“Okay.”
I pulled my shirt on. “Stop calling them moobs. They’re pectorals.”
“Or tiddies.”
“Correct.”
I threw my now-wet towel at his stupid head, then proceeded to pull down my swimming trunks, right there for everyone to see. I was all out of fucks today.
“Jesus,” he hissed at me, rushing in and holding the towel out to shield anyone from seeing. “Was being caught on camera once in the last twelve hours not enough for you?”
I pulled on my dry shorts. “Apparently not.”
“Are you just gonna freeball it today?”
“All day.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m changing your name to Petulant Hollywood.”
I made a point of readjusting my junk while holding his gaze. “Better than generic Hollywood.”
His nostrils flared. “You are insufferable.”
“So you keep saying, Mister James Dean, rebel without a clue.”
His gaze turned to steel and he dropped my towel. “Have you been told to fuck off today?”
“Not yet.”
“Might wanna brace yourself.”
“Boys,” the swim coach yelled at us.
We both turned to him, then back to each other and I realized then that we’d been inching closer.
“Get a room,” someone from the swim team yelled.
I turned to the group of them, not knowing who said it. “Suck a dick.”
“Mr. Soria,” the coach chided me.
I was about to tell him to go suck a dick too but decided not being expelled was probably for the best. I snatched up my shit and trudged out, and before I could decide which way to go, Amos grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the rehearsal hall.
“I don’t want to see Deirdre today,” I said. “Or anyone, for that matter. Including you.”
“Well, too fucking bad,” Amos muttered.
He was stronger than he looked, and that annoyed me too.
“How are you this strong when you don’t work out?”
“Because I have to carry all your bullshit,” he said, pushing through the doors and dragging me to Deirdre’s desk.
“Ah, here you are. I was wondering where?—”
“I don’t want to be here. I was busy swimming laps,” I said, gesturing to my still-wet hair. “And now I’m tired and need a nap.”
She stared at me.