Page 29 of Crazy for this Girl

Laynee

Dear Tone Deaf,

Next time Casey tries to talk to you again, do what I said in my last letter and punch him in the balls. Some assholes need a physical warning to embed a point. Or tell him that you’re dating someone in California, show him the numerous pictures I’ve sent you, and tell him to fuck off.

Speaking of fighting, I got suspended from school for three days because I may or may have not gotten into a brawl with our rival school. They showed up at this spot of ours where a lot of my friends and I hang out with food and stuff. Long story short, they start shoving our food off our table, knocked a surfboard down and the rest is history.

I got a black eye, but it’s beautiful. Too bad you won’t see it in the next two months because it’ll be gone, but I’m pretty proud of it. Dad doesn’t really care about the fight, just grades, which have gotten better since I have a new tutor for… go ahead and guess… math.

Sixty-three more days, Laynee.

Your best friend,

Cal

P.S. I got Jonah a bunch of Yu-Gi-Oh! Cards this past weekend. I might need a suitcase just for them.

Unpacking my suitcase with Salt Shaker by Ying Yang Twins blaring in my ears, I feel comfortable dancing and swiveling my hips without judgment. I even drop my butt to the floor and almost fall on it before saving myself by using my palms to push myself back up with my knees. Especially when they tell you in the song to shake your butt real fast, then stop followed by dropping it—the crap’s hard.

So instead, I freestyle, bending over and swaying my head back and forth as my long blonde locks follow. Almost like I switched up the hip hop dance for being at a punk band concert and the bass are drums beating and clashing together. I raise my arms in the air like I literally just don’t care and create my own beat.

It’s not until the chorus comes on again and I attempt to shake my somewhat butt to the words that I spin, standing before my imaginary friends and crowd as I dance at a club or a get-together to give it what I got.

I got it, alright, and Cal’s full attention.

A sideshow of my appearing like an absolute idiot in my room, bopping around like a chick that confidently believes she can dance.

I freeze on the spot, mid-ass shake, because I’m not alone with made-up people in my room. In fact, I’m so very much crowded as I soak in Cal’s body leaned up against the doorframe of my room with his long arms crossed along his broad chest.

With an amused, I’m never going to let you live this down smirk.

Immediately yanking my headphones out of my ears, I squeeze them within my palms because I should’ve never expected him to knock or just wait for me to come out onto the porch like I normally do.

Nope, he just had to catch me in the act of my mediocre dance skills, or lack thereof.

“I think you’re supposed to keep your spine straight when you shake your ass, Tone Deaf,” he emits, giving zero craps that he just embarrassed me. But, of course, he’d want to give pointers.

“You speak from experience?” I quickly answer back, wiping a bit of sweat that’s formed on my forehead, and quirk my brow to pass on some of my shame onto him.

It never works. Don’t know why I try.

“Oh, yeah,” he agrees. “All I do is shake my ass on the football field. How do you think I got so many groupies?” I roll my eyes and he pushes off the wall, striding over to me with extra confidence since he’s on the Varsity football team now. I’m holding my breath that this isn’t when he changes and becomes a full blown jerk from his spike of popularity. “You gonna come say hi to me or what? It’s been ten months since you’ve seen me.”

And what a ten months has done to his body.

He’s filled out. The constant practices he complains about really beefing him up into that football stereotype I tease him about in my letters.

His dark hair is a little longer than it normally is and his flawless green eyes still penetrate sharply through my body, reminding me that it enjoys when he’s around. That we like how he looks at us. How he gets close and comfortable without ever getting weird.

“Is that facial hair?” I blurt out, pointing at his face with my index finger. “Did you hit puberty since the last time—”

“Shut up, Laynee,” he chides weakly, still holding on to his breathtaking smile. “C’mere and give me a hug.”

He extends his arms and my body shifts forward, hesitantly at first because am I even worthy of hugging this god that just interrupted me in my room?

Seriously? Shut up, Laynee, and hug the idiot.

Cal erases the rest of the space for me, entirely ignorant of my brain haywiring at how perfectly unfair he looks. His shoulders and chest bulk out his gray Edgewood Beach High School football t-shirt and I can feel how hard they are when he squeezes me to them.

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