Call the Shots (Swim the Fly #3)(90)

“What? Upset? No, definitely not. I knew it was a long shot. I mean, we’re nothing alike, really, when you think about it. You want to be an actor and I . . .” told her I wanted to be an actor too. “Uh, I have to focus on my screenwriting, you know? It’s just . . . not a good time. For me, I mean. But thanks anyway.”

Jeez Louise, did I just thank her? Like she was the one asking me out? Time to abort this mission, Seanie boy. Way past time. I hoist myself to my feet.

“Well, I’m glad I could help with . . . uh . . . Muffin,” I say, gesturing at the dog, still not able to comfortably look at it. “Enjoy the rest of your Saturday. And, uh, I guess I’ll be in touch soon . . . about the movie? If you’re still in, I mean?”

“Yeah, for sure. Listen, Sean, I really am so —”

“No, no. No need for that. I’ll just . . . let myself out. I remember the way.” I laugh loudly, pointing at the front door, which is about ten feet from the couch. “See you . . . See you Monday. Bye, Muffin.”

“Bye, Sean.”

I book it out of there, my face and ears red-hot. Good God, I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that I’ve just been totally blown off by Leyna, the fact that she thought I was gay, or the fact that the only thing that has given me comfort lately turns out to be a picture of a little dog’s anus.

As I hop on my bike and pedal like mad for home, I try to think of what the hell I can tell the guys — other than the truth, obviously. Because even though I know they’d both take a bullet for me if asked, there’s no way they’re ever going to let me live this one down.





“WAIT A SECOND,” COOP SAYS as we ride our bikes to school on Monday. “I don’t get something. If Leyna thought you were gay”— he nearly chokes with laughter just saying it, just like he’s done the last three hundred times he’s said it —“then why would she send you a picture of her hobgoblin?”

“Because she didn’t, nosebag.” I sigh. I spent most of Sunday coming up with cover stories, each one getting more and more elaborate and dramatic until I was the one turning Leyna down, telling her that she obviously had some deep-seated issues regarding her self-respect and that I was too much of a gentleman to take advantage of that fact. But I’ve never been very good at lying. And especially not to my friends.

And so I finally decide it’ll be less painful in the long run if I just get this over with now.

“It wasn’t her . . . hobgoblin,” I repeat. “Muffin is the name of her dog. It was a shot of Muffin the dog, of its rash. Leyna wanted me to diagnose it.” No need to mention where the rash was, exactly.

“Seriously?” Coop looks mystified. “I could have sworn it was a shot of her gravy boat.”

“So”— Matt raises his eyebrows at Coop —“obviously you don’t know the female anatomy as well as you thought.”

“Please,” Coop says. “It’s an honest mistake. Anyone could make it. Are you sure it was the dog, dude?” Coop asks me. “I mean, I’ve seen dogs before. Lots of times. And none of them ever looked like —”

“It was definitely the dog,” I assure him, starting to sweat. “I mean, I saw the rash in person when I got there. Trust me, it was the dog.”

“I believe you, Sean-o. I mean, why would you tell us it was a picture of a dog’s rash if it was actually Leyna’s love gully? Still, I find it hard to believe. It totally looked like a —”

“It was the anus, okay?” I blurt. “The rash was on Muffin’s anus. Happy now?”

Coop and Matt both skid to a halt.

Look at each other.

And then kill themselves laughing.

“Oh, no,” Coop splutters. “Oh, Seanster, no. You can’t be serious? That is odious, dude.”

“Man, Sean, that’s . . . wow.” Matt’s trying his best to control his laughter and sound sympathetic, but he’s failing. Big-time.

Coop is still bent over with laughter. But suddenly he straightens. “Shit, dude. Tell me you didn’t . . . Oh, Sean-o, please tell me you didn’t scratch Yoda behind the ears looking at that picture?” He holds his breath waiting for my response.

“Pfff, right.” I look off into the distance. “I was never convinced in the first place.”

“Oh, my God.” Coop turns to Matt. “Our best bud mangled his midget gawking at a shot of a dog’s anus. That is absolutely grievous!”

He leans over and fist-bumps Matt as they double over with laughter again.

“Okay, okay, wait,” Matt says, trying to catch his breath. “Is Muffin a boy or a girl?”

I glare at him. “Are you done?” I hop up on my bike seat and start pedaling.

The guys follow.

“That’s a good question you pose there, Mattie,” Coop sputters. “Because if it was a girl dog, well, that’s bad enough. But if he used a shot of a guy dog —”

“She’s a girl,” I snap. “And it doesn’t matter because I didn’t ‘use’ that picture for anything, okay?”

The guys are still going on about it as we turn into the school parking lot and coast our bikes up to the racks. I jump off and start locking up my front wheel.