Last Year's Mistake - Gina Ciocca Page 0,37

cell phone in my bag, an actual smartphone from the twenty-first century that my parents had upgraded me to when we moved. I could text him, but what if his number had changed? A twinge of shame went through me as I remembered all the times last summer when I’d seen Missed Call: David Cell on my screen, and New Message: David Cell.

I’d ignored them until they stopped coming altogether. I definitely owed him an explanation for way more than just Violet’s behavior.

Pretending to dig through my bag on the floor, I scrolled through my contacts and prayed (a) David’s number hadn’t changed and, (b) he had his phone on him.

I typed in, Run for the hills, and hit send.

A second later, as Mr. Ingles wrote out questions on the board, David took his cell phone from the pocket of his hoodie and looked at it. Then he glanced at me and mouthed, What did I do?

I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep from laughing as I typed back, It’s what you didn’t do.

“Okay, ladies and gentleman, I’d like to begin our discussion on Twelfth Night by William Shakespeare,” Mr. Ingles said in his booming voice.

My bag vibrated with David’s reply. I’ll bite. What didn’t I do?

Violet’s hand shot into the air. “Mr. Ingles? Wasn’t Shakespeare gay?”

In the same moment she asked the question, my response reached David: Her.

Horror washed over his face as he connected my answer with her question. Spots of color appeared at the tips of his ears, and I had to cover my mouth with my hand to keep from dissolving into a fit of giggles as he whipped around in his seat to look at her, then spun forward again, wide eyed and fidgeting.

Mr. Ingles grabbed the back of his chair and leaned on it. “It’s a highly debated topic, Ms. Kensing. Shakespeare was, of course, married to a woman, and he fathered several children.”

“But that doesn’t mean anything, right? He could have been trying to hide it.”

David sank in his seat and rubbed his temple. He looked so uncomfortable that I wondered if I should have just kept my mouth shut. But then he cast a sidelong glance in my direction, and the corner of his mouth pulled up into a smile.

“There’s undoubtedly evidence of homosexual themes in Shakespeare’s work,” Mr. Ingles continued. Or tried to, before Violet cut him off again.

“Right. So why write about homosexual themes if you’re not homosexual? I mean, he was definitely bi-curious, right?”

A rumble of laughter rippled through the classroom, and Violet looked like she wanted to murder someone.

Mr. Ingles held up his hands. “While this is a very interesting topic of discussion, I’m afraid it has nothing to do with our lesson today. But, Ms. Kensing, I’ll be happy to pick it up later this week. Now then, everyone . . .” He turned to the board, and Violet folded her arms across her chest, scowling.

David and I spent the rest of the class sneaking furtive glances at each other, trying our hardest not to laugh. It had been a long time since we’d shared an inside joke, and I couldn’t help but enjoy it. I prayed Violet was too distracted to notice, or I’d have to get in line behind him to grovel for her forgiveness.

She bolted from her seat the moment the bell rang, throwing a hurried, “Later, Kelse,” over her shoulder.

At least I was in the clear.

David stood up and ran his hand through his hair, finally letting the grin he’d been stifling break free. “So that’s what’s bothering her? Geez. Guess chivalry really is dead.”

“Was there a reason?” Ugh. That sounded a lot less nosy in my head. I concentrated on putting my books in my bag so I wouldn’t have to look at him. “I mean, is everything all right with you two?”

He shrugged. “They’re fine. Besides, that was almost a week ago. Why’s she getting all bent out of shape now?”

“Maybe she’s been stewing all this time.”

I didn’t mention Violet’s other accusation, about him being hung up on someone.

David grinned again. “Look’s like the stew’s up.” He glanced toward the door. “Guess I should go take care of this. See you at lunch?”

I nodded and slung my bag over my shoulder before heading over to Mr. Ingles’s desk. The question I needed to ask him and the answer he gave me couldn’t have taken more than two minutes. Which made what happened next that much more unbelievable.

I shouldered my