“Oh, please,” David Fields snorts. “He’s an idiot.”
Figures. David only talks in class to attack what someone else has said. Otherwise, he ignores the discussion and spends the class surfing the web on his computer. People say that he gets such good grades that all the teachers let him do whatever he wants.
David has one of those bland faces that would get him off for murder because not a single eyewitness would be able to describe him. They’d all be saying stuff like, “Oh, you know . . . hair that’s kind of brown . . . not that straight, but not curly either . . . His nose? Just kind of normal, I guess?. . . Dark eyes, probably brown . . . Average size . . .” Meanwhile he’d be off killing a bunch more innocents. And they’d come interview everyone at our school, and we’d all be, like, “Yeah, I’m not surprised. Guy was weird.”
“Has anyone here actually read the play?” he says. “The guy’s a flake, falling in and out of love with any girl who crosses his path. If he and Juliet hadn’t died, he’d have moved on to someone else the second the excitement was gone. Only a moron would find that romantic.”
“Hey, watch it,” James growls—?defending Sarah because she’s my best friend and he’s a good guy. James is tall and broad-shouldered and dark-haired and blue-eyed—?he basically looks like Clark Kent when he takes off his glasses just before he turns into Superman. Everyone at school is either in awe of him or in love with him, but he’s my boyfriend.
David ignores the growl. “Shakespeare’s making fun of lame teenagers who convince themselves that lust is love.” He deliberately glances at me and James and then raises a hand to his lips with comically exaggerated embarrassment. “Oh, dear . . . I hope I didn’t offend anyone in this room.”
“We should give David a break,” I say, addressing Ms. Camp, but making sure everyone can hear me. “It’s not his fault he doesn’t get it. I mean, he doesn’t get It. Ever.” Lots of laughter at that—?the crowd’s on my side.
“Oh, gee,” David retorts. “I’ve missed out on all the delights of a public high school relationship. What will I have to cringe about in my old age?”
“I’m sure you’ll find something.”
“I think,” Ms. Camp says with an edge of desperation, “that we’ve lost track of our discussion.”
“No, it’s good,” I say. “It’s like Shakespeare’s come alive for us.”
“Really?” she says hopefully.
“Definitely,” I assure her with my sweetest smile.
James drives me home from school like he always does if he has time. Otherwise, I have to take the bus or walk—?it’s about a mile, which isn’t too bad unless you have a heavy backpack and it’s, like, eighty-five degrees out . . . which is most of the time in LA.
I invite him to come in, but he says he has to go to soccer practice. I pout and tell him he’s no fun.
“You’re a bad influence,” he says. “I’m late every time I drop you off, and Coach is threatening to bench me for the next game if I’m late again.”
“Oh, please. You’re his best player—?he’s never going to make you sit out.”
“Yeah,” James says with the slow twitchy grin that was the first thing I noticed about him and which still sends a thrill through my body. “I know. Give me a goodbye kiss?” He holds out his arms, and I wriggle out of my seat belt and across the gearshift into his lap, where I do some more wriggling and try to change his mind about coming upstairs with me.
I know I’ve succeeded when his breath turns ragged and uneven.
“All right, fine,” he says with an exaggerated sigh. “I’ll go in with you. But I can’t stay longer than five minutes, Chloe. I mean it.”
“A lot can happen in five minutes,” I say as we tumble out of the car. I break free and sprint toward the front steps. He catches me at the door as I’m unlocking it. We move inside together, and he pins me against the wall. He’s got his tongue in my mouth, and I’m moving my hips against his . . . and then my phone buzzes. I duck away to check it and curse.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“I have to get Ivy. Mom said things got busy at work and she can’t leave.” I look at my watch. “Crap. It’s almost four, and I have to pick up the car. I’m going to be so late.”
“You need me to do anything?”
“Yeah—?can you drop me off at Ron’s office? It’s on Wilshire. Not too far.”
“Okay, but we’d better leave now.” He casts a last wistful glance at the sofa.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“You’d better.”
Three
MY FRIEND SARAH has this theory about life, which is that no one has it all, even though it looks like some people do. The kids who have a happy home life don’t have a lot of friends; the popular, athletic kids have mean parents; and the rich kids are stupid and get bad grades. “You have a great boyfriend and you do well at school and everyone likes you,” she said to me when she was explaining her theory. “You’re even blond. So of course your family situation is a little, you know . . . challenging. That’s life keeping things in balance.”
“What about you?” I said. “What’s not good about your life?”
“I do really badly at school,” she said, which is ridiculous—?she gets decent grades in mostly honors classes.
“No, you don’t. Anyway,” I said before she could start arguing with me about how stupid she was, “I’m not a true blonde. I highlight it, you know.”
“You’re blond enough.”
“I’ll trade hair with you any day.”