Forgive My Fins
Page 8
Eventually my tears dry out. My eyes are red and puffy. At least they’re not glittering gold like they would be underwater. Still, no amount of cold water splashes gets them back to normal. They’re a flashing neon sign shouting, “She just cried her eyes out in the bathroom!” I almost start to cry all over again when I realize that everyone is going to wonder what’s wrong. Everyone who hasn’t already heard the tale of my humiliation, that is.
Then a thought occurs. Shannen wears contacts. I bet she has some eyedrops in her locker.
Dabbing the water off my face, I head out in the direction of her locker.
And walk smack into Quince Fletcher.
“Believe me now?” he asks.
He’s leaning casually against the wall just outside the girls’ bathroom. From the arrogant look on his face, I can guess he’s been waiting for me so he can gloat.
“Get lost.”
I try to walk around him, but he sidesteps and blocks my path.
“Move!”
“I asked you a question.”
“And I choose not to answer.” I step to my left, and he mirrors me. Back to the right. He follows.
Why won’t he leave me alone? What did I ever do to deserve his obnoxious attentions?
Guess my tears aren’t dried up after all. They’re right back at the ready and threatening to spill out if Quince doesn’t let me go.
“Admit it,” he insists. “I was right.”
“No.” I sniff. “You were wrong.” Sniff. “I’m just crying”—sniff—“’cause I’m so happy.” My tears take that lie as their cue and start streaming down my cheeks.
“Come on, princess,” he says. “You don’t need to cry over that loser.”
This only makes me cry harder. We both know who the loser is in this scenario.
With a muttered curse, Quince wraps his arms around me and squeezes. It feels remarkably like a hug.
“Don’t cry,” he whispers in my ear. “Please.”
I don’t know if it’s his soft words or the fact that my face is now hidden by his broad chest, but I just let go. Three years of longing and loving from a distance have built to the breaking point, and I let it out all over his West Coast Choppers T-shirt.
“Shhh,” he soothes. “He’s not worth it.”
Sob, sob, sob.
I can’t stop. I’ve totally lost control of my emotions. All I can think is, Brody hates me and I’m stuck seeking comfort from my worst enemy. My life has definitely sunk to the deepest dregs.
Faintly, muffled by Quince’s chest and the sound of my tears, I hear a bell. It only vaguely registers as the end of lunch.
Quince curses, and the next thing I know I’m moving against my will, back into the bathroom and into a small, enclosed space.
Through swollen, tear-blurred eyes I see that we are in a bathroom stall. The sound of giggling echoes on the sterile white tile a split second before Quince sits on the toilet and pulls me onto his lap.
“Lift your feet!” he whispers urgently. I obediently brace the soles of my flip-flops against the stall door.
Two pairs of high heels walk past, clacking loudly on the tile floor.
“Did you see her run out of the cafeteria?” one girl asks, her voice gleeful.
“I bet he put her in her frizzy-haired place.”
My stomach rolls.
Maybe they’re talking about some other frizzy-haired girl who got humiliated at lunch today. Seaview High is a big school. Surely someone else—
“As if a freak like her could ever tempt Brody Bennett.”
Nope. Me.
Those rotten tears—momentarily startled away—spill down my cheeks.
“She needs to learn to keep her paws off another girl’s guy,” the first voice says.
I gasp. “It’s Court—”
Quince’s hand clamps over my mouth. His other arm is wrapped around my waist, and he uses both to tug me back tight against his chest. “Shhh,” he whispers super quietly in my ear.
I nod, wondering how I got myself into this position and hoping my agreement will make Quince release me. It doesn’t.
“She has the fashion sense of a palm tree,” the other girl says.
“Oh, come on,” Courtney—aka Brody’s newly ex—replies, and I think she’s about to defend me. “A palm tree at least wears coordinating colors.”
Through a teary blur, I glance down at my clothes. I don’t see anything wrong with my pale yellow T-shirt and turquoise ruffled skirt. And my bright pink flip-flops match the hearts on my tee. Granted, this was my Plan C for the day, but I didn’t think it was that bad.
“Pink and yellow?” Courtney continues. “What does she think she is? A walking candy shop?”
The other girl—probably Courtney’s constant sidekick, Tiffany—laughs. “At least she makes an effort. That’s more than you can say about her friend.”
My ears perk up, and I have instantly forgotten my humiliation. No one talks about Shannen around me without getting an earful of back-in-your-face.
“The one whose entire wardrobe consists of jeans and polo shirts?” Courtney’s voice is filled with acid. “Someone should tell her they sell my castoffs at Goodwill.”
That does it.
