Forgive My Fins
Page 39
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As an experiment, I soften my hands that were ready to pull Quince off me and instead hug him tighter. Brody’s eyes narrow a tiny bit. When I tilt my head against Quince’s and Brody’s jaw clenches, I know I’m on to something. Seeing me with Quince is making him jealous!
I am so excited by the thought that I relax back into Quince’s chest.
“I need to go fuel up for my next race,” Brody says, looking annoyed. (By my actions? Yay!) “I’ll catch you later.”
“Later,” Quince says dismissively.
As Brody walks toward the locker room—past a furious-looking Courtney and gang—I turn to Quince.
“Did you see that?”
“See what?” Quince says, staring over my head at the long-distance race still in its first hundred.
I scowl. What’s his problem?
I turn to Shannen. “Did you see that? Brody was totally jealous!”
“Yeah,” she says, not as enthusiastic as I’d expected. “That’s great.”
Oh, well. Maybe she just feels awkward in front of Quince. We’ll squee later. Turning back to the race—and realizing that I’ve missed the first two split times for both of our racers—I can’t stop smiling.
It’s not until the six-minute race is over that I realize I’m still leaning back against Quince with his arms around me. For some reason—I’m telling myself it’s because he’s more comfortable than the backless bleachers—I don’t pull out of his embrace. Besides, the better the show we put on, the more Brody will see that he has feelings for me. It’s win-win.
15
“And congratulations to the swim team for their win last night over Parkcrest. Senior Brody Bennett set two school records and took home four blue ribbons. Come out and support the swimming Sea Turtles next Thursday at the city championship meet!”
As the video announcements continue, my mind freezes on the image of Brody holding up his blue ribbons in front of the NO RUNNING OR HORSEPLAY sign. I still can’t believe Brody acted jealous over Quince. I mean, you can’t be jealous over a girl you’re not interested in, right?
I’ve never felt so hopeful about my future with Brody—and I’m only slightly annoyed that it’s thanks to Quince’s interference. Someday, when Brody and I are an old bonded sea couple, I might even thank the blowfish.
“Earth to Lily,” Shannen says, waving her hand in front of my dazed face. “We need to talk about our history project.”
“Right,” I say, trying to bring myself back into the moment, into homeroom. Then Brody’s news clip comes on and I tune out everything else. I know every word by heart, because I edited the piece, but it still gives me a thrill to hear his voice.
“Yearbooks will be on sale next week.” He holds up the sample the yearbook staff made, flipping through the pages of pictures documenting our school year. “You can place your order during lunch and in your homeroom classes until next Friday. Be sure to reserve your piece of history before it’s too late.”
As he holds the book open to the page with the swim team picture, I sigh back into my seat. I will never get tired of listening to Brody. Or looking at him. Or thinking about him—
“Lily!” Shannen drops a history textbook on my desk, jarring me out of my daydreaming.
Heart racing, I look at her and then the textbook. “Right,” I say, sitting up straight and opening the book to the chapter on the Fertile Crescent. “History project. I’m on it.”
Shannen rolls her eyes at me but turns her desk around to face me so we can get to work. I’m proud of myself for focusing on our project—which is a report, analysis, and re-creation of one of Hammurabi’s laws—for the rest of homeroom. She only has to prod me back to attention once. Or maybe twice.
When the bell dismisses us from homeroom, we head down the hall toward the gym. I hate gym. After spending most of my life in the water, it’s not like land-based coordination comes real easily to me. In fact, it’s a great day when I don’t walk out of gym with some kind of sports-related injury—red welts on my arms from volleyball, skinned knees from track, a lump on my head from a tennis racket. But the one shining light about gym class is that it’s one of the two classes I have with Brody. Sure, it doesn’t show me at my best like news team does—neither does trig, for that matter—but I’ll take any time I can spend with him.
Plus Quince isn’t here to get in my way.
“I think we’re starting a new unit today,” Shannen says as we push through the locker-room door.
“That can only be a good thing,” I reply. “I don’t think I would have survived another week of soccer.”
We change into our gym uniforms—hideous, itchy navy blue shorts and baggy white tees with SEAVIEW in big powder blue letters across the chest. Some girls—ones with more curves than me and less baby fat than Shannen—wear tight SEAVIEW tank tops instead of the baggy tees. If I wore one of those, it would only highlight my less-than-overflowing assets.
“I don’t see any equipment,” Shannen whispers as we emerge into the stinky gym.
She’s right. The gym looks unnaturally plain. The bleachers that usually fill either side of the basketball court have been collapsed back against the walls. The basketball goals are in place, but there aren’t any racks of basketballs next to our coaches, who are standing at center court with their whistles at the ready. The few kids who have beaten us into the gym are loitering along the sidelines, looking just as confused as we feel.
