Chase Grant taps his fingernail on the side of a water bottle, occasionally glancing up from his paper to look at me. "You know, I saw something about how, like, brown eyes turn gold in the sunlight. Do your eyes do that?"
"Actual gold? Don't think so." I lean back in my chair and give him a smirk to let him know I'm joking, because he might not know otherwise. It takes him a second, but he does catch on, laughing too hard for the comedic weight of my comment.
"That's not—I mean I thought—never mind. What are you doing this weekend?" he asks lowly.
"Funeral," I reply.
He gets red in the face, frowning a little, because god-forbid someone doesn't respond perfectly to his flirting attempts. "Sorry about that, by the way. Really sucks. My uncle died in a construction accident when I was twelve. Terrible."
"Sorry about that. Really sucks," I repeat. We both glance at the clock at the same time I get a text, undoubtedly from Shantay.
SHANTAY: come over at 6? We "finna get litty as a titty"
FRAN: I hate u and I hate her too. Yikes.
I pretend not to notice that Chase is basically copying everything on my literature paper, nodding as if he understands the point. When we have this test, I'll be sure to see what his grade is.
I've counted down the minutes left of class on one hand, and counted the minutes Chase has stared at me on the other. They're the same.
"Hey, um... this may be rude to ask right now... I'm not sure."
Prom? My heart beats a little faster, but then I curse myself for even letting that be the first thought in my head. So I say, "shoot", and let him get all flustered.
He picks at his nail and sighs, face doubly red. "Was your dad black?"
YOU ARE READING
identity on hold
Short Storywhere francesca alvarez is learning nothing and everything at once after the death of her estranged father
