Page 22 of Ladybirds

“I do not!”

He barks out a laugh, the sound sharp and cruel. “You thought Romeo and Juliet was a romance!”

Sara flushes. “It’s romantic!”

“It’s a tragedy!” he shouts, appalled. “There is literally nothing romantic about a story that ends with a double suicide!”

She hates, so much, that she has no counterargument to that. “Fine! Whatever! But I don’t need your help, especially since I already read the assignment!”

“Did you now?” He actually seems surprised. Sara wonders if she should feel insulted, but the speed in which his mood changes leaves her disoriented. “And what did you think of Rossetti’s ‘Goblin Market’? Are you a fan?”

She’s momentarily thrown by his sincerity. “It was ok, I guess.” she offers cautiously. “I liked it better than that Lord Brian guy.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “Byron. His name, for what must be the umpteenth time, is Lord Byron.”

She knows, but the level of pure frustration it pulls from him is more than enough incentive to keep getting it wrong. “Same difference.”

She can practically hear his teeth grinding. “It’s very much not, and I loathe that expression.”

“Good. I’ll make a point to keep saying it.”

He glares. “Cheeky.”

The smile she gives him is so mockingly exaggerated her cheeks are nearly sore from the strain.

“Ridiculous,” he chides, though there’s hardly any heat behind it. He tilts his head, considering her thoughtfully. “I must say, I’m surprised. I suspected you to balk at all the ripe sensuality.”

Her smile slips. “What?”

“Surely you didn’t miss it?”

“Miss what?”

Shaking his head, he brings a pale hand to his temples. “I expected too much. Tell me, what did you think the poem was about?”

“I don’t know! Creepy goblin guys harassing girls on the street.”

“That is not only a terrible summary, but a fail-worthy answer. What is it about? What are the themes? The lessons?”

“Well, what do you think?!”

His expression is a picture of neutrality; voice deadpan. “Sex.”

Sara coughs, a flush rising rapidly to her cheeks as she brings a fist to her chest. “What?!” she wheezes. “It is not.”

“No? Care to share your interpretation of the line, ‘Eat me, drink me, love me’? I’m terribly curious.”

Heat rushes up her neck. “You’re such a pervert,” she accuses, hiding her face in her hands to escape his taunting grin. Unfortunately, it does nothing to save her from his amused chuckle.

“Because I know how to read?”

She glares at him. “Because you read it like that.”

His head tilts, his smirk waning into something contemplative. “You haven’t actually read it, have you?”

The glare she sends him is swift. “Actually, I have.”

“Out loud?”

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