Hoyt’s face wrinkles up. “A spanking? What the hell? No.”
Reading sarcasm—or any other form of communication that isn’t accusations or jock-speak—is clearly out of Hoyt’s intellectual capacity. I sigh and decide to level with him. “Coach Strong called me into his office to talk, but I didn’t say anything. I don’t have to, because you aren’t a threat to me.” I turn my face away from him. “You don’t mean anything to me, in fact. Not anymore.”
A moment of tense silence passes. At once, I sincerely wonder if that was a mistake, to speak so harshly to him. Prodding the bear isn’t something I normally do, but maybe this newfound confidence of mine is giving me permission to act in ways I never dreamed I’d act before. Didn’t I just kiss a guy onstage in front of three separate audiences this past weekend?
Hoyt puts a hand on my desk as well as the back of my chair, then leans his head in real close to mine—and I mean really close. “You’re so cute when you pretend you hate me, Toby,” he says in a voice so low, it’s nearly flirty. His breath is minty, sharp, and oddly pleasant, like he’s chewed and swallowed ten sticks of spearmint gum. “Now I know better. It wasn’t you who talked to the coach. It was your big-shot, stupid, insecure boyfriend Vann.”
I ignore him, staring ahead at the blackboard, as he continues to breathe on the side of my face.
In my peripheral vision, I see his lips curl up into a grin. “You wouldn’t go and try to ruin my career like that. Nah, you and I are still tight, aren’t we? Even when your boyfriend is around, acting like he owns you? I warned you he’s bad for you.”
I turn back to him. He’s leaning in so close, our faces are mere inches apart. “If I didn’t know better,” I murmur quietly, “I’d think you were a jealous ex-lover.”
Something in Hoyt’s eyes flicker. His nose twitches irritably.
“Why are you so close to my face, Hoyt?” I ask, a touch louder. “You trying to kiss me or somethin’?”
A gasp comes from somewhere across the classroom. A pair of girls giggle in a nearby row. I didn’t actually anticipate anyone hearing our exchange, but apparently the classroom quieted down the moment any sign of our confrontation was made known, and now we have everyone’s attention.
Hoyt’s face hardens. He seems unable to decide whether to be angry or amused. Then he settles on amused, pushes away from my desk with a bit of aggressive force, and seats himself in the desk right behind mine, which either I didn’t realize was empty, or else he just scared its previous occupant away. But unlike usual, he doesn’t prop his feet up on my chair or shoulders.
I face front, feeling victorious somehow.
Still, when the bell rings and Ms. Bean starts class, I can’t help but feel a pinch of guilt. What did Coach Strong do after our chat? Even now, it’s still unclear what Hoyt’s all miffed about. Then, just as quickly, I chide myself for feeling guilty at all. Have I forgotten who the hell Hoyt is? The masculinity-complex monster who has continually antagonized me since we were kids? Already, I can feel my blood boiling back up just thinking of all the times he’s gotten in my face while making me feel so small, I literally prayed for the superpower to turn invisible. I may never have gone home with a black eye or a bloody nose, but the worse scars are the ones no one can see, the ones inside which have stolen my confidence—until Vann. Don’t you dare feel a bit of guilt for that asshole behind you.
As if having a self-affirming internal monologue himself, Hoyt regains his own confidence and, without warning, props a foot up on my shoulder. He’s already done me the courtesy of removing his shoes. That’s soon followed by his other socked foot, crossed at the ankles. I hear a satisfied, breathy snicker from him.
Ms. Bean, completely oblivious, continues to identify the main motifs recurring throughout The Great Gatsby. Everyone around me takes notes—while seemingly no one takes note of a particularly arrogant jock’s feet propped up on me like a footrest once again.
Is today the day I say enough is enough?
Another amused snicker from behind me tickles my ear.
Resolve settles in my stomach like an iron stone. If Vann was in this chair, he wouldn’t put up with this for a second. On the very first day of class, he would have done something about it. He doesn’t let people walk all over him—figuratively or literally.
The moment another snicker comes out of his lips, I perform a fast maneuver of hooking my arm around his ankles, at once trapping them. Hoyt seems to experience a moment of confusion as he realizes I’ve got his feet trapped, giving them one futile tug of protest. Then, with no regard whatsoever to Ms. Bean’s lecture, I dig my fingers straight into the socked soles of Hoyt’s feet.