Free Don't You Wish by Roxanne St. Claire Page A

dramatic and vague shrug. “All I know,” she says, “is that he’s sick of waiting for you to give it up.”
    “Give what …” I stop before I sound like a complete moron. My V-card, of course.
    “A flusterated boyfriend is not a happy boyfriend,” she singsongs.
    “Flusterated?”
    “Speak Bliss,” Jade whispers to me.
    “And an unhappy boyfriend is an ex-boyfriend,” Bliss finishes haughtily.
    “And then what?” I shoot back, taking the bait. “He’s your
next
boyfriend?”
    “Stop it, Bliss,” Jade chides her. “Why are you always trying to get between them?”
    I slam the locker door hard enough to startle her. “You know what happens when you skate on thin ice, Bliss?”
    She frowns, the metaphor obviously lost on someone who annihilates the English language every time she opens her mouth.
    “You fall and you freeze to death.” I ice her with a look that matches the threat, a zing of endorphins shooting through me.
    Bliss pales for a second, then turns, defeated but refusing to show it. Feeling smug, I let them bookend me all the way to the cafeteria, the three of us parting the invisibles right down the middle like Moses and the Red Sea.
    Wow. Nice. Is this what I’m missing while I sit around with orchestra kids and discuss the miserable song selections for Winter Musicfest?
    I follow their lead for salads, but only because the line for pizza is too long. Maybe because I have a feeling it’s super-uncool to chow down on the good stuff, even though the french fries smell out of this world. Bliss and Jade don’t look like they’ve ever eaten a french fry in their lives.
    There’s no evidence of seniors in this lunch period, so we obviously get the best tables on a veranda just outside thecafeteria, with a view of palm-tree-dotted lawns. In one fast scope, I find all the usual gatherings, from potheads to math geeks and everything in between.
    Our table seats ten, and there are six girls around it, including us. The others are pretty quiet, clearly deferential to the three of us.
    The hierarchy of Crap Academy, as the school is universally known, is becoming crystal clear. And the social strata are not that different from my real school. There are invisibles (nobodies), wannabes (subpar), almost-could-be’s (lower class), just-about-there’s (middle class) … and then the top of the heap. The popular kids, as they are known in every world, real or … whatever this is.
    Right now, it doesn’t matter what this is, because I am a popular kid, so far at the top of that heap that I could get a nosebleed.
    I’m digging through the salad, looking for a crouton or something of substance, when two strong hands smack down on my shoulders and squeeze.
    “What the hell was that all about, Ayla?”
    I don’t have to look; I know it’s Ryder. But I turn anyway, still not used to how insanely cute he is. But he doesn’t look too cute right now. He looks … 
apoplectic
.
    “Told you,” Bliss whispers as she circles glossy lips over a wide straw and looks up at Ryder. For a second, it’s not clear who she’s talking to, him or me.
    “Move over,” Ryder says to her, giving her arm a dismissive tap.
    She slides, not happy about it.
    Ryder climbs onto the stone bench, his thigh pressing against mine, his mouth to my ear. “Now you owe me.”
    Chills explode over my skin, cascading down to my toes, which curl in my Michael Kors platforms. I close my eyes to hide the response, and put plenty of indifference in my voice. “I don’t owe you anything, Ryder. You should have read the book.”
    “Very funny, Ayla.” He flicks his tongue over my earlobe.
    Oh. My. God.
    “I’ll forget the quiz on Saturday night,” he says, his hand possessive—and really high up—on my thigh. “You know why they call it homecoming.”
    I whip around to him. “Saturday is homecoming?”
    He laughs. “Among other things, as you know. And everything’s arranged.”
    “We’re going together.”
    His