See Me After Class(103)

ARLO





“Where are you going?” Cora says, just as I’m about to head to the garage and drive as fast as I fucking can to Greer’s apartment.

Her letter yesterday had me wishing she didn’t have a game that night, because I wanted to hang out with her. Slowly and luxuriously explore her body while we divulged more secrets. Instead, I texted her last night and talked about the time I almost drowned in Lake Michigan as a kid. It wasn’t quite foreplay, but it was just another snippet of my life I was open to sharing with her. Which is still surprising the shit out of me. It’s reinforcing how silent I’ve been for years. How little anyone knew me. Made me wonder how I ended up with gregarious friends like Romeo and Gunner, if I was honest. And now, Greer.

“Out,” I say, stuffing my wallet in my pocket.

“Where exactly?” Cora leans against the hallway wall, arms crossed.

“Just out.”

“Uh-huh. Now look who’s being evasive.”

“I don’t need to tell you everywhere I’m going.”

“But I do?” she asks.

“Yes.”

She snorts. “You’re the worst, you know that?” Pushing off the wall, she comes up to me and sniffs my chest. “Just what I suspected—cologne.”

“Oh-kay,” I say, drawing out the word.

Her finger motions to my hair. “You’ve got that messy I didn’t try, but really I did look.”

“Your point?”

“Hand me your wallet.”

“No.”

“Arlo. Hand it over.”

“There’s money in the cookie jar in the kitchen if you need some cash.”

Her stare grows more intense as she wiggles her fingers at me. “Hand. Me. Your. Wallet.”

Rolling my eyes, I give it to her, only for her to open it up and pull out an accordion of condoms.

“Just as I suspected. You’re going to go have sex.”

I snatch the wallet and condoms away, stuffing them back inside. “You need to start looking for your own place to live.”

“Oh no, not now. Not when things are just starting to get interesting. About time there’s something juicy going on around here. So, who is she?”

“None of your business”

I move toward the door, but she quickly works her way around me and spreads her arms and legs out like a spider, trying to block me from exiting. “I demand details. You went to marriage counseling with me, you’ve been giddy at night, attached to your phone, and now you’re headed out around date-night o’clock, armed with a militia of condoms. I want to know who the girl is.”

“Maybe I’m not ready to tell you. Ever think of that?”

“Yes, but I don’t care. I have no boundaries. You should know that by now.” She squeezes her hands together, practically praying in front of me. “Pleeeeeease, Arlo. Give me this little nugget to chew on while I sit here, in the dark, lonely and sad because my life is falling apart.”

I tilt my head. “No, don’t play that game with me. We both know you’re past the lonely and sad phase.”

“Ugh, you’re right. But I still need something, anything. Who are you sticking your dick in tonight?”

“Jesus Christ.” I drag my hand down my face . . . just as my phone beeps with a text message. Oh, shit. I didn’t grab my phone.

Cora perks up, and terror breaks out across my face as I try to remember where I put my phone. Before I know what’s happening, Cora blows past me in an all-out sprint.

“Cora, don’t,” I say, chasing after her. We reach the joint living room and kitchen area, and we both look around, ready to pounce.

“Ah-ha,” Coraline says before pouncing over the couch.

I follow closely behind, tackling her into the cushions.

“Get off me, you gollumpus.”

Yeah, I taught her the new insult the other day.

“Ah, that’s my boob, you’re stepping on my boob.”

“Unless your boob is at your feet, I’m not stepping on it,” I say, scrambling around just as her elbow connects with my ribs. “Fuck.” I curl into my side as she slithers out from under me. From the corner of my eye, I see her reach for my phone on the coffee table. “Don’t touch it,” I yell as I wallop a throw pillow right in her face, causing her to drop the phone to the ground.

I roll off the couch, still clutching my side, and serpentine my way under the coffee table, where the phone is.

I’m about to reach it when the coffee table turns over and a hulk-like beast rages above me, hair askew, eyes reading like murder as she pulls her elbow back . . . taps it . . . and, oh fuck . . .

She leaps into the air and, as if she just signed a contract with World Wrestling Entertainment, she pummels me with her elbow to my shoulder, and then uses my body to roll away and grab my phone.

Despite my size.

My strength.

My smarts.

I was no match for the psychotic state of my sister.

As if the floor is lava and I’m drowning in it, she hops up on one of the chairs, stands on the armrests, and looks at my phone.

Fuck.

Please let it be Romeo or Gunner. Let it be one of their stupid texts about— “Mr. Turns Me On?” Coraline says with a huge smile on her face.