We geeks are supposed to be exempt from adolescent hormones, but what happened today at the swim meet shot that theory to pieces. Three words: James Carlos. Speedos.
Three more words: Hot. Hot. HOT.
He was limbering-up by the side of the pool. My eyes only moved away from those tanned shoulders to check out the tightly wrapped buns. Did I mention he was hot?
I was so busy processing every nuance of those perfectly toned glutes that I happened to miss a subtle feature of the landscape. The diving platform. Yep, I walked straight into the pylon, and next thing I knew, I was flat on my back.
I picked myself up as if I’d meant to drive my head into a concrete pillar – did it every day. I’m cool, I’m ok. Only the whole school saw. Charli and Cass ran to me, giggling, but I brushed them off. To change the subject, I pointed at James.
No, it hadn’t been my imagination. My loquacious friends temporarily lost their syntax. Their eyeballs would have dropped to the ground too, if they hadn’t been fastened by the optic nerve.
We pretended to take pix of each other whilst subtly framing James in each shot. But those revolting Scali twins caught-on. They kindly shielded him and dropped their shorts for our benefit.
So in addition to a throbbing haematoma on my forehead, I now have the image of those two scrawny, pimply derrieres etched into my visual cortex.
Unlike my phone, there’s no delete function.
* * *
Evil Editor gathered up the pages and fed them through the shredder. She's wrong, he thought. There's a delete function for everything.
Opening: anonymous.....Continuation: anon.