Almost Perfect - Brian Katcher [5]
She turned to me. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Sage Hendricks.”
Sage had a deep but sexy, feminine voice, the kind you hear on ads for 900 numbers. I waited for her to say something else.
“Dude,” whispered Tim, jabbing me with a chocolaty finger. “Your line.”
“Huh? Oh, um, I’m Logan Witherspoon. This is Tim.”
Sage smiled at us again. Or maybe just at me. Her lips were covered in bright red lipstick and her grin was mischievous, like my zipper was down but she wasn’t going to tell me.
Tim offered his half-empty bag of candy, and she shook her head. Her curly hair fell into her face, and she brushed it aside.
At that moment, the arrival of a chemical-soaked frog corpse interrupted my appraisal of Sage. I stopped contemplating my tablemate and listened halfheartedly to Mr. Elmer’s butchering instructions. Elmer was one of those teachers who cracked jokes knowing full well we were laughing at him, not with him. Sage, however, must have thought he was funny. She had a loud laugh and accidentally elbowed me in the ribs more than once.
I wanted to ask Sage about herself, like where she came from. But soon it was time for the first cut. Tim indicated the jaw-to-chest incision that would open our toad like some hideous birthday present.
“So, who wants to go first?” I asked.
Sage scooted her chair back. “This is a man’s job.”
Tim shrugged. “You heard the girl, Logan.”
Suddenly on the spot, I picked up the scissors and did my best to imitate one of those suave surgeons from the TV dramas. My surgery skills were more like something you’d see in a slasher flick.
“Jesus, Logan, you’re going to hack into the table at this rate,” said Tim, spewing half-chewed Mr. Goodbar. He yanked the scissors from me and made a rather neat incision. I was a little annoyed. He didn’t have to talk to me that way in front of Sage.
Sage stared in rapt attention as Tim pried apart the rib cage. I had a hard time keeping my eyes on our work. Without realizing it, I found my gaze drifting back to our new lab partner.
“So, what kind of name is Sage?” I asked, then regretted it. It sounded like I was making fun of her.
She just laughed. “An original name,” she replied.
I pretended to be interested in Tim’s hacking and slashing, but in reality, I was thinking about Sage. Why? She wasn’t any prettier than Tanya, who apparently had a thing for me. Tanya would go out with me. So why could I not stop looking at this new girl?
Okay, she wasn’t bad-looking. She was obviously in great shape; she probably worked out. She was really tall, but tall isn’t necessarily bad. And she had a nice face. And seemed friendly. I was glad she was at our table.
When the lab was over, Tim and I stood at the sink, scrubbing up. I stared at Sage, hopefully not as obviously as I’d stared at Brenda. She was applying some more lipstick, using what appeared to be a car’s side-view mirror to check her reflection. The chick had character, you could say that much.
I thought maybe I should offer to show her around Boyer. Or something that would take more than five minutes.
The bell rang, and I went over to ask her if she had plans after school. I hesitated a bit too long, though. She was packed and out the door before I could say anything.
That day at lunch, Tim inhaled his second meal without using niceties such as napkins or utensils. Jack sat on my other side drumming out some personal rhythm with his fork. This was my life, and there was nothing I could do about it.
I picked at my meat loaf.
“Hey, Tim,” I asked. “What did you think of the new girl?” I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her, wondering where she had come from and what she was like. So little ever changed in Boyer; a new student was always a source of interest.
Tim looked up from his tray. He had corn in his hair.
“Sage? She’s okay.”
Jack stopped drumming,