I am so excited by the thought that I relax back into Quince’s chest.
“I need to go fuel up for my next race,” Brody says, looking annoyed. (By my actions? Yay!) “I’ll catch you later.”
“Later,” Quince says dismissively.
As Brody walks toward the locker room—past a furious-looking Courtney and gang—I turn to Quince.
“Did you see that?”
“See what?” Quince says, staring over my head at the long-distance race still in its first hundred.
I scowl. What’s his problem?
I turn to Shannen. “Did you see that? Brody was totally jealous!”
“Yeah,” she says, not as enthusiastic as I’d expected. “That’s great.”
Oh, well. Maybe she just feels awkward in front of Quince. We’ll squee later. Turning back to the race—and realizing that I’ve missed the first two split times for both of our racers—I can’t stop smiling.
It’s not until the six-minute race is over that I realize I’m still leaning back against Quince with his arms around me. For some reason—I’m telling myself it’s because he’s more comfortable than the backless bleachers—I don’t pull out of his embrace. Besides, the better the show we put on, the more Brody will see that he has feelings for me. It’s win-win.
15
“And congratulations to the swim team for their win last night over Parkcrest. Senior Brody Bennett set two school records and took home four blue ribbons. Come out and support the swimming Sea Turtles next Thursday at the city championship meet!”
As the video announcements continue, my mind freezes on the image of Brody holding up his blue ribbons in front of the NO RUNNING OR HORSEPLAY sign. I still can’t believe Brody acted jealous over Quince. I mean, you can’t be jealous over a girl you’re not interested in, right?
I’ve never felt so hopeful about my future with Brody—and I’m only slightly annoyed that it’s thanks to Quince’s interference. Someday, when Brody and I are an old bonded sea couple, I might even thank the blowfish.
“Earth to Lily,” Shannen says, waving her hand in front of my dazed face. “We need to talk about our history project.”
“Right,” I say, trying to bring myself back into the moment, into homeroom. Then Brody’s news clip comes on and I tune out everything else. I know every word by heart, because I edited the piece, but it still gives me a thrill to hear his voice.
“Yearbooks will be on sale next week.” He holds up the sample the yearbook staff made, flipping through the pages of pictures documenting our school year. “You can place your order during lunch and in your homeroom classes until next Friday. Be sure to reserve your piece of history before it’s too late.”
As he holds the book open to the page with the swim team picture, I sigh back into my seat. I will never get tired of listening to Brody. Or looking at him. Or thinking about him—
“Lily!” Shannen drops a history textbook on my desk, jarring me out of my daydreaming.
Heart racing, I look at her and then the textbook. “Right,” I say, sitting up straight and opening the book to the chapter on the Fertile Crescent. “History project. I’m on it.”
Shannen rolls her eyes at me but turns her desk around to face me so we can get to work. I’m proud of myself for focusing on our project—which is a report, analysis, and re-creation of one of Hammurabi’s laws—for the rest of homeroom. She only has to prod me back to attention once. Or maybe twice.
When the bell dismisses us from homeroom, we head down the hall toward the gym. I hate gym. After spending most of my life in the water, it’s not like land-based coordination comes real easily to me. In fact, it’s a great day when I don’t walk out of gym with some kind of sports-related injury—red welts on my arms from volleyball, skinned knees from track, a lump on my head from a tennis racket. But the one shining light about gym class is that it’s one of the two classes I have with Brody. Sure, it doesn’t show me at my best like news team does—neither does trig, for that matter—but I’ll take any time I can spend with him.
Plus Quince isn’t here to get in my way.
“I think we’re starting a new unit today,” Shannen says as we push through the locker-room door.
“That can only be a good thing,” I reply. “I don’t think I would have survived another week of soccer.”
We change into our gym uniforms—hideous, itchy navy blue shorts and baggy white tees with SEAVIEW in big powder blue letters across the chest. Some girls—ones with more curves than me and less baby fat than Shannen—wear tight SEAVIEW tank tops instead of the baggy tees. If I wore one of those, it would only highlight my less-than-overflowing assets.
“I don’t see any equipment,” Shannen whispers as we emerge into the stinky gym.
She’s right. The gym looks unnaturally plain. The bleachers that usually fill either side of the basketball court have been collapsed back against the walls. The basketball goals are in place, but there aren’t any racks of basketballs next to our coaches, who are standing at center court with their whistles at the ready. The few kids who have beaten us into the gym are loitering along the sidelines, looking just as confused as we feel.
