a low, slow whistle. “I don’t know what you have against tight pants. Look at all those cute butts and luscious muscles. Talk about slurpalicious.” She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip. “Don’t you want one little nibble, one taste?”
I give her a playful shove to move her away from the camcorder. “No. No nibbles. No tastes.” I’m a virgin with no plans to change that anytime soon, and as my best friend, she damn well knows it. I take up position behind the camera, and look at the world through my beloved lens. I exhale a contented breath. This is where I belong. This is where I feel most at home.
Okay, yeah, so it’s true. I’m the world’s biggest nerd. Do I care? Nope. Not one little bit. I’m happy to stand in the shadow and view the world through my camcorder lens. As I do, I catch sight of Ivy again as she shakes her ass for the boys on the field. Truth be told, I actually hate football players. Back in high school, they bullied my friend Jacob until he ended up taking his own life. Terrible hazing went on at our school. The bullying was torturous and cruel, and no matter how hard Peyton and I tried to help Jacob, get him help, the bullying continued, and actually increased the more we tried to stop it. A stab of pain sears my heart at the painful memory, and I suck in air to breathe through it. I know I shouldn’t lump all jocks into one category, shouldn’t label them all as egotistical bullies, but a single player has yet to prove me wrong. Arrogant assholes. What more can I say?
I check my watch, as my stomach growls. “Hungry much?” Peyton says. “Maybe you’d like a nibble after all?”
“Really, Peyton. Did you just meet me?” I tease and reach into my backpack and grab a granola bar, all the while trying to cleanse my brain of football players and their tight asses—one player in particular. Peyton holds her hand out, and I place a bar in her palm. Granola bars and juice boxes on the go. The life of a busy fourth year student—or that of a toddler.
She tears into her wrapper and looks me in the eye. Her brow is furrowed as she examines me like I’m a bug under a microscope—a new kind of species no one can figure out. “You really don’t find any of those guys attractive?”
“Nope, not a single one of them.” A little white lie never hurt anything, right? “I prefer brains over brawn.”
“That’s a pretty blanket statement don’t you think? I bet a lot of them are smart.” Peyton doesn’t hold the same grudge as I do. She figured it was a few bad apples on our high school football team who persecuted Jacob until his suicide, not every jock in the world. I don’t forgive as easily. Maybe it’s the social worker in her. She sees the world through a different lens, and that’s her right.
“Yeah, probably.” I shrug. She’s right, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to hold it against her if she wants to date a player.
She grins. “What about Landon Brooks?”
A chunk of granola lodges in my throat and I try not to react, try not to let my eyes bulge out of my brain as I choke. Reacting will only fuel her ridiculous fantasy that Landon and I would be good together. She’s wrong, a million times over. A trillion, even.
I snatch a juice box from my backpack, rip the straw open and jab the foil opening. After a big sip, I roll my eyes. “Oh, Please, Landon’s ego is as big as—”
“His cock?”
Ohmigod.
My granola bar jumps back into my throat and I take another huge sip. In my calmest voice, I stare at her and say, “That is not what I was going to say. I mean, come on. I have no idea how big his…his thing is, and I don’t want to know.”
“His thing.” She laughs. “Oh, come on, Ella. You can say cock. I know you’ve watched porn before. We’ve watched it together, for God’s sake. We all have fantasies, and that’s normal.”
Flustered, I say, “Okay, fine. His cock. That’s the last time you’re going to hear that word on my lips, and the last time I’m going to think about it.” It’s possible that’s a lie. I might actually think of it tonight—when I watch porn.