Hexed

“Go on,” he says. “I like it rough.”
Double ugh! I’m suddenly acutely aware that I’m straddling him—wearing a micromini and heels, no less—and I can’t roll off him fast enough.
“You’re sick, you know.”

“Go on,” he says. “I like it rough.”
Double ugh! I’m suddenly acutely aware that I’m straddling him—wearing a micromini and heels, no less—and I can’t roll off him fast enough.
“You’re sick, you know.”

We’ve been best friends since the first grade, and he’s just some guy. Some sickeningly hot, captain-of-the-football-team guy.

I’m almost at the lip of the dining room entrance when, at the last minute, I lop off half the mountain of mashed potatoes. (I don’t want people thinking I’m eating my feelings.) And then I make my way to the Pretty People table.

She launches into an inspirational pregame speech about precious high school memories and the importance of showing off our hot bods while we still have them.

Devon could have brought anyone in the world to that concert and he chose me.

At first the guy looks like he’s trying to hold back, but then he bursts into laughter again—a full-bellied, brace-your-stomach fit—and I get the distinct impression he’s laughing at me.

A chill ripples through me.
He followed me.

The light from a streetlamp etches shadows into his laugh lines and makes his smirk look sinister. He pushes off the wall.
“Don’t come any closer.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I not handling the news that you’ve been stalking me as well as you’d hoped?”
He grins.
“And why are you following me? That’s pretty creepy, you know.”

I want to scream at him. Tell him he’s a jerk for waiting so long to catch me, but then I become hyperaware that we’re face to face, that the length of our bodies are pressed together, and I don’t say any of those things.

And Bishop said cheerleaders aren’t smart.
Except that maybe he’s right. Because wasn’t this—the social suicide of being seen at a party with Paige—what I was just trying to avoid?

“Oh, right.” Bishop nods sagely. “Forgot you flashed your ass to half of Los Angeles earlier. Not shy at all.”

It didn’t make sense to me that she didn’t want to be popular.

“Well, I’m not just going to let him get away, am I?”
“Nooo,” she says, throwing as much sarcasm into one word as humanly possible, “you definitely want to run toward the ax murderer.”

It would be dumb to get out of the car. Worse than dumb: idiotic. But I’ve come this far already, and I can’t imagine the grocery list of bad decisions I’ve made to this point being for nothing

I’ve never wanted to be kissed so badly, so of course this would be the time Mom pops into my head—the Mom from the theater with the knife in her temple. The guilt from the car ride comes crashing over me like a tidal wave. How can I be doing this?

"I was starting to think you ride the short bus to school.”

“Oh, come on,” Bishop says. “He’s obviously really stupid if he’d choose that chick over you.”
“Shut up,” I mumble.
“I mean it,” he says. “She’s so obvious. Blond hair, big tits. It’s really lame. Even if her tits are pretty nice.”
I groan.
“I’m kidding! They’re just mediocre.”