Page 25 of Crazy for this Girl

“Awww… do you like guys too?”

“Seems to be as much as you do. Why haven’t you dated any girls this year? Was that girl from last year the last one?” I had completely forgotten that I had told him last year that I dated a chick to keep him from macking on me.

Carolyn Keene, the author of my Nancy Drew books, was the culprit behind the idea. It was what was in my hand when he wanted to talk about my non-existent dating life and I wasn’t about to tell him otherwise.

I shake my head. “No, I didn’t date her. She’s probably dead now.” I push my tongue into my cheek in thought. “Well, I’m not sure. She was a ghostwriter.”

“Huh?”

“Carolyn Keene is the author of Nancy Drew.” He blinks at me, not catching on. He wouldn’t, the only thing he knows how to read is the sports section and song lyrics. Plus, I don’t ever think I gave him a name because we never spoke about it again. “I didn’t and don’t have a girlfriend, dude. Never did.”

“You don’t?” I roll my head back and forth. “But you like girls?”

“Barely,” I deadpan, stone-cold serious. I can’t with all the gossip and catty-chat. I’m not fluent in mocking people who maybe don’t have enough money to buy the latest or newest brand of clothes, and I’m sure as heck not into 98 Degrees. I draw the line there.

“Wait…” Cal’s brows clash together, erasing more vacant space between us. “So, you don’t like girls?”

“Nope.”

Cal’s expression darkens as if I said he sucked and he’s ugly or something. “You’re serious?”

“I mean, you wouldn’t understand because you’re a dude, but yeah. I’m not attracted to females like that. I can barely tolerate them, if I’m being honest.”

“But, you honestly led me to believe that you dug chicks?”

I look heavenward because it’s stupid and it really doesn’t matter anymore. “It doesn’t change anything. We barely spoke about it after that conversation, and frankly, I forgot about it.”

“I didn’t.”

He’s silent after that, looking back over the lake, and I don’t know why he’s so upset over it. It was just a small fib. I would’ve told him the truth if I would’ve remembered and it came up again.

“You mad?”

“Nope.” He pops the p, which hints that he is.

I’m not sure what his problem is, but I’m not going to hang around when not only is he already highly theatrical but being a baby.

I turn my body to face him head-on. “Look at me when you say it, then.”

“Jump off a cliff, Laynee.”

I smirk at that. “Aw, you wouldn’t want that. Who would you get to swap songs with?”

“I’m sure I could find someone.” His forest greens flick back to me and they’re filled with nothing but pure aggravation. “I am popular at school, after all.”

And there it is.

That superior ego that I thought he’d obtain with his good looks and football status.

My nostrils flare, instant irritation filling my chest at the reminder.

This is why I’ve kept my guard up with him, because you’d have to be blind not to want him to look at you like he’s interested.

I know he has girls gaping at him with drool coming off their lips at his school. He lives in California for God’s sake, where chicks walk around half-naked on the beach and stuff. I can’t compete with that.

I won’t compete with that.

And, for the record, I never was.

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