Beat the Band (Swim the Fly #2)(3)

And Nicky Hickey? Smells. Bad. Real bad. Like brussels sprouts rolled in fish food. He might not even be such a terrible guy, but you just can’t hang with him long enough to find out.

Me, Matt, and Sean share a thank-holy-Jesus look.

Mrs. Turris brushes a curly blond lock from her forehead. “The topic you will be researching and teaching a lesson on will be . . .” She grabs the nearby yellow shoebox and blindly plucks an index card from it. Drum roll please. “Alcohol.”

“I did a few pints of research on that very subject this past weekend,” Andy quips, running his hand down the baby beard he’s sprouting on his chin.

One person sniggers in the back corner, but really, nobody wants to encourage him.

Mrs. Turris ignores Andy’s comment and continues reading the card. “Its effects on the body. Consequences of driving under the influence. Alcohol addiction. Et cetera.”

Personally, I don’t give two turds what subject I get. But I have to get a cool partner. Everything else is dealable.

Mrs. Turris dips her paw back into the blue shoebox and draws two more names.

“Sean Hance and Matthew Gratton.”

Matt and Sean fist bump. The bastards.

They both turn to me and make apologetic faces. I give them a shit-happens shrug, ’cause what else am I supposed to do? Threaten to ignore the food pyramid and eat a crap diet until Mrs. Turris pairs me up with one of them? As if I’ve ever eaten “heart healthy” in my life.

It would have been stagg to work with Matt. We would have had a ton of laughs and maybe even gotten a decent grade, ’cause Matt’s actually pretty smart.

I wouldn’t even have minded Sean. I mean, sure, we’d have barely passed, but at least we’re friends and neither of us smells like anus.

Mrs. Turris scratches hard at her pad, trying to get the ink running in her pen so she can write down their names.

I take a breath. No need to panic. Everything’s chill here. I’d rather get one of the lovely ladies anyway.

I lean over to Prudence Nash — her soft brown hair framing her Victoria’s-Secret-model face — and shoot her my irresistible, whadda-ya-say grin. “Looks like our odds just got a little better, huh?” I whisper.

“For what?” Prudence says, staring straight ahead. “A reason to commit suicide?”

“For you and me, babe. That is, if your luck holds.” I give her a sly head tilt as Mrs. Turris rummages in her drawer for a new writing implement. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll be assigned the Kama Sutra. We can demonstrate the seventy-two most pleasurable lovemaking positions. What do you think about that?”

Prudence flips me the middle finger. Still not looking in my direction.

“Mee-ouch. You do know that’s how the deaf talk dirty to each other.”

Prudence whips around and gives me the slow burn.

“And your topic is,” Mrs. Turris says, finally ready to reveal Matt’s and Sean’s fate. “Sexually transmitted diseases. STDs. Contraction, prevention, and treatment.”

Matt’s and Sean’s life-is-great expressions suddenly sour. Pube lice and penile scabbing. Not exactly a car for Christmas, is it, fellas?

My cheeks start to tug a smile, but I wrest control.

Mrs. Turris scribbles the topic down, then grabs two more names.

“Gina Lagotta and Kelly West,” she calls out.

Jesus Christ. Two more of my prospects paired up with each other. I don’t like how this is shaking out.

Okay, just stay positive. There’s still Bodacious Bronte and Primo Prudence.

I smile at Prudence to let her know she’s still my number one. Waggle the eyebrows. “The plot thickens.”

Prudence’s hand rockets into the air. “Mrs. Turris?”

“Yes, Prudence,” Mrs. Turris says, her sausage-fingers hovering over the yellow shoebox.

“I’m not feeling well. May I go to the nurse?”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“I just got really nauseous.”

“How about you wait until we see who your partner is, so you two can schedule a time to meet. Then you can go to the nurse.”

Prudence huffs and crosses her arms.

“Kelly and Gina, the subject of your lesson will be . . .” Mrs. Turris pulls an index card. She’s having way too much fun with this. “Nutrition. What constitutes a healthy diet? Effects of an unhealthy one. How to read a nutrition label. And the like.”

I scan the room to assess the situation. Beyond the two choice babes left, all the other potentials are bottom-feeders at best. I suppose I could deal with most of them if I absolutely had to. Anyone except Justin “Stoned Senseless” Sneep. I’d end up having to do all the work, which would be a giant sack of blowage.

Come to think of it, if I wind up working with Prudence or Bronte, I’ll probably have to do the whole project myself as well. Although, if they’d be willing to work out an appropriate barter system, it might not be so bad.

Still, I think I should have a plan B. So I’m not completely devastated if I lose out on my first tier of partners. Preferably someone who’s so concerned about being paired with me and my slothful ways that they’ll take up the lion’s share. Someone who’s too nice to get mad at me. Someone like . . .

“Sam Shattenkirk,” Mrs. Turris reads, fumbling with the folded second slip.