Kody Keplinger: The DUFF: Designated Ugly Fat Friend

He rolled his eyes and got to his feet. “Sorry, ladies,” he said to the tragedy-stricken girls. “I’ll see you tomorrow. You’ll save a seat for me?”

“Of course we will,” a tiny redhead squeaked.

As Wesley and I walked away, I heard Big Lips hiss, “God, that girl is a bitch!”

When we were out in the hallway Wesley asked, “What’s the problem, Duffy? I e-mailed you the essay last night, just like you demanded. And where exactly are we going? The library?”

“Just shut up and come with me.” I led him down the hall past the English classrooms.

Don’t ask where I got this idea, because I couldn’t tell you, but I knew precisely where we were going, and I was sure that this might officially make me a slut. But when we reached the door of the unused janitor’s closet, I had no feeling of shame… not yet, at least.

I grasped the doorknob and noticed Wesley’s eyes narrow with suspicion. I yanked open the door, checked that no one was watching, and gestured for him to go inside. Wesley walked into the tiny closet, and I followed, shutting the door stealthily behind us.

“Something tells me this isn’t about The Scarlet Letter,” he said, and even in the dark I knew he was grinning.

“Be quiet.”

This time he met me halfway. His hands tangled in my hair and mine clawed at his forearms. We kissed violently, and my back slammed against the wall. I heard a mop-or maybe a broom-topple over, but my brain barely registered the sound as one of Wesley’s hands moved to my hip, holding me closer to him. He was so much taller than me that I had to tilt my head back almost all the way to meet his kiss. His lips pressed hard against mine, and I let my hands explore his biceps.

The smell of his cologne, rather than the lonely, stale air of the closet, filled my senses.

We wrestled in the darkness for a while before I felt his hand insistently lifting the hem of my T-shirt. With a gasp, I pulled away from the kiss and grabbed his wrist. “No… not now.”

“Then when?” Wesley asked in my ear, still pinning me to the wall. He didn’t even sound winded.

I, on the other hand, struggled to catch my breath. “Later.”

“Be more specific.”

I squirmed out of his arms and moved toward the door, nearly tripping over what felt like a bucket. I raised a hand to flatten my wavy hair and reached for the doorknob. “Tonight. I’ll be at your house around seven. Okay?” But before he could answer, I slipped out of the closet and hurried down the hall, hoping it didn’t look like a walk of shame.

I didn’t think the final bell would ever ring. Calculus was excruciatingly long and boring, and English was nerve-racking. I caught myself glancing across the room at Wesley several times, anxious to feel the mind-numbing effects of his arms, hands, and lips again.

I just prayed my friends didn’t notice. Jessica, of course, would believe me if I told her she was imagining things; Casey, on the other hand… well, hopefully Casey was too absorbed in Mrs. Perkins’s grammar lesson-ha, yeah right!-to look over at me. She would probably interrogate me for hours and guess everything that had happened, seeing right through my denials. I really needed to get the hell out of there before I was exposed.

But when the bell finally rang, I was in no hurry to walk outside.

Jessica skipped toward the cafeteria with her blond ponytail bouncing behind her. “I can’t wait to see him!”

“We get it, Jess,” Casey said. “You love your big brother. It’s cute, really, but you’ve said that… twenty times today? Thirty, maybe?”

Jessica blushed. “Well, I can’t wait.”

“Of course you can’t.” Casey smiled at her. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you, too, but you might want to calm down just a tiny bit.” She stopped in the middle of the cafeteria and looked over her shoulder at me. “You coming, B?”

“No,” I said, crouching down and messing with my shoestrings. “I need to… tie this. You guys go ahead. Don’t stall the reunion for me.”

Casey gave me a knowing look before nodding and pushing Jessica ahead. She started a new conversation to distract Jessica from my lame excuse. “So tell me about this fiancée. What’s she like? Pretty? Dumb as a sack of potatoes? I want the details.”

I waited in the cafeteria for a good twenty minutes, not wanting to chance seeing him in the parking lot. How funny that, less than seven hours earlier, I’d been avoiding a completely different guy… one I was now desperate to see. As sick and twisted as it was, I couldn’t wait to be back in Wesley’s bedroom. Back on my own private island getaway. Back in my world of escape. But first I had to wait until Jake Gaither drove out of the parking lot.

When I felt confident that he’d gone, I walked out of the school, pulling my coat tight around me. The February wind bit at my face as I moved across the empty parking lot, and the sight of my heat-challenged car didn’t hold any comfort. I slid into the driver’s seat, shivering like crazy, and started the engine. The ride home seemed to take hours even though Hamilton High was only about four miles from my house.

I’d just started to wonder if I could go to Wesley’s house a few hours early when I pulled into my driveway and remembered my dad. Oh, great. His car was in the driveway, but he shouldn’t have been home from work yet.

“Damn it!” I wailed, punching the steering wheel and jumping like an idiot when the horn sounded. “Damn it! Damn it!”

Guilt surged through me. How could I forget about Dad? Poor, lonely, barricaded-in-his-bedroom Dad? I worried as I climbed out of the car and trudged up the sidewalk that he might still be in his room. If he was, would I have to break down the door? Then what? Yell at him? Cry with him? Tell him that Mom didn’t deserve him? What was the right answer?

But Dad was sitting on the couch when I walked inside, a bowl of popcorn in his lap. I hesitated in the doorway, not sure what the hell was going on. He looked… normal. He didn’t look like he’d been crying or drinking or anything. He just looked like my dad with his thick-rimmed glasses and untidy auburn hair. The same way I saw him every other day of the week.

“Hey, Bumblebee,” he said, looking up at me. “Want some popcorn? There’s a Clint Eastwood movie on AMC.”

“Um… no thanks.” I looked around the room. No broken glass. No beer bottles. Like he hadn’t been drinking that day at all. I wondered if that was it. If the relapse was over. Did relapses work that way? I had no clue. But I couldn’t help feeling wary. “Dad, are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” he said. “I woke up late this morning, so I just called work and told them I was sick. I haven’t taken any of my vacation days, so it’s not a big deal.”

I glanced into the kitchen. The manila envelope still sat on the kitchen table. Untouched.

He must have followed my gaze, or guessed, because he said with a shrug, “Oh, those stupid papers! You know, they had me in such a fit. I finally thought about it and realized that they’re just a mistake. Your mom’s lawyer heard she’d been gone a little longer than usual this time and jumped the gun.”

“Have you talked to her?”

“No,” Dad admitted. “But I’m sure that’s the problem. It must be. Nothing to worry about, Bumblebee. How was your day?”

“It was good.”

We were both lying, but I knew that my words weren’t true. He, on the other hand, seemed genuinely convinced. How could I remind him that Mom’s signature was on the papers? How could I bring him back to reality? That would only drive him into his bedroom again-or send him in search of a bottle-and ruin this moment of manufactured peace.