Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(15)

Mr. Nestman gestures to the well-padded eggplant-breasted brunette on his left.

“Okay.” The girl adjusts herself and sits up tall, her legs crossed. “Hi. I’m Victoria.” A little wave to the class. “And I’ll be bringing Vaseline —”

A couple of meathead-type dudes shout, “Yeah!”

“All right, bring it down a notch,” Mr. Nestman says. “Vaseline along with what, Victoria?”

Victoria’s cheeks have gone rosy. “Along with,” she continues, “Mr. Nestman’s nail clippers.” She turns her head to Mister-Handsome-Guy beside her.

“Me?” The kid smirks. “I’m Ryan and I’ll be bringing a rectal thermometer.”

The entire class breaks up with laughter.

“I’ll allow it,” Mr. Nestman says reluctantly. “But only because it is, technically, useful. But keep it clean from here on out, kiddies.” He motions for Ryan to continue.

“And also”— Ryan clenches his eyes shut —“Vanessa’s Vaseline.”

“Victoria,” a girl across the oval calls out.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Ryan shakes his head. “Her Vaseline. And Mr. Nestman’s nail polish.”

More laughter.

“Clippers,” someone else corrects.

“Yes.” Ryan points double finger guns in the direction of the voice. “What you said.”

I quickly count the people in between me and Mr. Nestman and realize that I am going to have to remember twelve names and twelve desert-island items. Not something I am very confident I can do. My scalp tightens, and I am chewing my tongue like crazy before I know it.

I have to put the Evelyn business aside and concentrate here. I don’t want to look like a big old dorkus on the very first day. Especially in a class where I don’t even know most of the students. Mainly, though, I don’t want to go pissing off any of my potential movie stars by screwing up their names.

I decide to try an old trick Mrs. Ostesheaver taught me in second grade when I couldn’t remember who anybody was in our class: matching the names and their items with something very specific about each individual.

Mr. Nestman has a nest on his head and looks like he manicures his nails. Mr. Nest Man and his nail clippers.

Victoria is voluptuous and uses vast amounts of Vaseline on her voluminous volcanoes.

Ryan sounds like the name of a soap-opera star, which is also what he looks like. He seems like a bit of a butthole. Rectal thermometer.

So far, so good.

I cup my hand over my nose and sniff my palm. Something about it calms me and focuses me at the same time. Which is exactly what I need right now.

Calm and focus.

Here’s Mackenzie and she’s bringing a magnifying glass. Mackenzie has a long name that could easily fit on her equally long schnozzola. A nose that would look even bigger through a magnifying glass.

Hunter is a buff chiseled-face dude with a buzz cut who is bringing hand grenades. I love how you get tossed an easy one every once in a while.

Fortney has an unfortunately large forehead, and since she is bringing face cream, she makes my life that much simpler.

Daniel Duncan is a douche bag who was in my English class last year, and I’m sure whatever he is bringing will reinforce his douchebaggery.

“Dollahs,” he says with a big stupid grin, rubbing his forefingers together.

As I was saying.

Dollars on a desert island? Super douchebaggish. But Mr. Nestman doesn’t call him on it, probably because he’s relieved it’s nothing gross or sexual.

Everything is going great guns, my memory plan working like a charm, until my eyes catch sight of the girl who is sitting three doors down from D-bag Dan.

Blunt spiky bob-cut blond hair. Moist full lips. Red shutter shades hiding her eyes. And a tight crimson sweater contouring her amazingly toned arms. Holy cow! It’s like she stepped right out of Final Fantasy. How wicked hot would she look wielding a Blazefire Saber?

I am so completely hypnotized by this incredible vision of enchantedness that I totally miss what the next two kids say. Their names. Their items. What they look like.

As if they even matter.

As if anything matters anymore.

And when at last my goddess speaks, it’s like the most beautiful sound to ever reach human ears in the entire history of human ears. Soft and sweet and melodious.

“Hi. My name is Leyna and I am going to bring”— she pops the top off a tube of Burt’s Bees —“lip balm.” Leyna giggles, then applies the balm in a wonderfully smooth motion across her perfectly pouted pucker. I could watch her perform this very act a million times over and I would never get bored. “Gotta keep them protected,” she says, pressing her glossy lips together.

Oh.

My.

Gandalf.





WHERE DID THIS GIRL COME FROM? And how have I never seen her before? She must be a freshman. I hope she’s a freshman. A junior or senior I’d never have a shot at.

Right. A girl that glorious I don’t stand a chance with no matter what grade she’s in.

But sheeshkabob. What I wouldn’t give to have Princess Leyna plant those silky balmed lips on me. I’d hand over my Xbox 360, all of my video games, all of my World of Warcraft gold, every single Star Wars and Star Trek novel I own, my Antonio Banderas DVDs . . . Everything.