Read Online Don't You Wish by Roxanne St. Claire - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Roxanne St. Claire
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expected to act. This is how Annie Nutter acts. Do I want to blow what’s been a perfectly wonderful dream day by showing off my lit skills?
“Okay. What else besides face paint?” Charlie asks, clueless to the strange dynamics in the room.
I push my hair off my face, warm from the unexpected attention of the class. “Um … whatever. Just write whatever.”
“The conch?” he prods. “Didn’t you say something about the conch? And bumblebees?”
“Butterflies,” I say softly, aware that I’m vibrating again. I touch the phone screen.
Ryder: r u high?
He would think that. Gorgeous, cool girls don’t sidle up to geeks and ace pop quizzes.
Charlie taps the paper. “What about them? The butterflies?”
I hit the screen to compose a note to Ryder. Ha ha, I write. Lame, but I’m in a pinch here.
“Ayla?” Charlie insists. “Butterflies?”
The phone vibrates; Ryder is clearly an industrial-strength texter.
Ryder: how much longer?
Me: for what?
Ryder: very funny. i’m dyin here.
For sex? My stomach flips around a few times, and I stare at the screen.
I’ve never really made out with a boy. I mean, I’ve kissed a few, and even got tongue in eighth grade when Justin “Cheeto Boy” Reddick laid one on me after lunch, and I don’t think I’ve eaten a cheese puff since that day.
And at last year’s Spring Fling dance, fellow orchestra geek Alan Schumake did kiss me for a good, solid three-point-five minutes in the band locker room. (Lizzie was timing, as we had long ago decided five full minutes that included tongue and at least a side brush of boob constituted bona fide making out, so it didn’t officially count.)
And now that hunk is telling me he’s dying for … the real deal?
“Butterflies are what?” Charlie insists, tapping the phone so I’ll pay attention to him.
“They’re cute,” I say with a quick smile. “And maybe good luck, or is that ladybugs?”
He puffs out a breath of disgust. “I knew you were playing me. Shit. We’re toast on this test.”
“Quiz,” I shoot back. “It can’t be worth as much toward the grade.”
The room is pretty quiet; everyone is listening to this conversation. So this is what it’s like to be the polar opposite of invisible. I’m the center of attention, and for some reason, I feel like I have a reputation to maintain.
Ayla’s reputation, not Annie Nutter’s. I can’t mess with this … this … alternate reality I’m in.
“Two minutes!” Brighton announces.
“Why didn’t you read the book, anyway?” I ask Charlie. “You seem like a smart kid.” Except for the unfortunate hat choice.
“I’m interested in other things. Why else do you think I’d be in DK lit and not AP?”
“DK?” That’s a new one.
“Dumb kids.”
The phone buzzes with a text from Ryder again.
Ryder: gimme what you got!!
Seriously? I don’t know what shocks me most, Ryder’s style or the fact that Ayla is a dumb kid. “In my school, we just call it regular lit,” I say to Charlie.
He frowns. “This is your school.”
“Only briefly.” And something tells me if I screw with this dream state, I’ll be back in South Hills High before that timer dings.
“What should I write?” he asks, impatience growing.
“Whatever,” I say, sliding over my texts with total disinterest. “Say anything.”
“One minute.”
For some reason, my stomach is churning and I feel my palms dampen. Like, it’s killing me inside to deliberately fail a quiz. Who would want to be like that, anyway? Who would throw a test just to maintain an image?
Um, me. A-list Ayla.
But I am screwing this kid in the process, because I know the answer to the butterfly symbolism, and I know about the conch, too.
He blows out another breath, and I lean over. “Nature has no regard for man. Like when the butterflies are—”
He scowls at me. “What?”
“Just write it,” I urge in a whisper. “No regard for man.”
He does, considering the words. “I
“Okay. What else besides face paint?” Charlie asks, clueless to the strange dynamics in the room.
I push my hair off my face, warm from the unexpected attention of the class. “Um … whatever. Just write whatever.”
“The conch?” he prods. “Didn’t you say something about the conch? And bumblebees?”
“Butterflies,” I say softly, aware that I’m vibrating again. I touch the phone screen.
Ryder: r u high?
He would think that. Gorgeous, cool girls don’t sidle up to geeks and ace pop quizzes.
Charlie taps the paper. “What about them? The butterflies?”
I hit the screen to compose a note to Ryder. Ha ha, I write. Lame, but I’m in a pinch here.
“Ayla?” Charlie insists. “Butterflies?”
The phone vibrates; Ryder is clearly an industrial-strength texter.
Ryder: how much longer?
Me: for what?
Ryder: very funny. i’m dyin here.
For sex? My stomach flips around a few times, and I stare at the screen.
I’ve never really made out with a boy. I mean, I’ve kissed a few, and even got tongue in eighth grade when Justin “Cheeto Boy” Reddick laid one on me after lunch, and I don’t think I’ve eaten a cheese puff since that day.
And at last year’s Spring Fling dance, fellow orchestra geek Alan Schumake did kiss me for a good, solid three-point-five minutes in the band locker room. (Lizzie was timing, as we had long ago decided five full minutes that included tongue and at least a side brush of boob constituted bona fide making out, so it didn’t officially count.)
And now that hunk is telling me he’s dying for … the real deal?
“Butterflies are what?” Charlie insists, tapping the phone so I’ll pay attention to him.
“They’re cute,” I say with a quick smile. “And maybe good luck, or is that ladybugs?”
He puffs out a breath of disgust. “I knew you were playing me. Shit. We’re toast on this test.”
“Quiz,” I shoot back. “It can’t be worth as much toward the grade.”
The room is pretty quiet; everyone is listening to this conversation. So this is what it’s like to be the polar opposite of invisible. I’m the center of attention, and for some reason, I feel like I have a reputation to maintain.
Ayla’s reputation, not Annie Nutter’s. I can’t mess with this … this … alternate reality I’m in.
“Two minutes!” Brighton announces.
“Why didn’t you read the book, anyway?” I ask Charlie. “You seem like a smart kid.” Except for the unfortunate hat choice.
“I’m interested in other things. Why else do you think I’d be in DK lit and not AP?”
“DK?” That’s a new one.
“Dumb kids.”
The phone buzzes with a text from Ryder again.
Ryder: gimme what you got!!
Seriously? I don’t know what shocks me most, Ryder’s style or the fact that Ayla is a dumb kid. “In my school, we just call it regular lit,” I say to Charlie.
He frowns. “This is your school.”
“Only briefly.” And something tells me if I screw with this dream state, I’ll be back in South Hills High before that timer dings.
“What should I write?” he asks, impatience growing.
“Whatever,” I say, sliding over my texts with total disinterest. “Say anything.”
“One minute.”
For some reason, my stomach is churning and I feel my palms dampen. Like, it’s killing me inside to deliberately fail a quiz. Who would want to be like that, anyway? Who would throw a test just to maintain an image?
Um, me. A-list Ayla.
But I am screwing this kid in the process, because I know the answer to the butterfly symbolism, and I know about the conch, too.
He blows out another breath, and I lean over. “Nature has no regard for man. Like when the butterflies are—”
He scowls at me. “What?”
“Just write it,” I urge in a whisper. “No regard for man.”
He does, considering the words. “I
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