Page 71 of The Best Friend Power Play

"Is it going to be a male model or a female model?"

"I don't know. This is my first time taking a class like this. Why? Does it matter?"

"Yes. No. I don't know."

I look over at him, and oh, boy, he looks more uncomfortable than I realized. "Hey. If you're uncomfortable and don't want to do this, we can just leave."

"Hey. Nuh-uh. This is on your hot girl summer list. Chester got you that painting set, which you've mentioned several times you'd like to use, so we are doing it. I am not a prude."

"I never thought you were a prude." I reach over and grab his arm. "Well, maybe just a little bit."

He smiles, knowing that I'm joking.

The model enters the room, draped in a flowing black wrap, but my eyes remain glued on Culver.

Because the model in question is male.

Culver's eyes flick to the guy, but his face doesn't move. "I'm perfectly fine," he mutters, staring straight ahead. "I see naked dudes all the time."

That draws a chuckle out of the person sitting behind us. We both turn around.

"Doyle, what are you doing here?" I ask.

"I like to consider myself somewhat of an artiste," he says with a French flourish. "But I do wonder whether I'm at a disadvantage tonight." He glances at Culver and smiles. "Since unlike some people, I don't see naked dudes all the time."

Culver sights. "You know I meant in the locker room."

"Have a great class," I say politely to Doyle, still a little miffed at him over the whole flinching fiasco.

"I will. Oh, and don't forget—auditions for the Festival of Living Pictures are coming up next week."

He's only looking at Culver, so I respond with an overly enthusiastic, "Oh. We haven't forgotten, and we will both be there. Don't you worry."

Doyle forces a grin. "Glad to hear it."

I will get my flinch redemption. I. Will.

As the model disrobes, Culver leans over. "Everyone in Comfort Bay is going to know we were here tonight."

I giggle. "Good thing then that neither one of us is a prude, right?"

12

Culver

"Explain to me how this is an audition," I mutter.

Hannah giggles beside me. Mrs. Ford, who's standing in front of us in the line, spins around, and answers my question. "It's just Doyle being Doyle."

"He likes making things seem more important than they really are," Hannah adds.

"Exactly," Mrs. Ford agrees with a firm nod.

As far as I can tell, the audition process is pretty much what we're doing now—lining up to register our interest—since anyone who wants to take part in the festival is basically guaranteed a spot.

We shuffle forward in the stuffy community hall.

"Sorry about this," Hannah says, waving a flier in front of her face to cool down.

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