Playing with Matches by Brian Katcher Page B

also had on open-toed sandals. From across the lobby I could see each individual red-painted toe.
    I was staring. I turned and put a dollar into the soda machine so they wouldn’t realize I was watching them.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Amy pointing to me and saying something to Cassandra. They both laughed. Apparently, Amy was nice to me only when no one else was around.
    The soda machine spit my bill out like a mocking tongue. I forced it back into the slot.
    “Hey, stud muffin.”
    That was Amy talking. It took me a second to realize she was talking to me and not the soda machine.
    “Hi, Amy.” It was funny; the self-confidence that had made me stand up to Dylan failed me when I tried to be suave around her.
    “So I heard you were about to throw down with Dylan yesterday.”
    Cassandra was laughing into her hand.
    “Who, uh, told you that?” I pictured Dylan waiting for me in an alley somewhere.
    “Some guys on the team were talking about it. Said Dylan insulted your friend Melody, and you said you were going to bust his face.”
    Hey, I liked this version.
    “It didn’t happen
exactly
like that….” I leaned against the vending machine.
    Amy laughed. “No kidding, Leon. But it’s nice of you to stick up for your girlfriend like that.”
    Crap.
Defending Melody’s honor was one thing. Admitting we were dating was something entirely different.
    “You know,” I said with forced casualness, “Melody’s not my girlfriend.”
    Cassandra chimed in. “Don’t sell yourself short. I’m sure she likes you. Just give it some more time.”
    Thanks, Cassie. Now Amy thinks not only that I like Melody but that I can’t get her to go out with me.
    I was about to explain that Melody and I were just friends when Amy’s hand dashed past my head and punched the Diet Coke button. She then bent over and reached between my legs to grab the can. Her shirt was loose enough for me to see the marks her bra straps had left on her shoulders.
    She took one swig, very slowly, and handed me the can before leaving. I felt like dumping the soda over my head to cool down, but settled for a drink. The taste of Amy’s lipstick almost covered the bitter aftertaste of the sugar-free cola.
             
    A wise person once said, “If you’re the only one talking, then the conversation is over.” Samantha had apparently never heard this. She’d spent the better part of our lunch talking about some feminist author who’d given a lecture at St. Charles Community College.
    “And Ms. Wooten explained how for the past two centuries men have been subjecting women to a constant and unending—”
    I raised my hand. “If we all agree that men are responsible for everything that’s wrong in the world, will you stop talking?”
    Samantha got huffy. “Excuse me! I’ve always admired Emily Wooten. If you met”—she looked over at the book next to my tray—“H. P. Lovecraft, you’d expect
us
to be impressed!”
    “I think we would be impressed,” said Melody. “He’s dead.”
    I was impressed. It seemed Melody had heard of H. P. Lovecraft, the author widely regarded as the father of the “aliens keeping a guy’s brain alive in a jar” story.
    Johnny was picking his teeth with a fork. “So, Leon. I heard you almost got in a fight yesterday.”
    Melody looked at me. “Fight? You didn’t tell me about that. What happened?”
    Johnny, in a rare display of tact, realized Melody didn’t need to know about what Dylan had said. “Ah, Leon and Rick Rose were having the old Captain Kirk versus Captain Picard debate.” He mimicked someone fighting with a limp wrist.
    Melody didn’t push the issue. Maybe she realized she didn’t want to know.
    “Anyway,” I said, trying to move on to another topic, “the new Bart Axelrod movie’s coming out this weekend. Anyone want to go?” Axelrod was an inexplicably popular action-movie star who always seemed to be parodying himself. I’d never forget the movie where he defeated