Page 24 of Class Clown

Added to the clothing frustration was the fact that due to a morning filled with endless tasks, we’d had some bathroom juggling and I reminded myself to make the darn schedule.

“Hey,” I called to Cole from the small cabin bathroom after hearing someone leave out the back door and assuming it was Nico because he always left first, “can I get your opinion on this?”

I stepped out, shorts unbuttoned at the top while I shoved my hands down into them trying to tuck and smooth out the bunched-up shirt. I’d made it around to smoothing it over my bottom before I entered the kitchenette space and looked up. Oh.

“You’re not my brother,” I stated, yanking my hands out of my pants.

Nico munched on a granola bar, his black hair curling after his shower, looking much better wearing the same uniform I was currently wrestling with. Of course it would fit him perfectly and accentuated his positive attributes. Ugh, why did he have to be fake attractive? (You know, the type of attractive that comes with a stinger because the personality is a big letdown.) I was practically forced to stare at him. Respectfully.

“I’m not,” he replied.

Not what?Oh, right. My brother. I dragged my eyes away from his pecs and quickly buttoned my shorts as I said Mr. Darcy’s name three times in my head. I found the ritual soothing. Thinking of Darcy reminded me of happy times, which reminded me of my text conversation with my friends, and I looked up at Nico with a grin.

“Can I take your picture?” I asked.

He looked like he was having a hard time tracking, but after a short paused he frowned and said, “No.”

“Why?”

“Why would you want to?”

“Because my friends want to see who my new roomie is.” I shrugged nonchalantly.

“Why?”

“Nico, girls want this level of detail. They don’t only want it verbally, they also want it with their eyeballs.” He didn’t respond out loud, but I knew he was going to turn me down. “To be totally transparent, if you say no I’ll probably sneak a picture of you later and send it to them.”

Confusion washed over his features. “Why are you telling me that?”

“If I’m honest up front then you can’t make accusations after the fact.”

He watched me with that year-long stare before asking. “Do people accuse you of things a lot?”

I shook my head. “Not really, because I always give them a heads-up.” There was a brief pause where he continued to look at me like a puzzle and I waited for him to speak. When he didn’t, I got back to my original task. “Right. You’ve been warned. Circling back, this uniform makes me look like a raisin,” I gestured to the olive-colored shorts, “wearing a parachute.” I gestured to the big white top while spinning in a circle. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Raisins aren’t green.”

“Nico, ugh.” I slapped my hand to my forehead. “I didn’t mean tell me I’m wrong about the coloring of raisins.” I rolled my eyes. He met my expression with an innocent look that looked a lot like the fake one I used on people. “Fine, raisins aren’t green. How about a shriveled green olive under a napkin, then?”

He reached for his water bottle and unscrewed the lid. “You’re not wrong.”

Honestly, he delivered it so sedately that it took me a second to realize he’d agreed with me. “Your agreement makes this worse somehow, so thanks,” I replied, amused.

“You said you wanted the truth.”

“Yep, and you gave it. This is a terrible look and I can’t go out in public this way. I’m a professional adult trying to make sure parents feel comfortable leaving their children in my care.”

“Maybe if you tried untucking the shirt?” he suggested, capping his water bottle and setting it back on the countertop.

I held his eyes, pursed my lips, and raised my eyebrows as I ever-so-slowly untucked the shirt. It was now wrinkled across the bottom and it floppeddown my thighs. He tilted his head to the side a bit, his eyes watchful but not giving away anything, and I grimaced.

“The parachute has now been released from the pack and is taking over the olive.” I slapped my hands on my hips. “It’s a disaster. I can’t represent the camp looking like a slob.”

His mouth shifted a few times as though he were about to say something and then thought better of it. Frankly, I was proud of myself for waiting rather than jumping in with another comment of some sort. Silence wasn’t my forte.

“Did you say the original shorts you had were a good fit?” he asked at last.

“If by good you mean they’re snug but I can sort of breathe, yes.”

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