Dancing With The Player | ✓

Chapter 12

Brielle

12:47 PM

"Would you rather go to jail for five years or get punched hard in the face every hour of every day for five years?"

I scratched my head, trying to decide. Each had their own pros and cons.

"I think I would rather get punched every hour," I responded, dipping my fry into ketchup.

Christopher and I were currently in his car, on the way to my house. Since I hurt my ankle, my plan of walking home was a no go. He must have felt really bad, because he insisted on giving me a ride instead of me just waiting for Sam to pick me up. I was surprised when we walked up to a cherry red convertible, instead of his usual black sedan. The car was looked like an antique. I could imagine riding in it to a drive-in movie in the 60s.

He had insisted that we played a game of would you rather as we drove to get my mind off the pain I was feeling. Right as I was about to protest, a sharp pain ran up my leg, reminding me that a distraction might not be so bad after all. He had stopped at the Chick-Fil-a by the school and bought me food as a way of apologizing. After I took one bite into my chicken sandwich, all was forgiven.

"According to my calculations that would be a total of 43,801 punches," he slurped loudly from his now empty drink. "You're going to be brain dead after that."

"Settle down Einstein," I mocked, throwing my crumpled-up napkin at him.

My mind wandered to what happened in the Athletic trainer's office, how close his face was to mine, and how in that brief moment, I was hoping that he would do something. In the back of my mind, I think that I wanted him to kiss me, but I keep that idea as repressed as possible. Even if that was what I wanted, it was probably just injury-induced craziness. Nothing more.

"You're just dodging what I said because you know I'm right," I snapped out of my thoughts, looking up to see a smug look on his face. I refocused myself, brushing off what I was thinking beforehand.

"I know myself. I wouldn't last a single day in jail. I have no clue how to make a shank and the only fight I've been in was in a bouncy house when I was nine."

He smiled in amusement. "What in the world were you fighting about?"

"Don't ask."

In the fourth grade, I punched my classmate Jason during Sam's fourth grade birthday party for saying that I looked like a Christmas tree without a star. I wasn't exactly sure what that meant, but it seemed worthy of a fight to me.

"Ok my turn!" I clapped my hands together in excitement. "Would you rather swim in poop or eat dead bodies?"

He shot me a look, his face turning a light green color. I decided that maybe right now wasn't the best time to ask that question.

"Never mind," I laughed, finding humor in Christopher's nausea. "Would you rather be handsome and poor or ugly and rich."

He flashed a smile at me. "I'm already handsome and rich." I rolled my eyes at him.

The nerve of this boy!

"Come on," I whined," Seriously, you have to pick."

"Then I would rather be ugly and rich. Then you can get all the plastic surgery in the world."

I nodded my head. "Exactly! It's much easier to make yourself pretty with money than to make yourself rich with looks." I was surprised that we thought the same way.

Over the last week, I learned that me and Christopher had a lot more in common than I thought. Besides having extreme passions for dance and football, we also both liked English, hated math, and had a minor obsession with the Jonas brothers when we were younger, which I had to pry out of him.