I lurch forward, grabbing for the latch and dropping my feet to the floor. Quince has lightning-fast reflexes, though. Before my fingertips connect with metal, he closes over my arms and tightens them back against me. His legs shoot out, wrapping around my ankles and slipping back into place so that anyone looking into the stall will see only his jeans and boots.
Then a thought occurs. Shannen wears contacts. I bet she has some eyedrops in her locker.
Dabbing the water off my face, I head out in the direction of her locker.
And walk smack into Quince Fletcher.
“Believe me now?” he asks.
He’s leaning casually against the wall just outside the girls’ bathroom. From the arrogant look on his face, I can guess he’s been waiting for me so he can gloat.
“Get lost.”
I try to walk around him, but he sidesteps and blocks my path.
“Move!”
“I asked you a question.”
“And I choose not to answer.” I step to my left, and he mirrors me. Back to the right. He follows.
Why won’t he leave me alone? What did I ever do to deserve his obnoxious attentions?
Guess my tears aren’t dried up after all. They’re right back at the ready and threatening to spill out if Quince doesn’t let me go.
“Admit it,” he insists. “I was right.”
“No.” I sniff. “You were wrong.” Sniff. “I’m just crying”—sniff—“’cause I’m so happy.” My tears take that lie as their cue and start streaming down my cheeks.
“Come on, princess,” he says. “You don’t need to cry over that loser.”
This only makes me cry harder. We both know who the loser is in this scenario.
With a muttered curse, Quince wraps his arms around me and squeezes. It feels remarkably like a hug.
“Don’t cry,” he whispers in my ear. “Please.”
I don’t know if it’s his soft words or the fact that my face is now hidden by his broad chest, but I just let go. Three years of longing and loving from a distance have built to the breaking point, and I let it out all over his West Coast Choppers T-shirt.
“Shhh,” he soothes. “He’s not worth it.”
Sob, sob, sob.
I can’t stop. I’ve totally lost control of my emotions. All I can think is, Brody hates me and I’m stuck seeking comfort from my worst enemy. My life has definitely sunk to the deepest dregs.
Faintly, muffled by Quince’s chest and the sound of my tears, I hear a bell. It only vaguely registers as the end of lunch.
Quince curses, and the next thing I know I’m moving against my will, back into the bathroom and into a small, enclosed space.
Through swollen, tear-blurred eyes I see that we are in a bathroom stall. The sound of giggling echoes on the sterile white tile a split second before Quince sits on the toilet and pulls me onto his lap.
“Lift your feet!” he whispers urgently. I obediently brace the soles of my flip-flops against the stall door.
Two pairs of high heels walk past, clacking loudly on the tile floor.
“Did you see her run out of the cafeteria?” one girl asks, her voice gleeful.
“I bet he put her in her frizzy-haired place.”
My stomach rolls.
Maybe they’re talking about some other frizzy-haired girl who got humiliated at lunch today. Seaview High is a big school. Surely someone else—
“As if a freak like her could ever tempt Brody Bennett.”
Nope. Me.
Those rotten tears—momentarily startled away—spill down my cheeks.
“She needs to learn to keep her paws off another girl’s guy,” the first voice says.
I gasp. “It’s Court—”
Quince’s hand clamps over my mouth. His other arm is wrapped around my waist, and he uses both to tug me back tight against his chest. “Shhh,” he whispers super quietly in my ear.
I nod, wondering how I got myself into this position and hoping my agreement will make Quince release me. It doesn’t.
“She has the fashion sense of a palm tree,” the other girl says.
“Oh, come on,” Courtney—aka Brody’s newly ex—replies, and I think she’s about to defend me. “A palm tree at least wears coordinating colors.”
Through a teary blur, I glance down at my clothes. I don’t see anything wrong with my pale yellow T-shirt and turquoise ruffled skirt. And my bright pink flip-flops match the hearts on my tee. Granted, this was my Plan C for the day, but I didn’t think it was that bad.
“Pink and yellow?” Courtney continues. “What does she think she is? A walking candy shop?”
The other girl—probably Courtney’s constant sidekick, Tiffany—laughs. “At least she makes an effort. That’s more than you can say about her friend.”
My ears perk up, and I have instantly forgotten my humiliation. No one talks about Shannen around me without getting an earful of back-in-your-face.
“The one whose entire wardrobe consists of jeans and polo shirts?” Courtney’s voice is filled with acid. “Someone should tell her they sell my castoffs at Goodwill.”
That does it.
I lurch forward, grabbing for the latch and dropping my feet to the floor. Quince has lightning-fast reflexes, though. Before my fingertips connect with metal, he closes over my arms and tightens them back against me. His legs shoot out, wrapping around my ankles and slipping back into place so that anyone looking into the stall will see only his jeans and boots.
