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In some ways, Medda was the worst teacher to have for detention. Sure, she didn’t make you do homework the entire time. Sure, she wasn’t actually upset with you. That was all fine and well, but the problem was that she liked you. She knew you pretty well, since you’d had art class with her every year for four years now, and she knew exactly how to make you regret (celebrate) having detention at all.
She stood, giving a long, slow stretch. Her arm blocked Race’s view of her face, so she winked at you. You looked at her, suspicion growing.
Medda, as people often did, thought that you and Race would make a sweet couple. Students sometimes picked seats that forced the two of you to sit together. Jack and Albert would teasingly ask how Race was planning to ask you to prom in the spring. During detention, Medda had asked you to grab things off of a high shelf, making Race hold you steady while you reached. If he had held your thighs steady while you reached when he only had to stand nearby to watch, so what? That did not change the fact that Race had not asked you out. He had no plan to prompose in the coming months.
“Well,” she crooned, “I have to print something out in the library. You two be good while I’m gone. Don’t make a mess,” she warned.
Race grinned when she left. You scowled at him, though his smile made your chest feel a little fluttery, because it was his fault that the two of you were in detention in the first place. After all, it did not matter how hard Medda had laughed; the unspeakable incident involving two gallons of red paint, a ham, and two broken chairs could not go unpunished.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you said. You hadn’t had a detention before, nor had you ever planned on having one, and he did not have to look so pleased about it.
“C’mon, Y/N.” He threw an arm around your shoulder. “Isn’t this swell? You, me, the empty classroom, Saturday detention?”
“You know, the only thing that sounds good about that situation is me.”
He squeezed you a little tighter. “You know that we would have been hanging out today anyhow. Why so glum, chum?”
You groaned. He was right, of course; you and Race always spent Saturdays together. Sometimes your other friends were there, but most weeks it was just the two of you. You walked through the city, made mischief in stores, and pooled money to buy something from whatever food truck had the greasiest smelling food that day. This was not the first time he had gotten you into trouble, nor would it be the last, and he knew that you enjoyed it as much as he did, if a little deeper down.
“We aren’t supposed to be having fun, nitwit,” you said fondly. “This is Saturday morning detention.”
He hummed. “Sure it is, doll. With Medda. That nulls every rule detention has.”
You pointedly looked away, staring instead at a poster that said “Always shoot for the moon. That way, if you miss, you’ll still reach the stars.”
It was a stupid poster. The moon was closer than the stars, so missing wouldn’t get you there. Besides, you wouldn’t want to end up hitting a flaming ball of gas anyhow. You opened your mouth to say so, but when Race looked at you eagerly, you clamped your mouth shut again. You wanted to draw it out a little longer.
Race was your best friend, for better or for worse. You weren’t sure that you were his; he had Albert, Jack, and Spot to hang with too. Even so, he chose you for his Saturdays, and that seemed like a pretty good sign. Even if you weren’t, that didn’t have to be such a bad thing. After all, being his best friend would be great, but it was not the greatest title you could imagine. There was something a little different, a little better, that would involve things like kissing, and snuggling, and -
“Truth or dare?”
You looked at Race, surprised. “Seriously?”
“We have to do something, right? We can’t just sit here.” He fiddled with a well-chewed pencil, probably so bored that it made him almost anxious. Antsy. It was dangerous to let Race get antsy; he sometimes got out of control. Hence, detention.
“Dare,” you sighed.
“I dare you to carve your name into the door,” he said.
And so it began. You carved a heart into the door with “Y/N L/N + Race Higgins” at the center, smirking all the while. He wrote an anonymous love letter and would have to slide it under Weasel’s door after detention ended. The game lasted for ages, and Medda still hadn’t come back.
“Truth or dare?” He sounded totally alert, if a little soft. You were laying on the table, head turned to watch him sit in his chair.
“Truth,” you yawned.
“Do you want to kiss me?”
Your eyes flew open, heart suddenly beating faster. You plastered on a grin, but you weren’t feeling it. “Dare.”
He leaned in close, an unbearable smirk in place. “I dare you to kiss me.”
“Never have I ever -”
“That’s not the game, Y/N!” He was laughing, but you saw the wounded expression before he shoved it aside.
“It doesn’t feel like a game,” you said. “It feels like a setup.”
He blinked innocently. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, if I say that I do want to kiss you, but you’re joking, I’ll look like an idiot. If I say no, but you really want me to kiss you, I’ll look like a jerk.”
He smiled, slow and handsome. “But maybe you’ll say yes, and I’ll want you to say yes, and everything will work out.”
You sat up and criss-crossed your legs. “Or maybe I’ll say no, and you’ll want me to say no, and nothing will change.”
A part of you expected Medda to walk in, now that things were going in the direction she had hoped. That would be just your luck. A break in the tension, but no answered questions.
Race’s face cleared, all big eyes and solemn lips. “The rules of the game say that you have to tell the truth, take the dare, or chicken. Are you a chicken, Y/N?”
You groaned, and he smiled again. “I’m no chicken, Race. You know that.” You rubbed your face with one hand, nervous and weary. “Truth: yes, I want to kiss you.”
He beamed. “And the dare?”
Now it was your turn to smile. “Well, I’ve just had my turn. Now it’s yours. Truth or dare?”
“I’ll take the dare,” he said, and stood. He braced his hands on the table, leaned in, and kissed you. It wasn’t long; Medda could walk in anytime. It was only a few seconds of his warm lips pressing against yours. It wasn’t even long enough for you to close your eyes, but you saw that his were when he pulled back.
“You didn’t even give me time to pick a dare,” you said in a strangled voice.
He laughed. “I took the dare I gave you. Isn’t that good enough?”
“Nah,” you said. Really, you would have dared him to kiss you. Both of you knew it, but when you smiled at him, he didn’t call you out on it. “I was going to dare you to make Saturdays our date days.”
“Done,” he said. When he leaned in to kiss you again, you didn’t stop him. Let Medda walk in. This was all her fault, anyhow.