Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(16)

I’d even donate my entire replica sword and dagger collection to the homeless.

You think I’m joking, but it’s true. Because this girl is not only beautiful; she’s got that something extra. It’s like you get this warm feeling all over when you look at her. And once you’ve seen her, you just want to keep seeing her. You can’t peel your eyes away —

A loud clap rouses me from my trance.

“Hellooooo?” It’s Mr. Nestman, and he sounds annoyed. “Are we still on this planet?”

The class busts up with laughter. And that’s when I notice that everyone is staring at me.

“Oh.” I shake my head, blinking hard. “I’m sorry . . . I was —”

“Staring at Leyna.” Mr. Nestman nods. “Yes, we all saw you. It is considered polite to be a bit more discreet about one’s ogling.”

More laughter from the circle.

“No. I wasn’t . . . That’s not . . .” I blink hard again, my cheeks burning up. “Is it . . . ? Is it my turn?”

Mr. Nestman forces a smile. “It is indeed.”

Shit shit shit. Okay. Gotta think. Gotta think.

“Right.” I swallow. “I’m . . . uh . . . I’m Sean and I’ll be bringing . . . to our desert island . . .” Jesus, think, man. Anything that starts with S. It doesn’t matter. Something useful. Something cool. A weapon. A . . . A . . . “A shillelagh,” I announce before I can snatch it back.

The class explodes in whoops of laughter.

Shillelagh? Seriously? Jeez. How about a sword, dinklet? Switchblade not cool enough? Saber, slingshot, submachine gun? No? None of those? God. I hate my late-to-the-party brain.

“What the hell is a shileelee?” Ryan calls out. “Is that like one of those rubber bags you strap to your leg so you can walk and whizz at the same time?”

This gets another nice round of sniggers.

“It’s pronounced shuh-LAY-lee, Ryan,” Mr. Nestman corrects. “And no, it’s not a urine collector. It’s Irish. A thick wooden staff generally used as a cudgel.”

“Wait,” D-bag Dan says. “I want to bring my thick staff, too.”

Mr. Nestman smirks. “Sorry, Daniel. One item per person. Perhaps if you ask nicely, Sean will let you use his staff.”

Jeers and howls and hoots ricochet off the walls and ceiling.

The entire upper portion of my body is on fire. All I can do is stare at a piece of fluff that gently scoots across the floor in front of me, probably being propelled by the gales of laughter.

“Okay, okay.” Mr. Nestman does a bring-down-the-volume gesture with his hands. “Sean, you’ve got your shillelagh. Now, why don’t you tell us what everyone else is bringing?”

I fake a smile. “I can’t remember,” my voice squeaks. “I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. My brain is blanking. Sorry. I just —”

“How about you give it a try?” Mr. Nestman says. “We’ll help you out if you get stuck. That’s what this is all about. We’re building community here.”

Right, by making me look like a meat sack.

“Okay.” I clench my eyes shut, attempting to clear my mind. Have to try and remember all the clues I came up with. “Can I start from the beginning instead of going backward?”

“Whatever works for you, Sean,” Mr. Nestman says.

“All right.” I breathe. Nest on his head Nestman. “Obviously, you’re Mr. Nestman. And you’re bringing nail clippers.”

Mr. Nestman tips his head. “Excellent.”

Okay. Okay. Voluptuous, voluptuous. “Victoria,” I say, “is bringing her volcanoes.” I wince. “I mean her Vaseline. And . . .” Handsome soap star . . . “Ryan. You’re a butthole, so . . .”

“What did you say?” Ryan glares at me, his head jutting forward. “I’m a what?”

Oh, shit. Did that just come out of my mouth?

“I said . . . in your butthole. Because that’s where . . . a rectal thermometer goes. And that’s what you’re bringing.” I press my palms into my eye sockets. Must concentrate. Get this over as fast as possible. I remove my hands from my face and look over at . . . “Mackenzie. Is next. And Mackenzie is bringing . . . a magnifying glass. And Hunter is bringing a, uh, hunting knife? No. Hand grenades. Hand grenades. That’s right. And Fortney. She’s bringing forehead cream.”

“Face cream,” Fortney says, her fingers gingerly touching her extra-wide forehead.

“Sorry. Right. That’s what I meant.” Jesus. I am sweating all over. None of these people are ever going to want to be in my film. Not after this idiotic display.

“Continuing,” Mr. Nestman calls out. “Let’s pick up the pace.”

“Yes. Right. Okay, okay. There’s D-bag Dan, who’s bringing . . . I mean Daniel. He’s bringing douche bags. No. No, he’s not.” I give my head a smack. “He’s bringing dollars. And then, after him . . .” I stare at the girl with the long blond hair and the retainer in her mouth. “I can’t . . . um . . . I don’t . . .”

“Kelsey,” Mr. Nestman offers.

“Kelsey.” I point at her, pretending it’s just come to me. “Correct. And Kelsey is bringing a”— something that begins with k —“keyboard!” It’s the only thing I can think of.