Skinny • Book 1 In The Reality Series

Calum

Lying on my unmade bed, I stared up at the ceiling, my mind spinning more than the ceiling fan circling lazily overhead.

Why had I kissed her?

I didn’t like her, not like that, I couldn’t.

It was a mistake, I was caught up in the moment, I was feeling bad for her and I’d temporarily blanked out. In that time I’d apparently pressed my lips against hers, but it wasn’t a conscious decision. I didn’t feel that way about her, I couldn’t.

I didn’t know why I couldn’t, but I knew with absolute certainty that I could not.

Swinging my legs over the side of my bed, I crossed over to my backpack which was lying in the doorway, and after rummaging around for a moment, pulled out my cell phone. Running my fingertips through my damp hair nervously, I scrolled through my contacts before stopping on a name.

The phone rang once, before the whiny, high pitched squeal I was dreading, answered.

“Hi!” she greeted, “It’s Gracie!”

Gracie Wilson. Standing at five feet tall, four foot eleven when she slouched, Gracie was the kind of girl everyone unanimously hates, but she’s too dumb and innocent to realize it. She’d failed ninth grade twice  so at twenty-one, she was the official beer buyer of Byrin high.

Two years ago a video of her doing it with a teacher had gone viral. She cleaned up in a lawsuit against him, and has ditched school to go shopping every day since.

She’d dated nearly all the boys in our school and the ones she hadn’t she slept with, even the funky looking ones, she accepted skittles as payment, that was the word on the street anyway.

I don’t know why her makeup caked face was the first to come to mind when trying to resolve the Katy kiss situation, but it was, and so I called her, and forty-five minutes later we were perusing the candy aisle of the Seven Eleven.

Her shoulder length hair dyed the same hue of blue as the enormous slurpee in her hands, Gracie sat cross legged on the grotesquely grubby tile floor, glowering at the four types of Skittles on the shelf infront of her.

“I don’t know if I’m in a sour or more of an original mood.” She sighed, sucking hard on the straw, filling the otherwise empty convenience store with an irritating slurping sound.

“We’ve been sitting here for ten minutes.” I informed her, glancing down at my watch.

“Patience young grasshopper.” She replied, picking up one of the packages of skittles and examining it with the sort of reverence and care usually reserved for autopsies, or open heart surgeries.

“Can I help you guys?” the guy stocking the shelves with candy bars at the end of the aisle questioned.

“No we’re fine.” I sighed.

“I have a question.” Gracie announced, contradicting me, “What’s the difference between the tropical Skittles and the wild berry ones?”

“What’s tropical.” The guy said slowly, “The other one’s wild berry.”

“But which is better?” she pressed.

“I don’t know.” He admitted, “I like M&ms.”

Her eyes widening as if his candy preference were somehow inferior to her own, Gracie held each of the bags in turn, weighing them in her hands, before finally deciding on the plain old, red bag of originals.

Dragging her to the front of the store I paid for the skittles, and her Slurped, twice, since she’d refilled it, and a package of gum she claimed she needed before leading her outside.

The rain had slowed down considerably as the day progressed to a slow drizzle, which didn’t seem to faze Gracie in the slightest. Avoiding a large puddle she sat down on the curb and ripping open the package of skittles, patted the space beside her.

Sighing in annoyance I sat down next to her.

“I should have got the sours.” She muttered.

“Can we please forget about the stupid skittles?” I demanded, “I need your help.”

Her eyes narrowing, she dumped the multicolored candies in her skirt, before turning her attention to me.

“What can I help you with?” she asked seriously as if we were discussing a legitimate business transaction.

“I made a mistake.” I sighed, “I kissed someone and I don’t want them to think it meant anything.”

“So tell her that.”

“I did.”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“I don’t know.” I admitted, “I need to kiss someone else.”

“So kiss someone else.”

“I can’t!”

“Why? You have herpes?”

“What? No!”

“Chronic bad breath?”

“No! No, nothing like that, there just isn’t anyone I want to kiss.”

“So you don’t want to kiss me?”

“No.”

“Screw me?”

“No thank you.”

“Then I’m lost, what exactly am I doing here?”

Sighing, I looked around the empty parking lot half expecting Katy to be lurking behind a gas pump watching us.

“I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend.” I whispered.

Her brown eyes widening, Gracie stared at me as if I had sprouted a second head.

“What?” I asked.

“Let me get this straight.” She said slowly, “You don’t want to kiss me, or fuck me, or date me, you want to pretend to date me?”

“Yes.” I replied.

Reaching down to her skirt, she picked up an orange Skittle and popped it into her mouth.

“I don’t know.” She mumbled.

“Please!” I pleaded.

“What am I getting out of this exactly?” she sighed, drumming her fingertips on her knee, her nails covered in chipped black polish.

“You want to be an actress right?” I asked, remembering the twenty-seven plays she’d plaid chorus member number five in.

“Yeah.” She said slowly, “And a model, with a reality show, like the Kardashians.”

“This will be good practice!” I cried, “And I’ll buy you as many skittles as you want!”

Cocking her head to the side she thought for a moment.

“Please.” I pleaded, “I really need your help.”

“You really think this will help my acting career?”

“Of course! You’ll have something to put on your resume!”

“Okay.” She said forcefully, “I’ll do it.”