Brody paused in mid-tug. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing." I cleared my throat. "Probably just the spores." I summoned up a little cough, followed by an awkward smile. "Anyway…" I said, putting some extra pep into my voice, "Lead on, Macduff."
It was an old joke.
In high school, Brody and I had taken advanced English together. This included a month of Shakespeare – primarily Macbeth. The line was supposed to be, "Lay on, Macduff," as our English teacher had reminded us repeatedly while ranting about how often it was misquoted.
As far as the play itself, I'd hated it, mostly because nearly everyone died by the end. But Brody? He'd loved it. I could tell. He'd been sitting across from me, and I'd seen with my own eyes how the story had captured his imagination – well, on the days he actually attended class, that is.
Now, as he began leading me toward the window, he replied, "Sure thing, Clara."
At the sound of that name on his lips, my steps faltered.
Brody's grip tightened, and he turned to look. "You okay?"
I was fine, just irritated, that's all.
In high school, he'd called me that name at least fifty times, and not in a good way. This would've been merely annoying if only he hadn't begun that whole "Clara" thing by trying to ruin my grade in English.
Now, years later, he was mocking me again, just like he had back in high school.
It was a good reminder that he'd never liked me, and probably never would. And if I were smart, I'd return the favor.
Chapter 24
Brody
Too late I recalled the full history of that name – Clara Cooper.
During our junior year of high school, Arden and I had the bad luck to be seated next to each other in advanced English.
The seats had been chosen by the teacher, not us, which is how Arden Weathers had found herself stuck in the back row, next to someone like me who preferred to fly under the radar.
But not Arden. No. She liked to sit up front, where the teachers could see when she raised her hand for brownie points or extra credit.
Now in the attic, her hand stiffened in mine as she gave me the same disgruntled look she'd given me back in high school after we'd graded each other's fiction-writing projects.
I said, "Aw come on. You're not still pissed about that, are you?"
From the look on her face, she clearly was. "You tried to flunk me."
"A D-minus?" I scoffed. "That's not flunking. Trust me, I know."
"Yeah, I'm sure you do know," she said, "because you never bothered to try."
"I didn't have to," I said. "You 'tried' enough for both of us."
"Well someone had to," she said. "And I didn't give you a D-minus."
She'd given me a C-plus, which, yeah, was probably more generous than I'd deserved.
The assignment had been to write a fictional story starring a character like ourselves. Me? I'd scribbled out two pages of bullshit, starring a space alien who devoured the world.
But Arden? She'd typed up ten, maybe fifteen pages of lollypops and gumdrops. Not even kidding. Her main character, Clara Cooper, had lived above a candy store, where all the neighborhood kids had come daily to get wise advice from Clara's doting parents.
The whole thing had made me sick.
I said, "Better a D than an F."
"A D-minus," she corrected.
With my free hand, I reached up to rub the back of my neck. At the time, I'd thought the minus was a nice touch. Now, I had to admit, it was a dick move. But hell if I'd admit it to her when she was hassling me over something that happened seven years ago.
And besides, the teacher had the final say, so it's not like the D-minus would've stuck, especially to a teacher's pet like Arden Weathers.
I told her, "Yeah, well, maybe your story had too many gumdrops."
She glared up at me. "It was relevant to the story. They did own a candy store. Remember?"
Hell yeah, I remembered. And I also remembered the story's mom baking homemade casseroles and the dad asking about homework while taking her out for ice cream – as if a fucking candy store weren't enough.
Like I said, sickening.
In the attic, Arden gave her hand a hard yank. When I refused to let go, she made a sound of annoyance. "That's how you knew it was me in the shower, wasn't it?"
At the thought of Arden in the shower, my brain went fuzzy. "What?"
"When you asked for my name," she said, "I gave you that stupid character name from my story."
"At least we agree on that."
"On what?"
"The name Clara."
Through gritted teeth, she informed me, "That was my grandmother's name."
"Hey, don’t blame me," I said. "You're the one who called it stupid."
"Yeah, well, I meant it differently."
"Good for you."
At this, she gave her hand the hardest yank yet. "Will you please let go."
"Yeah," I said. "When we reach the stairs." Still gripping her hand, I turned and made a move toward the stairway.
Arden didn't budge as she announced, "I can make it on my own."
I stopped and turned to look at her. "Maybe. Maybe not. But I'm not taking that chance."
"Why?" Her tone grew sarcastic. "Because you're such a nice guy?"
"No. Because if you fall through, it'll be my ass on the line."
"Oh, for crying out loud," she said. "Will you please stop talking about your ass."
Huh? I didn't recall mentioning my ass at all. "What?"
Now she was blushing. "Nothing."
"It was something," I said.
"Well…" she stammered. "I guess…speaking of your ass…" Her words trailed into silence, and she glanced around, as if looking for an escape.
"I wasn't speaking of it," I told her. "You were."
"Oh, shut up," she said. "I'm just saying that as long we're talking about stuff in your pants—" She froze. "Damn it. That's not what I meant either."
Her blush deepened, and I fought a sudden urge to smile. "So you've been thinking about my pants, huh?"
"No." Her chin jerked upward. "Definitely not.
