Tomorrow, I was sitting front and center.
Mickey cleared his throat. I smiled at my teacher and peeled myself away, brushing past Mickey as I went to sit in one of the two empty chairs.
As soon as Mickey sat down, I couldn’t resist leaning over to whisper, “He is amazing.”
No response.
I pulled my eyes away from O’Faolain long enough to see that Mickey was staring at the teacher the same way I’d stare down Caleb whenever he’d reach out to take the last Oreo. That stare said Are you sure you wanna do this? Because I can take you.
I glanced at our teacher; the glance became a stare. He was writing an equation on the whiteboard, perfectly showcasing his forearms. I’d never seen forearms so hot before. Wait, I had a thing for forearms?
I blinked, distracting myself from my teacher’s arms long enough to remember that Mickey was acting weird.
Mickey was now looking at O’Faolain like he’d dropped out of an elephant’s backside.
“What?” I whispered. He said nothing.
I tried to shoot my foot out to nudge his, but ended up banging it against his chair, drawing a few looks from a couple other students.
But not from Mickey. Zero response.
“Are you seriously giving me the silent treatment?” I sort of whispered. If anyone had any right to give someone the silent treatment, it was me—if I was any good at staying quiet, that is. Not only did Mickey embarrass me with his “overprotective brother act,” but if I hadn’t waited so long for him to get out of the bathroom, I might be sitting right two feet from the love of my life right now.
Mickey didn’t answer. Instead, he ground his teeth as he crossed his arms. He was now glaring ninja swords at Mr. O’Faolain. ‘Cause really, glaring daggers was nothing compared to this.
I looked back at O’Faolain, trying to figure out what about my gorgeous soulmate was ticking Mickey off so bad. Good-natured Mickey. Nerdy Mickey. He was now Darth Mickey.
I studied O’Faolain as he strung equations across the board. It was strange; he didn’t seem as hot as he had a few moments ago. Not that he wasn’t hot—everyone here was gorgeous—but his forearms weren’t making me drool anymore.
After a few moments, Mr. O’Faolain’s writing wobbled, like he was driving on a bumpy road. He lost his grip, and the red marker dropped from his hand, clattering on the floor.
Everyone went silent. A few kids stared at Mickey. Some at O’Faolain. But most ducked their heads down as if they were examining their cuticles.
A nervousness permeated the room. My gaze swiveled between O’Faolain and Mickey, but I couldn’t make sense of the tension that ran so thick it seemed I could reach out and touch it.
After a minute, the teacher straightened his shoulders and turned around, nodding at Mickey. Only then did Mickey relax, a satisfied smirk replacing his intense glare.
For the rest of the class, no one even glanced in our direction. Mr. O’Faolain, who no longer seemed as soulmatey as I’d first thought, didn’t even look past the first row for the rest of the lesson.
I frowned. Something was very, very strange.
As soon as class ended, I turned to Mickey.
“What was with the staring contest?”
“The what?” Mickey looked at me, confusion written all over his face.
But I knew better. As someone with a ton of experience faking innocence, it was easy to tell when someone else was faking it, too.
“You know exactly what.”
Mickey grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, heading toward the door.
I scrambled after him. “Well?”
“We don’t like each other.”
“Yeah, I got that, but the staring thing. What was that about? And he seemed so…so…” I glanced back, making sure we’d walked far enough down the hall to be out of O’Faolain’s hearing. “So amazing at first and then he just didn’t. What was that about?”
“Sounds like you came back to your senses.”
“Haha. Funny. Come on, Mickey. What was that?”
But before Mickey replied, Bridgette popped into view.
“One second, Kella,” she said, pulling Mickey away from me. They stood against the opposite wall in the hallway, their whispered exchange drowned out by the rush of students racing between classes. After a few minutes, Mickey shrugged. Bridgette didn’t seem to like that response, frowning back at him before turning her back on him and walking my way.
In the two seconds it took her to cross the hall with Mickey trailing after her, her expression shifted from upset to bright and happy—almost like she’d pushed a button.
“So, Kella,” Bridgette said, her voice bright and peppy, “we’ve got gym now. It’s on the opposite side of school, so we need to hurry.” She tugged on my elbow, pulling me away from Mickey.
“But Mickey needs to tell me—”
“Sorry, no time,” Bridgette said, tugging me further away. “We’ll have to speed walk as it is.” I shot a glare at Mickey, letting him know that we weren’t done here—he owed me an explanation. Mickey batted innocent eyes at me, making me want to punch him.
PE didn’t turn out as bad as I’d thought it would. Bridgette told the teacher I wouldn’t be dressing out for gym today. He shot me a glance, shrugged, and told me to go sit in the bleachers while everyone else did soccer scrimmages.
At first, I kept thinking about math class, equal parts mortified at how I must have looked to my classmates as I stood there drooling over my teacher and puzzled at why everyone—myself included—had acted so weird. Soon, though, Bridgette distracted me from my thoughts. While Bridgette might seem happy-go-lucky, she had an alternate personality on the soccer field.
I watched in fascination as she stole the ball from players running full speed, cutting in front of them so they’d have to jump to avoid tripping over her. One guy shouted something at her, and by her expression, she didn’t appreciate it. A few seconds later, he ended up
