Filthy Foreign Exchange(27)

Case in point: In second period, my phone vibrates in my pocket. While the teacher’s back is turned, I read his message under my desk. It’s a picture of a girl I don’t know, and for a moment, I’m confused—until my phone buzzes again.

Kingston: Need my Echo Meter. What do you think?

Now this game I can play without fear of emotional risk.

Me: Does she speak in full, coherent sentences that, in any way, correlate to the topic at hand?

Kingston: You delight me. In comparison to even YOUR texts, no, she’s functional at best.

Well, there’s his answer then.

But before I can respond, he texts again.

Kingston: But yes, it is indeed English she is speaking.

Me: Can you, without spraining your neck, tell what color of underwear she’s wearing?

I glance up at the front of the room. The teacher’s still facing away, scrawling on the board. I have no idea what she’s teaching today, nor do I care. Kingston, among being a million other things, is a fun distraction. And I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so distracted.

He makes me smile, laugh…think. He challenges my mind, which has gone too long without a worthy opponent for splendid banter. Since his arrival, my life has more color in it—vibrant Technicolor that I now find myself stopping to notice and fully appreciate.

I miss my brother something awful. I do. But I’m glad Kingston’s here.

Kingston: She’s not wearing any.

I’m not sure whether he’s just trying to get a rise out of me. I’d hope so, because ew. But either way, it works—I have to slap my hand over my mouth to muffle my laughter. I don’t know why I find it so funny. Perhaps I’m just trapped in a perpetually good mood.

Me: Doesn’t that easy access make her an automatic 10? What do you need me for?

Kingston: Several things. And no, I’ve found that a certain new someone in my life has caused me to raise my standards.

I smile, glad I’ve made an impact. Kingston doesn’t have to settle. He can handpick someone worthy of him.

Kingston: Can I get that meter reading please? She’s becoming clingier with each minute you make me await your decision.

Me: She may have been out of clean underwear, so to be fair, I need more information. Her laugh: more human or small, distressed-animal sounding?

Kingston: Definitely the latter.

Me: Ask her to spell definitely.

There’s a gap in response time. Poor girl—I can picture her face scrunching up in what she thinks is “cute” confusion.

Kingston: Not even close.

I actually snicker before making a decision. I feel a bit guilty being so judgmental, but fake laughter, the inability to spell, and no panties? Nope.

Me: Two.

Kingston: Agreed. Thank you for your brilliant wisdom.

Me: I do what I can. Now I have to go learn something. You should try doing the same.

Either he got tangled up with the “two” despite my meter reading or actually took my advice on learning something, because I don’t hear from him again until the middle of lunch. And his message is accompanied by another picture.

Kingston: How about her? She has a certain “wholesome” feel.

I literally spit out the drink I’d just taken, scowling back at the people now staring at me.

“What was that about?” Savannah gripes, wiping my Coke off her sweater.

“Nothing, sorry,” I mumble, staring back down at my phone.

“No, really, what’s so fascinating? You’re, like, not even listening to a word I’ve said,” she whines, forgetting I’m impervious to “that” voice. It only works on Sebastian.

Me: That’s because she IS wholesome. That’s Mrs. Thurman, THE PASTOR’S WIFE! Walk away, playboy. WALK. AWAY. And I know you’re not enrolled in her Religion class, so why are you near her? Oh God. (No pun intended.)

“I’m done trying,” Savannah huffs. “Have fun with your Trivia Crack, or whatever’s got you so busy over there. See ya at your truck later.”

She storms off and I feel sort of bad, but not enough to lift my head or respond.

I scarf down the rest of my lunch and go through the motions of dumping my trash, grabbing my books from my locker, and walking to my class. But all the while, I’m looking forward to my phone vibrating again.

Which it does, in fifth period: my last class of the day on the high-school campus.

It’s another picture.

Um. Wow.

Me: Kingston, that’s A GUY.

Kingston: Are you sure?

Me: Quite.

Kingston: Did you laugh?

Me: Yes.

Kingston: Then my work here is done. So you’ll be smiling when I see you in just a bit?

Me: Most likely.

Kingston: Looking forward to it.

So am I.

~~~~~

Savannah spends the entire ride to the college hounding me for information. Why do I seem so cheerful? Why am I so distracted? Why am I not giving her the usual 100% of my attention?

I pacify her with short, evasive answers, proud of myself for resisting the urge to turn the radio on full blast.

I don’t know what this “thing” between Kingston and me is, exactly, but I know it’s ours—mine. And I just want to enjoy it while I can without examining it or getting advice, which Savannah would give. And give. And give.