Remy Unenchanted

Chapter Five- I'm Not Jealous

Chapter Five- I'm Not Jealous

                It was horrifying, really, how I suddenly realized that Kyle Hughes—the guy I’ve been crushing on since freshman year, whose (almost) naked body I have seen, and not to mention whose ego was possibly bigger than his brain (okay, so this was going too far, considering he was running as one of the top students of the school) to actually claim that I was his dog—still didn’t know my name.

                And the part that hurt the most was how I realized it. It was around Wednesday, and I could say that on my fourth day following the follow-Kyle-until-he-realizes-I’m-serious routine, I was getting the hang of it, which basically meant a) not flinching when he glares at me, b) not flinching when Natasha Banks (more about her later, I promise) glares at me, c) not flinching when he casually brushes me off, and d) all of the above.

                But when he said, “Hey, don’t you ever get tired of following me?” during lunch that Wednesday, I was pretty sure I gave him one of my confident smiles.

                “Well, not really.” Because at least I could secretly look at and adore you, even though you are a jerk and all. But I kept that part to myself. Somehow, him knowing I had a crush on him and that I thought he was a jerk was probably not the greatest scene, especially as how it greatly reinforces the stalker idea.

                “Should have thought,” he said, merely shrugging as we were on our way to their table. Apparently, he wanted me to bring his food to their table, but still didn’t approve of me sitting with them, not that I could blame him. I mean, considering that one time when I accidentally placed my elbow (don’t ask) in his mashed potatoes—which really should have been called mush potatoes (like, hello? This was an elite boarding school and where was the money going to, if not for the best mashed potatoes in the world?), it’s not entirely surprising.

                “Well,” I said, “a girl gets used to it.”

                “Sure,” he muttered. “Oh, and hey Dog”—Yes, he did say it with a capital D—“would you mind bringing me back more of that soda?”

                I bit the inside of my cheeks. Hard. “Anything for you,” I said. “Oh, and why do you call me Dog? I do have a name.”

                He shrugged again (I could tell this was a signature thing for him) and said, “Well, it’s better than your name. Oh, wait, what is your name again?”

                And I swear, I could have dumped his food on him at that moment, if I wasn’t such a good girl. So I just grinned. Grin and bear it, so they say. “Amazing how you managed not to ask me my name all this while.”

                He rolled his eyes. “You think that’s amazing? I still don’t know the name of my sixth stepfather,” he said, “And he’s been my stepfather for seven months now. I think it was Matthew or Drew or something.”

                I stared at him in disbelief. I never, not once in my life, thought that that was possible. And here I was, staring at the living proof.

                “Well, I wouldn’t like you making up names because you don’t remember mine seven months from now, so I’ll just say, my name’s Remy.” I frowned at him. “I'm positive this isn’t the first time I ever introduced myself to you.”

                He shrugged. “Sure.”

                “Well, Kyle,” I said. “Be sure you remember my name.”