Filthy Foreign Exchange(35)
And the rest of dinner goes off without a hitch—in fact, my mother does most of the talking, thrilled that Sebastian called her earlier today. I listen, adding obligatory responses here and there, but my nerves are fraying more with each passing minute…because the weight of Kingston’s stare never leaves me.
I just hope my father isn’t noticing the same.
After the meal is cleaned up and I’m sitting in bed, finishing some homework, I hear the shower turn on.
It takes a minute, but then he calls out, “My pleasure, Love,” in response to my message written on the shower door: Thank you for the tire job.
~~~~~
Wednesday starts with a shower note waiting for me—Happy Hump Day—and I have to laugh. Seems our international visitor is picking up more American slang than I realized.
And it’s slang he finds worthy of further examination, if my first text of the day—a picture of an actual camel— is any indication.
As I stare at it, a goofy grin on my face, his words come back to me: You delight me.
Yeah, he kind of delights me too. Silly, uncomplicatedly, delights me.
Kingston: Hump also means to have sex, correct?
Me: It can, why?
Kingston: Absolutely nothing sexy about a camel.
Me: LMAO (that means Laughing My Ass Off). And agreed. Not sexy. But “Hump Day” means making it over the hump of the middle of the week.
Kingston: Ah, that would explain it. So no sexual connotation?
Me: No, not everything is about sex.
Kingston: You can see how I’d be confused though?
Me: Yes, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt on this one.
So, before I explained, was he worried all us Americans had to find someone to “hump” every Wednesday? I shake my head and laugh to myself. Oh, Kingston.
My next picture arrives at lunch. This time, it’s more of what I’m used to: a girl. Except this one is actually striking a pose for him! No joke—she’s got one hand on her hip and the other over her head, her boobs pushed so far out they’re almost popping through my screen.
Me: Did you ask her to POSE?
Kingston: Sadly, no. Nor did I request she say “cheese.”
I snap a picture of the cheese on my sandwich and send it back.
Me: Cheesy. She gets a 2.
“Did you just take a picture of your sandwich?” Savannah asks.
“Nope, just the cheese,” I reply through a snicker, not looking up from my phone.
She doesn’t let up. “Why?”
But my focus is hanging on the next ding of my phone.
Kingston: I was thinking 1.
Me: 1 it is.
“No reason.” I shrug, glancing Savannah’s way with a secret smile.
My phone dings again, and this time Savannah snatches it out of my hand so fast I can’t stop her. Shit!
“Um, Echo? Why did Kingston just send you a picture of a whale?”
My smile is so wide my cheeks sting. Because they, too, have humps.
“Give me that.” I snatch my phone back, surprised with how annoyed I am at her intrusion. “Don’t worry about it. Inside joke.”
“I don’t get iiittt,” she whines, her face riddled with puzzlement.
“You’re not supposed to. That’s why it’s called an inside joke.”
Wow, that came out way too snippy. I set my phone down, ready to apologize, but I’m too late.
“Geez!” She holds up both hands. “Excuse me. Didn’t know a picture of a whale was so personal. I’m out.”
She stands up, once again stomping away from another of what used to be our friendly lunches together.
“Savannah, wait!”
I try for an apologetic tone, but she’s gone without a single look back.
I sigh, picking at my sandwich. I don’t want to fight with Savannah or hurt her feelings, but damn. Can I not have this one thing—this unexplainable, fun thing—to myself?
Yes. Yes, I can. And I can even throw in a curveball of real enjoyment. After all, what’s good for the Echo is good for the Kingston.
I jump up, setting out on a mission so foreign to me I almost can’t believe I thought of it. Walking discreetly through the crowd, I search for the perfect target. People are loitering in the halls, done with lunch but not yet due for class.
And that’s when I spot exactly whom I’m looking for: Craig Farrister.
If a girl was able to ignore the fact that his ego is as big as his list of “conquests” and that he’s a lunchroom bully, she wouldn’t mind looking at Craig. He’s a total jackass, but he’s one of the best-looking guys in school.
Which is the only purpose I need him to serve. Gotta start with a bang.
I’m not about to get near him, so I pull up the camera on my phone and zoom in, ensuring my finger’s in position to push the snap button before yelling, “Hiii, Craig!”
He turns my way, and—right on cue—gives me the cocky smile, complete with the lecherous, hooded stare he’s known for, and that I was counting on.
Snap. Perfection!
“Well hello there, Echo Kelly,” he blathers in what I’m guessing he thinks is a sexy tone, slithering toward me. “‘Bout time you took notice.”
No, no.
I jerk my head left, then right; I’m fully surrounded by conversing hordes of classmates. This is why I don’t dabble in deception: a lack of expertise in escape plans.