Lizzie

Don't ask me why, but going up the stairs with Brandon trailing behind me, I get the distinct impression he is checking my butt out. Or do you think it is wishful thinking on my part? This being a teenager crushing on your best friend sucks. Sucks. Sucks. The heat is rising, and I can feel my face is as hot as a smoking grill.

Then he says, "Hey, you're not putting on weight, are you?" And laughs. Well, that is enough for me to stop abruptly and turn on him.

"Don't be so rude, of course I haven't. Besides, it's gross you checking out my butt. You're supposed to be my bestie. Stop it." I huff off up the stairs as he laughs behind me.

"Hey, I was just kidding. Don't be so sensitive. I was joking. C'mon, Lizzie, you're as thin as a rail. You even have flat pancake boobies." He sniggers. I'm close to slapping his face.

"Really? Well, it's a good job we're not dating then, isn't it, you moron." I reach the top step, turn left, walk along our hardwood floor to the fourth room on the left, where my bedroom is, and swing open the large door.

Inside is like a haven. My white, wrought iron bed is in front of me underneath a window. The headboard is covered in fairy lights, as is the ceiling. My dad had someone come in and redecorate it a couple of years ago. The lights come on when it gets dusky and go off when the light comes up. It's brilliant. I don't even have to turn them on and off. It's so beautiful at night when they're all lit up; I love it. In the corner on the right-hand side is my bookshelf, literally crammed with more books. The door to my en-suite is on my left.

Brandon pushes past me and throws himself on my bed. "Wow, you know how much I love this bed. It's the best."

"There's nothing wrong with your own bed, Brandon. Get up and go to the desk. We have an assignment to complete, and you're not going to get anything done otherwise." I throw my large Tommy Hilfiger bag onto my easy chair in the corner, with a sumptuous cream cable-knit blanket thrown over it. My room is like heaven. It's everything a girl could possibly dream of.

"Can't you do it for me?" Brandon asks as he lies on my bed with his legs stretched out and one crossed over the other. His arms that display his tattoos are behind his head, and he's looking at me with those damn electric blue eyes. I hate that he can make me feel like this; I hate that I feel like swooning every time he says my time. The sooner this damn crush is over, the better. It's hard, and it is really tough. When all I actually want to do is throw myself on top of him and feel his arms around me, his lips on mine.

"No," I say more abruptly than I ought to have. But you know, this anger for having such a crush on him makes me mad as hell.

"Aw, c'mon, Lizziey, don't be like that. I'll sing you a song and play your guitar." Right, that is only going to make it worse. I forgot to mention that Brandon also happens to be in a band. He's their lead singer, and he plays guitar too. His voice is like something from another world; it can transport me to a different space, and I lose myself completely in it.

The band have been going for years, but only in the last eighteen months have they decided to play at venues. Only small bars and clubs, a few gigs here and there and some private gigs. Nothing major. Brandon is more serious about his football career than his band. It's purely for fun. Football is for life. So he says, and I get that. Honestly, with football practice and band practice, then seeing girls, I have no idea how he fits it all in.

"I don't want you to sing me a song or play guitar," I tell him as I open my bag and reach in for my history folder. I hate history, but it was my father's stipulation that I take it. Lilly loves history; I ought to have chosen to do my assignment with her, not Brandon. He doesn't look like he is going to shift off my bed. In fact, as I glance up and across at him, I can see his bloody eyes are closed. Really!?

"Brandon. Get the fuck up and start the assignment. I'm not doing it for you. End of. Period. Full Stop. Do you understand."

"Why are you being so mean? You're my bestie, Lizzie, baby." Well, I'm not letting that one work on me right now. I've got my own shit to do, and doing Brandon's too is just going to put me behind.

There's a knock on my door. "Hi sweetheart, are you in?" It's my mother.

"Yeah, come in," I tell her and push a loose strand of hair behind my ear. I have very long hair, and even when I put it in a high ponytail, it still falls over my face. So irritating.

"I thought I heard voices. Do you guys want anything to eat, or have you already done that?" Brandon props himself up on his elbows.

"Hi, Mrs H." He beams at her; he's such a creep, honestly. "We're good. Lizzie fixed us a sandwich earlier."

"Okay you two. What's on today's agenda?"

"Just history, Mom," I say. She looks beautiful today in a pale blue dress that hangs just above the knee. It's fitted with a wide belt around her tiny waist. My mom does a lot of working out and is big on Pilates. Sometimes I join her in our gym downstairs.

"Not my favorite." She responds. "Right, well I'll leave you two to do. Oh, Brandon, are you staying for dinner? I can let the chef know."

"Practice tonight, Mrs H." She nods and smiles. "Very well. See you later, Lizzie." She closes the door softly behind her.

"Your mom is so cool." Brandon sighs and goes back to lying on the bed.

"You better not start being a weirdo, freak and fancying my mom. I've heard about sick kids like that." I am almost freaking out at the thought of it.

"Don't be stupid. I like girls my own age." Yeah, I think, don't we all know it. The number of girls Brandon has been with makes me draw a sharp breath. A lot. All except me. My stomach drops again, and I feel that familiar sense of hurt and loss. I wish just once, it could be me.