Scarlet were whispered about as they walked to the lunchroom, as if they were some kind of celebrity couple hitting the red carpet. Damen was not bothered, having grown accustomed to ignoring the commotion around him during his relationship with Petula. But Scarlet always hated the attention, which had only grown more fawning and intense since Homecoming.
Phone cameras were snapping the scene and textperts were sharing the news in real time with other underclassmen who’d never seen Damen in the flesh. It was surreal, even for the teachers who also got word and stuck their heads out of their busy classrooms to see for themselves. It was like looking directly at the sun.
Damen and Scarlet took two seats in the corner of the cafeteria and sat close together. Scarlet seemed a little on edge to him, like she was spoiling for a fight. He knew the look, since he used to get it from her every time he came to pick Petula up, back in the day. Maybe Scarlet was just irritated by the admirers shuffling around the other side of the cafeteria, trying to eavesdrop on them.
As he thought of what he could do to help her relax, he noticed she was wearing an outfit she’d bought last time he was home when they went shopping together. Damen even helped pick it out. He thought that might be a good icebreaker.
“You look great,” Damen cooed, reaching for her hand.
Ordinarily, a compliment from him would mean the world, but right then it just reinforced everything she wasn’t liking about herself.
“Thanks,” she said dismissively. “You picked it out, didn’t you?”
Despite the attitude Scarlet was giving him, she loved the outfit and the fact that he’d chosen it, which was why she was wearing it. But right then, it was feeling like a prison jumpsuit.
“Nice shirt,” she said of Damen’s plaid cotton oxford, as she pulled her hand from his. “On your way to Debate Club?”
“What’s your problem?” he asked, taken aback.
“What’s yours?” she asked derisively. “College boy.”
“I am a college boy,” Damen reminded her, hoping to defuse some of the tension. “Are you embarrassed by me or something?”
Scarlet had no idea what she was feeling or why she was being so impossible, but she really tried to stop herself.
“No,” she said, ashamed of herself for doling out unwarranted criticism. “Of course not.”
“You had me worried there for a minute.” Damen sighed and smiled.
He still had her worried, she thought.
“What are you doing here?” she asked more sharply than she had in the hallway.
“I came to ask you to prom,” Damen deadpanned.
“That’s funny,” Scarlet snapped, crossing her arms, tapping out seconds with her forefinger. “I’m still waiting.”
Damen was only kidding about prom, but it still hurt him a little that she was so dismissive of it.
“You won,” he said proudly.
“Won?” she asked, totally confused. “Did you get a job with Publishers Clearing House?”
“No,” Damen chuckled, imagining himself knocking on some poor old lady’s door with a camera crew and an oversize bank check. “You’re a finalist in the INDY-ninety-five songwriting contest.”
“Don’t you have to actually enter something to win?” Scarlet asked, the anxiety rising in her throat.
“Or,” Damen boasted, “you can be entered.”
“Damen?” Scarlet asked accusingly, in a tone she might use with a small child who’d just broken a flower vase. “You didn’t.”
“It hasn’t been announced yet,” Damen went on enthusiastically, choosing to ignore the disapproving scowl that was now plastered across her face. “So just keep it quiet for now, okay?”
“Then how do you know?” Scarlet asked tersely, hoping this might be some premature April Fool’s gag he was playing on her.
“I have inside information,” Damen bragged. “Now that I’m an intern at the station!”
“Out of all the places to do an internship, you picked here? You could be anywhere doing
Phone cameras were snapping the scene and textperts were sharing the news in real time with other underclassmen who’d never seen Damen in the flesh. It was surreal, even for the teachers who also got word and stuck their heads out of their busy classrooms to see for themselves. It was like looking directly at the sun.
Damen and Scarlet took two seats in the corner of the cafeteria and sat close together. Scarlet seemed a little on edge to him, like she was spoiling for a fight. He knew the look, since he used to get it from her every time he came to pick Petula up, back in the day. Maybe Scarlet was just irritated by the admirers shuffling around the other side of the cafeteria, trying to eavesdrop on them.
As he thought of what he could do to help her relax, he noticed she was wearing an outfit she’d bought last time he was home when they went shopping together. Damen even helped pick it out. He thought that might be a good icebreaker.
“You look great,” Damen cooed, reaching for her hand.
Ordinarily, a compliment from him would mean the world, but right then it just reinforced everything she wasn’t liking about herself.
“Thanks,” she said dismissively. “You picked it out, didn’t you?”
Despite the attitude Scarlet was giving him, she loved the outfit and the fact that he’d chosen it, which was why she was wearing it. But right then, it was feeling like a prison jumpsuit.
“Nice shirt,” she said of Damen’s plaid cotton oxford, as she pulled her hand from his. “On your way to Debate Club?”
“What’s your problem?” he asked, taken aback.
“What’s yours?” she asked derisively. “College boy.”
“I am a college boy,” Damen reminded her, hoping to defuse some of the tension. “Are you embarrassed by me or something?”
Scarlet had no idea what she was feeling or why she was being so impossible, but she really tried to stop herself.
“No,” she said, ashamed of herself for doling out unwarranted criticism. “Of course not.”
“You had me worried there for a minute.” Damen sighed and smiled.
He still had her worried, she thought.
“What are you doing here?” she asked more sharply than she had in the hallway.
“I came to ask you to prom,” Damen deadpanned.
“That’s funny,” Scarlet snapped, crossing her arms, tapping out seconds with her forefinger. “I’m still waiting.”
Damen was only kidding about prom, but it still hurt him a little that she was so dismissive of it.
“You won,” he said proudly.
“Won?” she asked, totally confused. “Did you get a job with Publishers Clearing House?”
“No,” Damen chuckled, imagining himself knocking on some poor old lady’s door with a camera crew and an oversize bank check. “You’re a finalist in the INDY-ninety-five songwriting contest.”
“Don’t you have to actually enter something to win?” Scarlet asked, the anxiety rising in her throat.
“Or,” Damen boasted, “you can be entered.”
“Damen?” Scarlet asked accusingly, in a tone she might use with a small child who’d just broken a flower vase. “You didn’t.”
“It hasn’t been announced yet,” Damen went on enthusiastically, choosing to ignore the disapproving scowl that was now plastered across her face. “So just keep it quiet for now, okay?”
“Then how do you know?” Scarlet asked tersely, hoping this might be some premature April Fool’s gag he was playing on her.
“I have inside information,” Damen bragged. “Now that I’m an intern at the station!”
“Out of all the places to do an internship, you picked here? You could be anywhere doing
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