#famous(17)

“No promises,” I muttered. Dave snorted loudly and disappeared into the room. It made me realize it was probably a crappy thing to say.

I made it the rest of the way to Creative Writing without getting mobbed. Which was good, since I felt like punching something.

The minute I walked through the door, whoops filled the air. I glared at Mr. Jenkins, sitting at his metal desk in the back corner of the room. He smirked, shrugged, and turned back to the magazine he was reading with a look of concentration. The bell hadn’t rung, so he was opting to ignore it. I looked for Ollie at the back of the room, but too many people were up on their desks.

“Is it true? Have we really been graced by the famous Kyle Bonham?” Cam Eaton mock-bowed at me.

Cam: class-clown junior, usually kinda annoying. But right this second, the distraction was nice. People were laughing at Cam, bowing over and over, lower every time, to me, the kid who was suddenly famous. My jaw still felt painfully tight, but I threw on my biggest smile, playing into it. I wasn’t gonna stay worried about Emma. She wouldn’t be mad forever.

“At your service.” I nodded toward him like some king.

Cam threw himself to the floor of my row. More people were watching now. It almost made me nervous. Like I was performing. Which was dumb. I walked slowly down the row, chin up, until I got near Cam. Then, without looking at him, I extended my hand. He grabbed it and faked a fit of ecstasy, rolling around gibbering, “FRIES! Oh, my lord’s hand even SMELLS of fries!”

I looked to the back of the room. I could see Ollie now: sitting low in his chair, rolling his eyes like I was the annoying kid brother.

It made me want to milk the moment harder.

“Someone should take a picture of Cam.” I grinned, looking around. Ollie was staring intently, like he was trying to get some point across. I couldn’t figure out what. “Who knows, it could make him. Look at me. It’s not like talent factors in.”

People laughed, especially guys. I could feel myself warming up to this. Having everyone’s eyes on just me: exciting in a way lacrosse games had never been. Off in the far corner I noticed Rachel’s explosion of curls. Her back was to me, like she was looking out the window. Why wasn’t she getting in on this?

“But if we want Cam’s picture to go anywhere, we need it to have the right . . . how do you say . . .” I did my most Cam-worthy French accent. “Panache. There’s only one choice, of course.” I walked back down the aisle. I could see movement from Ollie out of the corner of my eye, but I ignored it. I made it over to Rachel’s desk, but she wouldn’t look at me. “It needs the almost supernatural photographic skills of Ms. Rachel Ettinger.”

She looked up then. Her lips were pinched together so hard they were almost white, and her eyes were huge and shiny with tears. She looked like I’d just stabbed her in the stomach, her face a mix of pain, and anger, and something else . . . contempt, maybe.

She stood, pushed past me as well as she could (she was a little unsteady, and stumbled into the edge of the desk), and rushed out of the room, not even turning back for her bag. Dimly, I heard a few girls’ high, thin laughs.

What the heck? I glanced back at Jenkins, but he was still buried in his magazine. He always read through passing time. I looked at Ollie. Ollie: shaking his head, obviously disgusted.

“The artist’s temperament, that one,” Cam said. People laughed. I smiled weakly and wove back to my seat.

“Dude,” I said, turning to Ollie. He was staring straight ahead, jaw rigid. “What just happened?”

“Have you looked at her mentions on Flit?” he murmured, not looking at me.

“No. I can’t even dig through my own. Why? What’s wrong?” A heavy, sinking feeling settled in my chest, like someone had tied weights to my ribs. “Seriously, Ollie, what did I do?”

He turned to me, his face loosening slightly. He sighed.

“I know you didn’t mean it, Kyle, but that was a messed-up move you just pulled.”

“Really?” Ollie cocked an eyebrow. It looked exactly like “I like you, but you’re a mega-idiot.” “I thought everyone was having fun. I was the one acting like an idiot.”

“Kyle. C’mon.”

My phone started buzzing in my back pocket. I pulled it out. It was my mom.

“Sorry, dude, I think I have to answer this.” I turned to Jenkins, who was standing and stretching, and mouthed “My mom?” with the phone up in the air. He nodded briefly, pointing at the clock. Passing time was almost over. “You know it was just for fun, right?”

The phone rang again, insistent. Ollie nodded and gave me an exasperated half smile. “Yeah, I know that. Just . . . pay more attention, Kyle.”

I frowned, but I didn’t have time to talk about it. Heading down the row past Ollie to avoid Cam’s sprawled legs, I jogged out the door.

“Hey, Mom,” I said, craning my neck to see up and down the hallway. There was no sign of Rachel. “What’s up?”

“Kyle, why do I have news reporters calling me? And your principal? Why did I have to pretend I knew why my paralegal saw you on television during her lunch break?” My mom’s voice was high with strain. “What in Pete’s name is going on?”

“Do you have a minute?” I sighed, leaning back against the wall. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”