Not That Girl

Chapter 4

I've always hated horror movies. Mostly because I'm literally scared of everything. What really gets me though, is loud and sudden noises. Actually, it doesn't really matter how loud it is. Basically, if I'm not expecting it, it's going to make me jump. Dad always jokes about how I'll have a heart attack before I'm twenty. And the thought of that scares me even more.

I'm waiting to use Ridgeview's only working microwave when a voice, that I certainly didn't expect, said something over my shoulder. I couldn't tell what it was saying. Probably because I was too busy trying not to piss myself. My friends, or at least people who know me, know better than to sneak up on me. So who decided to try and make me drop my, still cold and waiting to be microwaved, lunch?

I whipped around only to be greeted by a very familiar goofy grin. So now I'm frantically trying to slow my heart rate down while preparing myself for a conversation I'm not ready to have. A conversation with Brayden Erickson, who will not understand pointless 'Agnes Blabber" as Peyton does. Okay,

"Huh?"

"Ninety-four," he repeats. The smile etched into his face softening a bit as his gaze flutters around. His hands are squirming around in the (gloriously spacious) pockets of his letterman jacket. He doesn't have the same confidence that he had yesterday in Naylor's room. Maybe he's scared of being seen talking to me in public.

"What?"

"On your Calc quiz," he says. His eyes have stopped darting around and have instead decided to examine my state of confusion. "You got a ninety-four"

"Huh?" I think I'm still in shock from the sudden intrusion because I'm having a hard time processing anything he says. Was I this nervous when I talked to him yesterday?"

"You know," he says, making a deadly serious face. "Previously on Agnes: Brayden stayed behind with Naylor, who happened to be marking our beloved heroine's calculus quiz right after she finished writing it."

"What?" Apparently, I have now forgotten how to use words longer than four letters. Great.

His stern expression melts back into a lopsided smile. "Like on TV shows," he starts. "How they sometimes start with a recap, like 'here's what you missed last week on..."

"Oh yeah!" For no particular reason, I force out a laugh. He was trying to be funny, right?

"You have a nice laugh."

How am I supposed to respond to that? Should I tell him it was just a fake laugh?

"So..." he continues, thankfully before I have a chance to say anything. "I accidentally saw your mark and just thought you'd want to know. Saves you from the suspense of waiting for him to give it back."

Is he blushing?

In our minute-long conversation, he's managed to switch back and forth between 'confident football player' and 'nervous eight-year-old' a lot. At least he has somewhere to hide his hands. Meanwhile, mine are out in the open, clutching my Tupperware of leftovers like I'm holding on for dear life. Practically screaming: I have no idea what I'm doing and this situation makes me extremely uncomfortable.

"Well, that's all I wanted to say," he says quietly. Based on that and the fact he's having trouble making eye contact, I would say 'nervous eight-year-old' has taken over again.

"Thanks."

"No problem," he shrugs. His fists are still balled up in his pockets as he turns to leave. "Enjoy your lunch."

"You too," I call to his retreating figure. He probably didn't hear me because I hesitated too long. Now he's already halfway to the back of the cafeteria where the rest of the football team sits.