Page 25 of The Midseason Fakeout

I hadn’t even noticed, which is a good thing. My team should be at the top of my priority list, but I can’t say it was football that distracted me this time. It was Bailey. “Wasn’t paying attention,” I tell him. “Your sister has some moves.”

Darrin turns toward me and gives me the most disgusted look. “I just ate lunch, man.”

“Oh please,” Bailey says. “Like the fact that I’m a woman should turn your stomach.”

“You’re not a woman. You’re my baby sister.”

“And you’re a dumbass,” she argues before leaning to pick up her stuff. I try to take one last peek at her notebook, like I might be able to commit her list to memory, but she jams it the rest of the way into her bag.

Maybe I could make a list for her, too. I could give her some pointers on things she should try while she’s not tethered down by her parents.

“Like you should talk,” Darrin throws back at her. “You should’ve seen her trying to do laundry last night.”

“At least I tried.”

“Aww, you can’t do laundry?” I ask, my gaze jumping from Darrin to Bailey. “I can show you.”

“I managed just fine.”

Darrin snickers. “She Googled it.”

“That’s what Google is for. I had a question. The question got answered.”

“Well, you know, if you need anything, you can always ask me.”

Bailey meets my stare and gives me a small smile as she holds her stuff to her chest. “I have to go. I’ll see you guys later?”

“Later,” I tell her.

She starts to walk away, but we can’t have that, can we? I reach out to pull her back, then kiss her on the cheek. “Later,” I whisper, lingering there, taking her in.

“Do I get a kiss too?”

I move away from her and give Darrin the finger. “Fuck off.”

“I think I will,” he says, clutching his bag higher up his shoulder before jogging toward the group that’s still dancing. I watch him go, and when I turn, Bailey is already gone.

8

BAILEY

Google is alsogood for asking things like “What should I wear to my first college party?”

The thing is, I don’t trust myself to know if the answers it gives me are good. I don’t want to be overdressed, but I don’t want to be underdressed either. The horror of both makes for analysis paralysis as I stare at my closet. I now have two categories of clothing: my upscale, throwing-it-in-everyone’s-face-that-I-have-money clothes, and the I-don’t-give-a-fuck clothes that I’ve been ordering off of Amazon.

My closet literally looks as if a lazy, topknot-wearing freshman who rolls out of bed five minutes before class lives here. Which is all cool until I’m faced with the reality of my first college party.

My nerves are on high alert. To say I didn’t go to many parties in my private school is an understatement. I didn’t go toanyparties. Sure, there were students who rebelled like everyone else, but I wasn’t one of them. I was the kind of puke-inducing Goody Two-Shoes that script-writing authors make fun of.

The doorbell rings, and I let out a little yelp of protest. That has to be Aidan, and I’m standing here in my pink giraffe robe over bra and panties with only my hair up and makeup on.

A knock sounds on my door. “Ready for the party?”

Aidan doesn’t wait to get asked inside before pushing the door open. I spin and cover myself up even though I’m fully covered as it is. He laughs, then lowers his voice. “Boyfriend, remember? Pretty sure if you were my real girlfriend, you’d be waiting in here naked for me.”

I pick up the closest thing I can find to throw at him and blanch when I realize it’s my black lace panties sailing across the room. “Shit,” I protest as I scramble, trying to get to them before he does.

Unfortunately, he snatches them out of the air first and holds them up between us, staring at the lace and then bringing them down so he can look into my eyes. “Well, Bails. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised you wear underwear like this.”

---