Not So Nice Guy(28)
I shouldn’t get too close, not if I know what’s good for me. If I’m not careful, I’ll sustain lasting damage.
Still…
“Nicholas, hey, twirl me in the direction of the punch bowl.”
“Twirl? Uhhh, I didn’t make it that far in the instructional dance video…”
I lead us, taking control and basically dragging poor Nicholas across the cafeteria. He trips and tumbles into me. I try to play it off like we’re having so much fun and can hardly contain our laughter.
“Laugh, Nicholas,” I say sternly.
“You’re scaring me.”
We’re only feet away from Ian now, and I produce a cackle verging on insanity. “Nicholas stop, stop. You’re killing me.”
“Oh my god, am I stepping on your toes or something?”
As a matter of fact, he is, but I ignore the shooting pain and aim a pleasant little smile in Ian’s direction. Finally, I catch his blue gaze and he inclines his head with a sexy lift of his brow. The expression says, Samantha, please. You’re fooling no one.
He wins that round.
My poor feet do not.
Later, as I’m sitting down, icing my toes, I watch as the Freshman Four descend on Ian across the room. They weren’t even supposed to be chaperoning the dance and yet here they are, wearing bright dresses in Starburst shades with enough sequins to rival a disco ball. Their seduction strategy boils down to squirrel psychology: to be attractive is to be bright and shiny. Their attack on Ian is coordinated. They each take a cardinal direction so he’s surrounded. I watch with glee while he tries to break away from them. If only he wasn’t ignoring me, I could go over and help the poor man. He’s really done it now. Oh yes, he’s going to get it.
Except, a minute later, he holds out his hand and I watch with a gaping mouth as he leads BIANCA out onto the dance floor. BIANCA, the wicked witch of Oak Hill High! She’s never looked more smug.
I catch a hint of their conversation and my eyes narrow to slits.
“Bianca stop, stop. You’re killing me.”
Oh, okay, funny man.
They dance dangerously close to where I’m sitting with my ice pack, except Ian knows how to dance, and he also knows how to make Bianca toss her head back with riotous laughter. Oh please, Bianca. Your sense of humor is limited to the first half of knock-knock jokes. You don’t even remember the punchlines.
When they twirl even closer to me, Ian catches my eye. He tips his head and smiles, so self-serving and congratulatory. I stand up, wince at the pain, and march away as swiftly as seven shattered toes will allow.
I’m not even sure what game we’re playing or what the rules are, but I know he upped the stakes with that stupid, magnificent black suit.
I retaliated with a misguided dance with Nicholas, and now he’s delivering a backhanded blow with Bianca on his arm. By my count, he’s up two to zero. If someone were to ask what the point of all this is, I’d tell them there is a perfectly good explanation but that it’s none of their business. In reality, there is no point. I don’t know where my motives lie because I don’t take a single second to think about them. I’m too busy reacting, strategizing. There’s not an eligible bachelor in the room aside from Ian. Principal Pruitt is not only ancient, he’s also happily married. Even now, he’s out on the dance floor with his wife. They’re smooshed together under the disco ball and their love makes me want to spew chunks.
I could have had a date tonight. Apparently, I could have even had dates tonight! A veritable reverse harem if only Ian hadn’t bribed children to steal from me. I wonder how many bears he intercepted—tens, hundreds, thousands? There’s no telling. I could have been buried alive in stuffing and fake fur and tiny choking-hazard eyeballs. What a dream.
Even worse, I spent time on my appearance tonight in an effort to make Ian swallow his tongue. I booked appointments for hair and makeup at a local salon and I suffered in a chair with poor lumbar support all afternoon. They did things to my eyebrows. My long hair was twirled, teased, curled, brushed out, and then sprayed in place. Usually, I don’t wear much makeup, and right now I feel like I’m about to step on stage at a beauty pageant.
And that’s not even mentioning the dress.
It’s short and blue and flirty, not so short that students are liable to catch a peek at my privates, but short enough that my legs are “killing it, baby,” as the sales clerk noted. I wish I’d just worn a velour tracksuit. I feel ridiculous now that I’ve gone to all this trouble and Ian hasn’t even come to over to talk to me.
I hover in the shadows until he’s finished dancing with Bianca, and when he’s out of sight, I reluctantly retake my post.
It’s 8:00 PM. Surely this thing will wrap up soon. Don’t these kids have to be in bed by like 8:30 PM?
As if in response to my thoughts, the DJ suddenly switches the music from slow jams to techno, the overhead lights cut off, and flickering strobe lights take their place. The students go wild. The DJ (who, by the way, is just a dorky PTA dad) is jumping in the air, holding his headphones to his ear with one hand, and pumping the other one as hard as he can. He’s close to herniating a disk and he doesn’t care. For him, this is the final night of Coachella.
“How’re your toes?” Ian’s voice to my left makes me jump out of my skin and shout an incomprehensible syllable in surprise.