Page 11 of My Debacle with De Lorenzo

“Sometimes I just need a break.”

“Great parents you have, allowing you to skip out on school like that.”

“They are great. As long as I catch up on schoolwork, they don’t mind.”

“Lucky you. Some of us can’t escape this shiny, overpriced hellhole.”

“I guess that’s why you’re here every day at seven-twenty like clockwork.” He looks past me and into the bathroom like there’s something magical that draws me to it. “What do you do in there every morning, anyway?”

I try to hold back a smile. He’s got a bit of an accent, very dulled, but he sounds like a New Yorker. It’s so slight, though. It only comes out with certain words. His D’s are so hard sometimes they override TH’s, like now it came out asdo in der. Another little habit is that he saysdoin’like Joey Tribbiani fromFriendswhere he barely gets theGout. He also pronounceswith youaswichu. *Swoon*

“This face can’t put itself on,” I reply. “Do you honestly think I’m this pretty without makeup?”

“I’ve seen you without makeup and...yeah, you are that pretty.” He rolls his eyes when he sees the smile that curves on my lips. “I walked straight into that one, didn’t I?”

My cheeks heat up and my smile spreads wider. “You did.”

“It wasn’t an invitation to start touching me.”

“Or was it? I think you’re trying to send me a hidden message that you secretly have naughty thoughts about me.” I take a step toward him and run my finger down his abs. He’s not excessively bulky or muscular like the other guys on the football team. He’s thinner, leaner, which makes every muscle look more defined. My finger travels a little lower, and I love the way it glides over the hard bumps of his abs. What I love more is how much it annoys him, and I stifle a smile when he sucks in an agitated breath. “So, tell me. How many times did you fantasize about me last night?”

“Not many.”

“About four or five times, maybe?”

“It was closer to...zero.”

I move an inch closer, trying to get a reaction, but he’s not affected by me at all. Messing with him is my favorite pastime. He’s so straightforward and witty in his rejection that I intentionally provoke him to hear more of it. Most guys try to woo me with cheesy pickup lines, so I find our conversations refreshing and entertaining.

He places his hand over mine to halt its descent down his body and I have to admit; I like the feel of that more because he absentmindedly caresses the back of my hand with his fingertips. He’s not even aware that he’s doing it and that makes it intimate somehow.

“This love is so one-sided,” I tease, trying my best to sound dejected. “You don’t even give me a second thought, yet you were running through my mind all night...naked...your dong flapping graciously in the wind.”

He chuckles, but the comment makes him a little shy because his cheeks redden a smidge. “I can get on board with that fantasy. That thought of me...and my flapping dong turnedmeon.”

Now, I may joke with him because I will literally say anything for that naughty smile to make an appearance. It induces mini heart palpitations and is usually the highlight of my entire day, but what I’m saying is based on some truth. I do fantasize about him...a lot. I imagine those sexy lips all over my body, his hard chest against mine.

I’ve been with a number of guys and my experiences have ranged fromGreek God serving multiple orgasmstoOh, it’s over already?I tend to manage my expectations. They are just boys after all, but I picture Dylan being a slow lover, unselfish, and willing to take the time to learn my body and what I like. I’m so eager to find out. If he had even the slightest interest in me, I would be on him like a bad rash. But I have never faced such unambiguous rejection from a boy before—and that’s with me just messing around with him. It’s a damn shame. I guess in my fantasies is where he’ll have to stay.

“I think it was Lady Macbeth who said: Like a moth to a flame, thy dong in the wind is like a beacon for my wanton lips.”

The WTAF expression on his face draws a small giggle out of me. For reasons beyond my comprehension, he loves classic literature, so of course, I have to desecrate it every chance I get.

“Lady Macbeth wasn’t so crass.”

“I’m paraphrasing. It’s not a direct quote.”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?” He releases my hand and pulls the strap of his backpack onto his shoulder. “Are we walking?”

“Yep.”

We make our way down the long corridor to the land of the living.

“So, did you miss me these last few days while you were gone?” I quip.

“I did.”

I wait for more because that wasn’t how I expected him to respond. An insult is on its way, or a backhanded comment. But it doesn’t come. It feels weird, so I decide to push for what I consider a normal reaction. “That’s it? NoI missed you like the plagueorI missed you like a bullet to the head?” I wait a moment longer and still nothing. “Really? That’s it?”

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