I smiled. “Sure, Dad.”
About halfway into the first episode, I had this weird revelation. Okay, so when I was a kid, I had a major crush on Alex P. Keaton (Michael J. Fox’s super-Republican character on Family Ties), but twelve years later, I was in like with Toby Tucker, a Young Democrat. Did I have a thing for politicians or what? Maybe I was, like, destined to be the wife of a senator… or I might wind up being the First Lady.
Nah. Politicians didn’t marry Duffs. They didn’t look good enough on the sidelines of debates. And I wasn’t the marrying type, anyway. I had a better shot of being the Monica Lewinsky of the future. I’d just be sure to burn all, um, incriminating dresses.
Hey, Obama was kind of sexy for an old guy. Maybe I had a shot.
I bit my lip as Dad laughed at one of the sitcom-y jokes. How was it that even Family Ties brought me back to that word?
Duff.
God, Wesley and his damn pigeonholing just wouldn’t leave me alone. The word was taunting me, even in my own home. I scooted closer to Dad, trying to focus on the show. On our time together. On anything but Wesley and that stupid label. I tried to forget about that damn kiss and how idiotic I’d been.
Tried, tried, tried.
And, of course, failed miserably.
5
When I was in kindergarten, I had a traumatic monkey bars experience. I’d been halfway across, my legs swinging beneath me, when my hands got sweaty and made me slip. I fell for what seemed like a mile before landing on the ground in a heap. All the other five-year-olds laughed at me and my scraped, bloody knee. All of them but one.
Casey Blithe walked out of the gawking group of grade-schoolers and came to stand in front of me. Even back then, I knew she was beautiful. Blond locks, hazel eyes, rosy cheeks… the epitome of five-year-old perfection. She could have been in pageants.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” I said through thick, hot tears. I wasn’t sure whether I was crying because of the pain in my knee or because of the way all my classmates were laughing at me.
“No, you’re not. You’re bleeding. Let me help.” She reached out a hand and pulled me up. Then she turned and yelled at the kids who were making fun of me.
After that, she basically appointed herself my personal caretaker, never letting me out of her sight, determined to keep me out of trouble. From that moment on, we were best friends.
Of course, that was before popularity and Duffs got involved. She wound up being tall (almost six one—the girl was an Amazon!) and thin and gorgeous. I wound up looking like… well, the opposite. To see us separately, no one would ever think we were close. No one would guess the pretty Homecoming Queen was with the chubby mousy-haired girl in the corner.
But we were best friends. She’d been there for me through everything. She’d even stuck by me freshman year, after I’d had my heart broken for the first—and if I had anything to do with it, only—time. She never let me isolate myself or drown in my own misery. Despite the fact that she could easily find prettier, cooler, more popular friends, she stayed with me.
So when she asked me to drive her home after cheerleading practice on Wednesday afternoon, I agreed. I mean, after all she’d done for me over the past twelve years, the least I could do was give her a lift every now and then.
I waited in the cafeteria, staring at the psychedelic blue-and-orange walls (the guy who picked our school colors must have been on some serious drugs), attempting to finish my calculus homework. I was in the middle of asking myself the age-old question—where will I use this in real life?—when I felt a hand on my shoulder. That skin-crawly thing happened, and I knew exactly who was behind me.
Great. Just fucking great.
I jerked out from under Wesley’s hand and spun around to face him, gripping my pencil like a dart and aiming it right at his Adam’s apple.
He didn’t even flinch. His gray eyes examined the pencil with feigned curiosity and he said, “Interesting. Is this how you greet all the boys you like?”
“I don’t like you.”
“Does that mean you love me, then?”
I hated the smooth, confident way he spoke. A lot of girls thought it was sexy, but it was really just stalker-ish. Everything about him screamed date rape! to me. Ugh.
“It means that I hate you,” I snapped. “And if you don’t stay the fuck away from me, I’ll report you for sexual harassment.”
“Might be a hard case,” Wesley mused. He swiped the pencil from me and began twirling it between his fingers. “Especially considering you’re the one who kissed me. Technically, I could report you for harassment.”
I gritted my teeth, still hating to even think about it, not even bothering to remind him that he’d been more than willing to participate. “Give me back my pencil,” I muttered.
“I don’t know,” he said. “With you, this could be classified as a dangerous weapon… along with glasses of cherry soda. Interesting choice, by the way. I’d always pegged you for more of a Sprite girl. You know… plain.”
I just glared at him, hoping he would spontaneously combust before I grabbed my textbooks and notepads off the table. He dodged my attempt to stomp on his foot and stared after me as I marched down the hallway. I was halfway to the gym, where Casey, the cheerleading captain, should have been wrapping up practice, when he caught up with me.
“Oh, come on, Duffy. That was just a joke. Lighten up.”
“It wasn’t funny.”
“Your sense of humor needs some work, then,” Wesley suggested. “Most girls find my jokes charming.”
“Those girls must have IQs low enough to trip over.”
He laughed.
Apparently, I was the funny one.
“Hey, you never told me why you were upset the other night,” he said. “You were too busy shoving your tongue down my throat. So what was the problem?”
“None of your—” I began, but I stopped suddenly. “Hey! I didn’t… there was no tongue!” A shiver of rage ran through me as I noticed his mischievous smile. “You son of a bitch! Get the fuck out of here. God, why are you stalking me? I thought Wesley Rush didn’t chase girls. I thought they chased him, right?”
“You’re right. Wesley Rush doesn’t chase girls, and I’m not chasing you,” he said. “I’m here waiting for my sister. She’s making up a test for Mr. Rollins. I just saw you in the cafeteria and thought—”
“What? Thought you’d torture me a little more?” I clenched my fists. “Leave me the hell alone. You’ve already made me miserable.”
“How have I done that?” he asked, sounding a little surprised.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that Duff’ was plaguing me because of him. He’d enjoy it too much.
Instead, I took off running to the gym doors as fast as I could. This time he didn’t follow me—thank God. I hurried into the blue-and-orange gymnasium (Oh God. Bright colors… I could feel a headache coming already… ) and took a seat on the closest bleacher.
“Great practice, girls!” Casey cried from the other side of the gym. “Okay, the next basketball game is Friday. I want you all to practice the dance, and Vikki, work on those high kicks. All right?”
The Skinny Squad murmured in general agreement.
“Awesome,” said Casey. “See you later, guys. Go Panthers!”
“Go Panthers!” the other cheerleaders echoed as they separated. Most of the girls hurried to the locker room, but a few headed for the doors, chatting excitedly with their friends.