything I have not to yell No! Don’t go! I can’t bear the thought of being without you next me!
But, instead I say, “I’ll walk you to the door.” I may be delusional after all, but I’m not psychotic.
It’s Monday morning, and that’s not even the bad news. Aunt Barlow is in a mood. Her moods range from jumping around the room, so ecstatic that I think her bright orange head might pop off, to sulking in her apartment for an entire weekend without consuming anything but coffee and lamenting about what life could have been.
Today is one of the bad days. She gives everyone a pop quiz as we walk in the door. It’s not even about Shakespeare or one of the theater type things we were learning about before the auditions. It’s a quiz about LOVE & SUICIDE.
Since they are the two lead actors, Gwen and Ricky finish the ten questions first and then return to their desks with equal grins of smugness as the rest of us rack our brains to remember the answers.
I’ve only skimmed through my copy of the script, so I’m totally screwed. Question number three asks who Gretchen’s father works for. I’m pretty sure Gretchen’s father isn’t even cast as a character in the play. I take a wild guess and write K Mart.
Greg psssts me until I turn around and raise my eyebrow and give him this look that means “What do you want? GOD CAN’T YOU SEE I’M WORKING ON THIS QUIZ?” But of course, he doesn’t take the hint.
“I need answers,” he whispers.
“Me too,” I whisper back. Ms. Barlow jumps out of her director’s chair so fast it almost topples over. “Do I hear cheating?” she asks, glaring at Greg and me.
“Nope,” I say under my breath but loud enough for her to hear. The next question asks what day of the week it is when Jeremy threatens to jump off the bridge. I think I know the answer to this, so I write Friday and ignore the fact that my aunt is still glaring at me.
She comes over to my desk, her six foot frame towering over me as I stare at my paper and try to focus on the next question. “It certainly sounded like cheating.”
“Well, it wasn’t.” I’m totally not a smart ass to teachers, I swear. Just this one.
“Tell me, Greg.” She steps forward and puts her hand on his shoulder. “If two students are whispering to each other during a quiz, and they aren’t cheating, then what would they possibly be talking about?”
“Uh,” he says, crumpling his paper at the corners. “I don’t know.”
“Seriously, Ms. Barlow,” I say. “He wasn’t cheating. He was only trying to.” I smirk because it’s funny and I’m trying to lighten the mood and maybe pull her out of her bad day, but it totally backfires.
“Zeros for both of you.”
“What the fu-?” I say, faster than my brain can register. “FUDGE! Fudge, fudge, fudge.” Ms. Barlow slaps her hand on her head so hard it makes a few students jump. She grabs a handful of orange hair and pulls. “Say another word in this class, Wren, and you’re out of here.”
I nod, but I’m not that intimidated. Had another teacher told me that, I’d probably be holding back tears like some kind of baby.
After the quiz, which judging by the defeated faces of my classmates was a total fail, Ms. Barlow sits at her desk and reads through the papers for fifteen minutes.
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