“Oh, I’m not interested in tramps,” he said. “That’s not my thing.”
I snorted. “Any girl who’d give you the time of day, Wesley, is most definitely a tramp. No one with taste or class or dignity would actually find you attractive.”
Okay. That was a tiny lie.
Wesley Rush was the most disgusting womanizing playboy to ever darken the doorstep of Hamilton High… but he was kind of hot. Maybe if you could put him on mute… and cut off his hands… maybe—just maybe—he’d be tolerable then. Otherwise, he was a real piece of shit. Horn dog shit.
“And you do have taste and class and dignity, I assume?” he asked, grinning.
“Yes, I do.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Is this your attempt at flirting?” I asked. “If it is, you fail. Epically.”
He laughed. “I never fail at flirting.” He ran his fingers through his dark, curly hair and adjusted his crooked, arrogant little grin. “I’m just being friendly. Trying to have a nice conversation.”
“Sorry. Not interested.” I turned away and took another drink of my Cherry Coke. But he didn’t move. Not even an inch. “You can go now,” I said forcefully.
Wesley sighed. “Fine. You’re being really uncooperative, you know. So I guess I’ll be honest with you. I’ve got to hand it to you: you’re smarter and more stubborn than most girls I talk to. But I’m here for a little more than witty conversation.” He moved his attention to the dance floor. “I actually need your help. You see, your friends are hot. And you, darling, are the Duff.”
“Is that even a word?”
“Designated. Ugly. Fat. Friend,” he clarified. “No offense, but that would be you.”
“I am not the—!”
“Hey, don’t get defensive. It’s not like you’re an ogre or anything, but in comparison…” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Think about it. Why do they bring you here if you don’t dance?” He had the nerve to reach over and pat my knee, like he was trying to comfort me. I jerked away from him, and his fingers moved smoothly to brush some curls out of his face instead. “Look,” he said, “you have hot friends… really hot friends.” He paused, watching the action on the dance floor for a moment, before facing me again. “The point is, scientists have proven that every group of friends has a weak link, a Duff. And girls respond well to guys who associate with their Duffs.”
“Crackheads can call themselves scientists now? That’s news to me.”
“Don’t be bitter,” he said. “What I’m saying is, girls—like your friends—find it sexy when guys show some sensitivity and socialize with the Duff. So by talking to you right now I am doubling my chances of getting laid tonight. Please assist me here, and just pretend to enjoy the conversation.”
I stared at him, flabbergasted, for a long moment. Beauty really was skin-deep. Wesley Rush may have had the body of a Greek god, but his soul was as black and empty as the inside of my closet. What a bastard!
With one swift motion I jumped to my feet and flung the contents of my glass in Wesley’s direction. Cherry Coke flew all over him, splattering his expensive-looking white polo. Drops of dark red liquid glistened on his cheeks and colored his brown hair. His face glowed with anger, and his chiseled jaw clinched fiercely.
“What was that for?” he snapped, wiping his face with the back of his hand.
“What do you think it was for?” I bellowed, fists balled at my sides.
“Honestly, Duffy, I have no earthly idea.”
Angry flames blazed in my cheeks. “If you think I’m letting one of my friends leave this place with you, Wesley, you’re very, very wrong,” I spat. “You’re a disgusting, shallow, womanizing jackass, and I hope that soda stains your preppy little shirt.” Just before I marched away, I looked over my shoulder and added, “And my name isn’t Duffy. It’s Bianca. We’ve been in the same homeroom since middle school, you self-absorbed son of a bitch.”
I never thought I’d say this, but thank God the damn techno played so loud. No one but Joe overheard the little episode, and he probably found the whole thing hysterical. I had to push my way through the crowded dance floor to find my friends. When I tracked them down, I grabbed Casey and Jessica by their elbows and tugged them toward the exit.
“Hey!” Jessica protested.
“What’s wrong?” Casey asked.
“We’re getting the fuck out of here,” I said, yanking their unwilling bodies along behind me. “I’ll explain in the car. I just can’t stand to be in this hellhole for one more second.”
“Can’t I say bye to Harrison first?” Jessica whined, trying to loosen my grip on her arm.
“Jessica!” I cricked my neck painfully when I twisted around to face her. “He’s gay! You don’t have a chance, so just give it up already. I need to get out of here. Please.”
I pulled them out into the parking lot, where the icy January air tore at the bare flesh of our faces. Relenting, Casey and Jessica gathered close on either side of me. They must have found their outfits, which were intended to be sexy, ill equipped to handle the windchill. We moved to my car in a huddle, separating only when we reached the front bumper. I clicked the unlock button on my key chain so that we could climb into the slightly warmer cab of the Saturn without delay.
Casey curled up in the front seat and said, through chattering teeth, “Why are we leaving so early? B, it’s only, like, nine-fifteen.”
Jessica sulked in the backseat with an ancient blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon. (My piece-of-shit heater rarely decided to work, so I kept a stash of blankets on the floorboard.)
“I got into an argument with someone,” I explained, jabbing the key into the ignition with unnecessary force. “I threw my Coke on him, and I didn’t want to stick around for his response.”
“Who?” Casey asked.
I’d been dreading that question because I knew the reaction I’d get. “Wesley Rush.”
Two swoony, girly sighs followed my answer.
“Oh, come on,” I fumed. “The guy is a man-whore. I can’t stand him. He sleeps with everything that moves, and his brain is located in his pants—which means it’s microscopic.”
“I doubt that,” Casey said with another sigh. “God, B, only you could find a flaw in Wesley Rush.”
I glared at her as I turned my head to back out of the parking lot. “He’s a jerk.”
“That’s not true,” Jessica interjected. “Jeanine said he talked to her at a party recently. She was with Vikki and Angela, and she said he just came up and sat down beside her. He was really friendly.”
That made sense. Jeanine was definitely the Duff if she was out with Angela and Vikki. I wondered which of them left with Wesley that night.
“He’s charming,” Casey said. “You’re just being Little Miss Cynical, as usual.” She gave me a warm smile from across the cab. “But what the hell did he do to get you to throw Coke at him?” Now she sounded concerned. Took her long enough. “Did he say something to you, B?”
“No,” I lied. “It’s nothing. He just pisses me off.”
Duff.
The word bounced around in my mind as I sped down 5th Street. I couldn’t bring myself to tell my friends about the wonderful new insult that had just been added to my vocab list, but when I glanced at myself in the rearview mirror, Wesley’s assertion that I was the unattractive, undesirable tagalong (more like dragalong) seemed to be confirmed. Jessica’s perfect hourglass figure and warm, welcoming brown eyes. Casey’s flawless complexion and mile-long legs. I couldn’t compare to either of them.
“Well, I say we hit another party, since it’s so early,” Casey suggested. “I heard about this one out in Oak Hill. Some college kid is home for Christmas break and decided to have a big blowout. Angela told me about it this morning. Want to go?”