Page 33 of Demon Kissed
And somehow, despite everything that just fucking happened, my day gets even worse.
* * *
I pairup with Tim and Wade while Janie and the others fan out around Kastros’s desk. His grumpy expression doesn’t change, but something about all of that doesn’t sit right with me.
Those girls don’t give a shit about decathlon. They shouldn’t be here. “They’re going to ruin our chances at state,” I mutter.
Tim and Wade are as distracted by the view as I am, though I’m pretty sure they’re focused on Janie’s short skirt and not Mr. Kastros’s buff forearms as he rolls up his shirt sleeves.
He starts writing notes for each of the new girls, four in total, and I just about burn to death with curiosity over what he’s written. Does it have any double entendres like my note?
For some reason, I hate the thought of that.
Probably because Akor has somehow turned me into a psychopath, I think as I shuffle my notecards about Africa.
Wade looks at me and smiles, revealing his dimple underneath some thick red acne. “You ready for this? Because I don’t think you can handle this!” He starts singing the old Beyoncé song and dancing in his seat.
He’s awfully fucking chipper. Maybe the book to the head did him good. Or maybe the bimbos in the room are making him light-headed. Either way, Wade’s not being his normal level of douche-nozzle.
Small blessings, right?
I force a smile and start to quiz Wade. “Until 1960, Congo was under the control of what country?”
Wade scoffs, leaning back in his seat, his feet sliding toward mine, prepping for our foot-mashing tradition—if you get an answer wrong, we have a rather childish yet effective method of toe stomping to make you study your ass off. “Belgium. Try harder next time, Kat.”
I blow out a breath. Itwastoo easy a question. For all his asshole ways, Wade’s got the brain of a sea sponge—he soaks up information. I should have dug through my cards. But the way Janie’s leaning over Mr. Kastros’s desk has me distracted.
I turn in my desk so I’m not facing them. I have to focus. Wade does not show mercy. He flips through the notecards he’s made of questions, trying to ferret out something to exploit my weaknesses.
“What nineteenth century realist artist outraged conventional audiences by portraying the working class?”
Fuck. Art is my weakness, and Wade knows it. We have to study these pictures of famous paintings and try to remember who did what. But visual things have never been my forte. I chew my lip. “Options?” I finally, grudgingly, have to ask for multiple choice.
Wade lists off four artists, and I immediately rule out two. It’s a fifty-fifty shot after that. I glance at Tim to see if my study buddy will give me any hints, but he’s too busy checking out Molly—one of our new “members”—to be of any help.
“Gustave Courbet?” I guess.
Wade stomps on my foot.
Dammit.
“Correct!” he says.
“What the hell!” I kick him. “I got it right.”
He kicks me back, his foot sliding up my inner calf. “But you guessed.”
“So?” I knock his foot away with my hand and then flick my leg so I kick his instep.
“So, we aren’t going to win with guesses.” Wade leans over his desk, making me shrink back. He uses the opportunity to trap my foot between both of his.
What the hell is his problem? I try to get my foot away, but he won’t let go.
“Um, guys?” Tim tries to warn us to stop.
But it’s a full-on fucking foot battle now. Wade’s pissed at me. I’m pissed at him. Our feet start trading blows.
Of course, Molly notices. “What the hell, Kat! I thought you were with Roth! Why are you playing footsie with Wade?”
