Page 15 of You Had Me At Thirteen

When we reach the door to the school building, Koby opens it, letting Audrey in first. I go to step in next, but he shoves me out of the way and races to catch up to her, throwing up his middle finger in the process.

‘Catch you later,’ I say, raising my hand in a goodbye. Koby turns and high fives the air with a wink, before wrapping an arm around Audrey’s shoulders.

Not bad, kid. Not bad.

SEVEN

Matilda

* * *

Irub my swollen stomach as I stretch out on my bed, my phone in one hand as I pull up Wren’s number. Picking at a loose thread on my bright blue quilt cover, I stare at the digits, reciting them in my head. Don’t ask me how I have it, because I can’t tell you. I’m sure it had something to do with our mothers exchanging details, you know, in case of emergencies. Who were they kidding? Why in the world would I call Wren in an emergency? He’s definitely not on the top of my emergency contacts.

Speaking of my mum, she’s working another late one tonight, which isn’t unusual, but the hospital sure is getting every night shift out of her they can. It feels like I’ve spent no quality time with her in weeks. And, as usual, she made dinner before leaving. Tonight’s special was macaroni cheese, so I pigged out, and am now regretting stuffing my face before my stomach could catch up.

Every movement makes my insides hurt, but I promised Clive some pictures, and I have to sort out assignment details with Wren, so I decide to type out a message to him first.

Ideas for assignment?

Now, do I wait for those three little dots to come up, showing me he’s received my message and is texting me back? Why do I even care?

Leaving my phone on the bed, I climb off and drag my feet into the walk-in wardrobe to pick out outfits for Clive’s approval. If only he would let me wear what I want, maybe I’d be more excited about this party.

Sighing, I pull a short black skirt and tan midriff top from the hanging rail, then strip off my school uniform. I’m pretty sure these are Audrey’s hand-me-downs, because I wouldn’t buy anything this skimpy, but Clive will approve, so I yank the skirt up my thighs, and attempt to smooth it over my hips. The fabric is soft, like velvet against my skin, and not as short as I imagined it would be. The top comes next, and once it’s in position, I grab my phone, admiring myself in the large mirror that sits in the corner of my room, and snap a picture for Clive.

Within a few seconds, my phone dings. Wren’s name flashes up as a message alert.

I have a few ideas:

1. You really like me.

2. You secretly want into my pants.

3. How good looking I am?

I stare at the message, blinking until my eyes water and my vision blurs. Is this guy for real? I type a message back.

Let’s see!

1. I HATE YOU!

2. I’ve seen what’s in your pants. Not impressed. Or interested.

3. Your face pisses me off.

The nerve of him. I’ve yet to meet anyone else so fucking full of themselves. And here I am waiting for him to reply.

Damn it.

I throw the phone on the bed, and go back to staring at myself in the mirror, twisting and turning as I tug the skirt further down my thighs. Even though I’m an athlete, I still have insecurities. And short skirts are one of them.

My phone goes off with another message. I expect Clive, but it's Wren again.

Well, at least my face does something to your body.

What. The. Fuck?

I choose to ignore his last message, instead deciding to select another outfit. Pulling off the skirt and top, I stand in the wardrobe in my underwear, tapping a finger against my chin before spotting what I need.

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