Loveseat Nights

4

thursday, feb 4

“Get my note?”

I jump back from my locker and let out a half-yell. “Jesus. You scared me.”

Mona crinkles her nose. Not in a cute way, more of a pig-trying-to-inhale-its-trough crinkle. “Glad I’m not predictable.”

“Cute. I have to get to class. Don’t do…that anymore.” I wave towards her general being.

She does the pig-trough-inhalation crinkle again. It’s really starting to get on my nerves. “I’m not embarrassing you, am I?”

“Well, we don’t exactly run in the same group, and I have to maintain my reputation for not talking to isolated newspaper writers. We’re like- we’re like Tom and Jerry.”

“Tom and Jerry spend every episode together.”

“Yeah, but they’re always trying to kill each other.”

“Adrien Finkwell, are you expressing an urge to commit a murderous felony?”

I groan. “Bug me one more time and you’ll have the answer.”

Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle. “You’re so mean to me.” Crinkle.

“You need to stop talking to me—”

“Okay, do I have a booger on my face or something?”

“What are you talking about now? I don’t understand you half the time your mouth is moving.”

“You keep looking at me like my nose got up and walked away. What is it?”

I sigh. “Um, okay, don’t take this the wrong way, but when you crinkle your nose...”

“...Yes? Finish, please?”

“It’s not exactly cute.”

“I’m not doing it to be cute, it’s a natural process of my body that occurs when I’m talking to a rude ass.”

I grimace. “Yeah, well, better hold that natural stuff in.” Before I realize it, I’m patting her on the shoulder. I swipe my hand off of her and whirl around, seeing if anyone caught me.

“Adrien, I’m not a leper—”

“I’ll see you around.” Then I speed-walk to my next class before the brunette demon can lure me into more conversational traps.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Explosions occur during science class.

Our biology teacher starts shrieking at students to get to “the far side of the room, the far fucking side” and we’re wide-eyed and white-faced at her spontaneous cursing. It’s not every day that our 56-year-old, knitting club president teacher starts throwing around f-bombs like a Russian sailor.

The blown bits of poor little Lex splatter on the nearby cabinets and equipment we were using. The melodramatic girls are tearing up into their palms and patting each other on the back for support. Paul and I are laughing our asses off.

“I can’t believe...” I try to take deep breaths but my laughter reaches a climax and I start drifting around, clapping my hands together, without making a sound. We’re both in hysterics outside in the hallway. Paul’s lying face down on the cold floor, body shaking from silent laughs.

“...it worked!” I finally manage to choke out.

Paul lifts up a weak thumbs-up as he continues to vibrate on the ground.

We’ve always hated Lex.

“You’re lucky,” our teacher Mrs. Caulfield had told us when we were assigned her. “A special case, you boys have.”