Page 37 of Fall Fake-Out

“You said not to swat at it.”

“You’re right.” I force a calm breath, even though internally I’m freaking out. “I should just hold still, and they will go away.”

The buzzing gets louder.

One bee dive-bombs my shoulder, causing me to completely abandon the plan.

I shriek, throwing the blanket off my lap as I scramble to my feet on the narrow aluminum bleacher.

An army of bees circles around me. Or maybe it’s just the same three bees diving in and out. Hard to tell when you’re panicking.

Getting out of there is my top priority, but Wade’s planted in front of me like an offensive lineman.

I try leaping over him.

Huge mistake.

The blanket instantly tangles around my other ankle.

My foot slips, and instead of falling backward down the bleachers, I grab his shoulders.

Another mistake.

I land in his lap with my knees lined up on either side of his thighs.

I’m full-on straddling Wade Stevenson in front of half the town and student body.

The bleachers let out a loud metallic BANG from the impact.

Wade’s hands shoot to my waist automatically to steady me.

One might be lower.

Very lower.

His eyes lift to mine.

My hair is in my face.

His baseball cap is crooked.

We’re breathing the exact same air.

And because the next play hasn’t started, the entire stadium has gone weirdly quiet. Every head in the section turns toward us. I can feel their judgmental stares. Hear their collective gasps. Someone even wolf-whistles.

A flash goes off somewhere in the student section, like Polaroids are still in.

Wade blinks once. “Well…this looks bad.”

“Bad?” I hiss. “Your hand is on my butt!”

He immediately withdraws. “There was a lot happening at once.”

Another whistle sounds from the crowd.

One of the popular boys yells, “GET IT, STEVIE!” and the entire student section erupts in laughter.

My chest explodes with embarrassment.