Malcolm:I know everything.
I hate you.
Malcolm:Don’t lie to yourself.
Fine. I don't. But you took away my fun ??
Malcolm:Just doing my duty.
I roll my eyes at my know-it-all best friend, sliding the phone back in the drawer. Refocusing my attention on Charlie’s presentation, I see he has now started a slideshow with more images, and the rest of the class is taking pictures of the ginormous phalluses.
“Alright, then.” I stand, slapping my desk to interrupt Charlie mid-sentence. “Let’s not get me fired today.” I gesture for Charlie to take a seat and hide all evidence of his presentation. “Thank you, Mr. Henders, for that in-depth presentation.”
“Yeah, Charlie, realdeeppresentation, bro,” Travis Van says from the back of the class. The students cackle and cheer at his innuendo. Charlie bows.God, help me.
I drag a hand down my face and groan. “Moving on.” I eye Charlie as he high-fives his friends on the way back to his seat. I fold up his posterboard, quickly hiding it from the world underneath my desk. “Who else would like to present?”
A few hands shoot up at the same time the class bell rings. Time flew by, and I feel flustered for not monitoring the time more efficiently.
“Alright, then, we’ll get through the rest of the presentations tomorrow,” I say to the rest of the students as they rush out of my classroom. “Don’t forget the exam on Friday!” No one acknowledges my reminder.
I fold up Charlie’s board and shove it under my arm before he can snag it back. This one will not be on display. I feel the thick foam give way to the bend and crack a tiny bit. I ignore it, grabbing my phone out of the desk and heading out into the busy hallway. The minutes in between classes are always a blur—students racing to their next period or, the complete opposite, blocking the hall with their group chit-chat.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Malcolm:Iceland is calling.
Hilarious. I weave around the kids and make my way to the teachers’ break room, penis poster in hand. The death grip I have on this thing makes it difficult to text and walk, but Icannotlet its contents be seen. I reach the door to the teachers’ lounge and stare at my phone screen, desperate for a funny comeback.
Your mom is calling.
Malcolm:Kate Stanley, you can do better than that.
I stand by my comeback!!
Malcolm:You sure about that?
Ugh! YOU DIDN’T GIVE ME TIME TO BE WITTY.
Malcolm:The definition of witty is quick humor, dollface.
Hush, you bearded dragon.
I stare at the screen, awaiting Malcolm’s response. Text bubbles pop up and disappear for what seems like an eternity. Then, a picture of his face, squished cheek to cheek with mine, pops up on my screen as his call comes through.
“Do we need anything else for tonight?” His voice is breathy on the other end.
“What are you doing?” I lean against the lockers in front of the lounge and clutch the poster to my chest.
“Working out.” Another heavy breath pulses through my phone speaker. “Why?”
“You sound like a dying old man.” I laugh as his erratic breathing slows down. He’s clearly trying to hold it in for my sake.
“I am a dying old man.” Malcolm clears his throat. I hear movement on the other end of the line—a slam of a locker door, a thud, a zip. “Answer the question, Kit Kat.” A quiet, breathy chuckle moves over my speaker.
The nickname Malcolm gave me five years ago hits me in the chest. It wasn’t the first time someone tried calling me that, and I always hated it—loathed it actually, with a deep passion, my entire life. But for some reason, I don’t hate it coming from Malcolm, and I definitely couldn’t tell him I hated the nickname, especially not when it took him six months to warm up to being my friend.
Malcolm was like a baby deer the first year he was at Glendale. Any sudden movements or unplanned conversations were avoided by him at all costs. And I sure as heck wasn’t going to be the one to scare him off, especially after giving him such a hard time with the chickens. So when he called me Kit Kat, I let it happen. Then it just stuck.
