Free Babe in Boyland by Jody Gehrman Page B

fits.”
    “Thanks.”
    “An annoying insect who doesn’t know when it’s not wanted.”
    Josh’s friends burst into raucous laughter just as the chimes signal the start of first period.
    Okay, then. That went well.

Chapter Eight
    B y the end of third period I have to pee so badly, I swear my bladder’s swollen to five times its natural size; it’s squeezing all my other internal organs into remote corners of my body like a fat lady on a crowded subway. I just can’t face the urinals! They’re way too terrifying. The smell, the exposed bits, the shame. Isn’t using a stall the same as announcing I have to take a dump? How completely embarrassing! Yet I can hardly line up with the others and whip out my sock.
    After several agonizing hours of holding it, though, I can’t handle another second. I scuttle to the bathroom with my knees together. Despite my urgent need to relieve myself, I pause at the door, heart pounding. A couple guys walk by covertly fishing cigarettes from their blazer pockets; when they see me standing there gazing at the door, their laughter stops abruptly and they exchange a look.
    Obviously I can’t hesitate another second or I’ll arouse suspicion. I take a deep breath and shove. I guess I’m a bit too aggressive about it, because I hear the door thwack against something solid. Cringing, I step inside and see Emilio, my gorgeous roommate, pressing the heel of his right hand against his eyebrow.
    “Scheisse!” I cry, alarmed. “I’m so sorry!”
    He shakes his head like someone waking from a dream. “Whoa. Wasn’t expecting the door to attack. Did you say
    ‘scheisse’ ?” When he pulls his hand away I can see blood on his forehead.
    “Oh no, you’re bleeding!”
    He examines his face in the mirror, but offers no comment. I rush to the sink, yank a paper towel from the dispenser, and wet it. I suspect this isn’t very guy-like, but I hand it to him anyway, stopping myself from actually dabbing at the wound.
    He takes the damp towel from me with a skeptical expression. “Uh, thanks.”
    I hear the sound of streaming liquid to my left and almost jump when I see two guys peeing at the urinals. Aaagh! The smell! The sordid publicness of it all!
    “You okay?” Emilio asks, looking amused.
    “Yeah!”
    I say it too loudly and one of the guys at the urinals glances over his shoulder, annoyed. I can’t imagine the concentration it must take to pee in public, especially standing up.
    I turn my attention back to Emilio, who is watching me with an amused expression as he presses the paper towel to his forehead. “You sure you’re okay? You look freaked out.”
    I nod and try for a casual shrug. “I’m going to use a stall.”
    His eyebrows arch in surprise. “Um, okay.”
    “Not that I have to—you know, pinch a loaf or anything—I just prefer privacy.” Stop. Talking. Stop! Talking!
    Emilio puts both hands up in the universal not my business gesture and backs out the door.
    I want to die. I seriously want to die. I just said “pinch a loaf” to the cutest guy I’ve ever seen.
    I scurry into one of the stalls, lock myself in, and frantically pull my pants down. I remember to grab the sock before it falls into the toilet, thank God. Not sure how I’d deal with that one. When at last I get to pee, the release is almost excruciating in its pleasure. I want to moan, but settle for a satisfied sigh.

    The dining hall is, like everything else at Underwood, imposing and majestic. It has a vaulted ceiling, gleaming oak floors, and long, polished mahogany tables. The evening light pours in through the towering, skinny windows of the west wall, spilling into the room in buttery pools. It feels more like a church than a cafeteria.
    This is the first time I’ve been in here, since I skipped lunch. After my disastrous attempt to make friends with Josh this morning in the courtyard and my equally mortifying run-in with Emilio in the bathroom, I spent the forty-minute break between