Thief(3)

“The last time I came to one of your games, your girlfriend had a fit,” I decide to point out.

“And that’s why she’s my ex,” Max says, standing up and wiping his hands on his jeans. “Are you just going to sit here alone?”

I look to my left and then my right. “Well, I’m sure all my friends will keep me company.”

He throws his head back and laughs.

I have a couple of friends, of course, but I’m not close to them like I am Max. They’re more like acquaintances, or ‘convenience friends’, as Max calls them. The type of friends you chat with, hang out with, and have fun with, but you will probably lose contact with the second school is over. I don’t mind my own company though, and I’ll happily sit here and read by myself. Max walks off to the courts, and I finish my book then pull a second one out of my bag. When the bell goes off, I check what class I have next, which turns out to be Home Economics, and head in that direction.

*****

I clear my throat. “So, about before…”

“You mean when you eavesdropped on a private conversation between me and my sister then thought it was a good idea to butt in and give us, random strangers, your personal input?” he says in a dry tone I don’t appreciate.

“To be fair, I thought you were her boyfriend—”

“You know what they say about people who assume,” he continues, rudely cutting me off.

I hold my hand up. “There’s no need to be a dick, dude.”

Dash tips the flour into the bowl and starts stirring. When he walked in late to Home Ec, the seat next to me was the only one left, and now we’re both stuck together, baking bread and making awkward conversation. I pour some oil and flick it into the bowl. Dash stops his aggressive stirring and looks up at me. “That was way too much oil.”

“No, it wasn’t,” I tell him, grabbing the salt. “We need to put the salt in.”

“I’ll do it,” he says, taking the salt from me and tipping some in.

“This is a group activity,” I say drolly, pulling the bowl toward me. “I don’t care how much of a control freak you are; this is my loaf of bread too.”

He expels a sigh, like it’s taking all of his energy to deal with me, and pushes the bowl in my direction. “Have at it then, Viola.”

Liking my name on his lips, I avoid his eyes and pick up the ball of dough, squishing it in my hands. Who am I kidding? I don’t know how to make bread. Or anything. Yeah, I’m no Martha Stewart.

“What do I have to do next?” I ask, refusing to feel sheepish. I glance over at the instructions then look around at the other students nearby, just to see what theirs looks like. When I look back to Dash, I find him already watching me.

“What?” I ask.

He blinks slowly a few times. “How does Max put up with you?”

I slam down the ball of dough on the cutting board. “I’ve been wondering the same, only about you.”

He grabs the dough from me, and I watch him finish it off then place it in the oven without even looking at the instructions. He’s probably one of those guys who is good at everything and anything.

How annoying.

I start filling out the worksheet the teacher gave us, happy to be doing theory work over practical. I hate this class, and I hate cooking—or baking, as it were—but I’m not about to get a bad grade for any class. I finish the worksheet quickly, and then slide it over to Dash. He did the baking, so the least I can do is play my part in the team by being of use. His lip twitches as he glances over my paper.

“How do I know you’re smart and those answers are correct?”

I roll my eyes at him and say, “How do I know the bread is going to taste good?”

He grins then, dimples making an appearance. He takes my paper and copies the answers. When he’s done, he lifts his head, looks at me, and says, “If the bread tastes like shit, it’s because you put too much oil.”

I can’t help it; I laugh. It’s either that, or throw something at his head. “You’re infuriating.”

He shakes his head. “And you’re not?”

“No.”

“You’re nosey,” he decides to point out. “Who stops and interrupts a private conversation?” He pauses. “On a Monday morning, the first school day of the year?”

I guess we were back to this again.

“Who yells at their baby sister on the first school day of the year, at a new school, where anyone walking by can hear?” I ask him back.

“I do, when my sister is wearing a short f*cking skirt and when it’s not anyone else’s business,” he says, starting to sound angry.

“Well, next time, yell at her before she leaves the house,” I suggest, scanning the classroom for a distraction.

“I’ll do that,” he replies, voice laced with sarcasm and contempt.

I wonder if someone will exchange seats with me.

He taps his pen on the table, the sound filling the awkward silence.

“Are you and Max dating?” he asks after a few moments.

“No,” I reply, wrinkling my nose.

“Have you ever dated?” he asks, tilting his head to the side and studying me.

“Nope.”

He nods, but looks adorably confused. “I don’t get the two of you.”