Call the Shots

Call the Shots by Don Calame

Book: Call the Shots by Don Calame Read Free Book Online
Authors: Don Calame
Tags: Young Adult
aboard an Eidolon, and ride off to fulfill our Final Fantasy. Which isn’t very likely at this point, seeing as I haven’t had the guts to actually speak to her yet.
    “Now it’s a torrential downpour!” Mr. Nestman hollers.
    I hunch my shoulders and hold my hands over my head, pretending to be into this exercise but really just “skating” behind Leyna the whole time. Instead of hiding from the rain, she simply opens an “umbrella” and continues to coast light-footedly over the pond.
    God, she’s amazing. So smooth and graceful and elegant. If I had any balls, I’d coast up beside her and start chatting. Instead, I pull back. Convince myself that I should watch the other kids. See who’s doing the best improv here. I mean, casting
is
this Saturday, and I still need to decide who to invite.
    So I shift my gaze from Princess Leyna to Hunter, who’s taking cover under one of the still-standing “trees.” He wipes the rain from his face and arms pretty convincingly.
    Then there’s Kelsey, clutching herself as she crouches in the corner. Her retainered teeth chattering is fairly realistic. Definitely someone to consider.
    And here’s Douchebag Dan. Hamming it up, pretending to have fallen through the ice. Though nobody’s rushing to his aid, which only goes to show how we all feel about him.
    “Hurricane!” Mr. Nestman shouts.
    All of a sudden, everyone in the class is stumbling around, struggling against the gale-force winds. It’s the perfect opportunity to stagger toward Leyna and possibly make some incidental contact. Maybe then I could apologize to her, which would of course lead to a witty and flirtatious conversation. Or something.
    But just as I reel in her direction, I hear someone holler, “Look out!” Before I can alter my course, Voluptuous Victoria blindsides me. I bounce off her soft fleshy buxomness, whip around, and trip over my own feet. A second later and I’m timbering right toward a flailing hurricane-buffeted Douchebag Dan.
    My hands shoot out to brace my fall, and I end up grabbing Dan right in the crotch. He howls in pain as he shoves me away, screaming something about keeping my mitts off his shillelagh.
    I turn and look up to see Leyna cupping her hand over her mouth, laughing hysterically. Not exactly the way I wanted to get her to notice me. I scramble to my feet, hoping the flaming red disappears from my face by the time I’m “blown” into her. But before I can stumble more than a few steps, the bell rings.
    “That’s a wrap!” Mr. Nestman claps his hands above his head again. “Nice work, everyone. Really great. Now, get your shoes on and get the hell out of my classroom.”
    I head over to the corner and grab my beat-up Nikes, which I strategically kicked off next to Leyna’s baby-blue Keds in the hope that I might be able to muster up some casual conversation when it was time to put our shoes back on. But now that I see her approaching, my mind is a blank.
    “Excuse me,” she says, sliding past me to grab her Keds and red shutter shades off the stage steps.
    I watch Leyna out of the corner of my eye. She’s sitting on the steps, trying to work a knot out of one of her laces. Any other guy would take full advantage of this lucky turn, maybe make a crack about how they don’t make shoelaces like they used to and then gallantly offer to untangle them for her. But I’m not any other guy. My body’s response to finding itself alone with a hot girl is to turn into a deaf-mute. Evolution fail.
    She’s making quick progress with her knot, and before I can even replenish my suddenly depleted saliva supply, Leyna has slipped on her Keds and is standing up, ready to go.
    “Wait!” I cry, leaping to my feet. Desperation made my voice much louder than I would have liked — more like a shout, really — and the entire class has turned to stare at me. Sweat prickles my underarms as my sluggish brain scrambles to save itself.
    “Uh, hello,” I say weakly. Excellent

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