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"Whatcha got there, Grunt?"
Buzz does not choke. He does not jolt or choke on his lungful of weed and start coughing fucking everywhere, spraying spit in every fucking direction before he can cover his mouth. He certainly does not do this in front of Lyla fucking Vandermorgan, who wears an innocent, saccharine smile that he does not believe for a minute. Lyla fucking Vandermorgan sways in place, hands clasped neatly behind her back, waiting for Buzz's choking (not, he's not choking!) to subside.
The hem of her powder blue skirt swishes just below her knees, barely covering the scrapes she acquired during cheer practice on Thursday. Buzz hates how pretty she looks, all pristine and neat in her white sweater, as he huffs, trying to catch his breath. She always looks pretty, of course, but it feels especially surreal with the slats of sunlight coming through the bleachers and shining off of her.
"Why do you care?" he wheezes out, keeping the joint down by his thigh.
Her pretty blue eyes trail down towards the joint before flickering back up to his. Buzz swallows, watching her pretty, bright pink-painted lips creep into something between a smile and a grin. He flicks the miniscule amount of ash off out of habit.
"Saw you were here and wanted to check on you," she says, using the particular tone she uses when she's teasing the Beaker siblings in the lunch hall. Soft and sweet and fake as hell. "With our star football player here all by his lonesome, I had to make sure you were okay."
Snorting, he rolls his eyes. "How'd you know I was here?"
A pale white-blonde brow lifts in response. "Uh, everyone knows what your truck looks like?"
Right. He parked outside of the school in his usual spot in the hopes that all of his teachers will assume he's working out in the gym, and that if Coach sees his truck, he'll assume Buzz is working on remedial class work. He wasn't expecting to need to hide from one of the goddamn cheerleaders. Especially Lyla fucking Vandermorgan, who looms over him like the cat cornering the canary.
Lyla fucking Vandermorgan plops down next to him after a moment, neatly tucking herself up so that her pretty skirt keeps out of the dirt. She gives her gum one last good chew before pulling it out of her mouth and sticking it to the back of the bleachers. The soggy wad of gum matches her bright lipstick and nothing else that she wears; her outfit otherwise consists of all blues and whites. Buzz watches her hand the entire time, tracking the motion as her pretty manicure comes back and stops right in front of his face.
"Anyway," she holds the hand out expectantly, fingers pinched close together, "share or I'll rat you out to Coach."
Buzz blanks. He can smell her perfume from here—something pretty and floral. Thankfully not floral in an old lady way, like the kind of shit Circe Salamis wears. The scent wafts past even stronger as she pulls her sweater off, dropping it into the grass. What is that, fucking, jasmine or something? Lyla fucking Vandermorgan sits less than a foot away from him with her pretty hand shoved back into his face, and she—wait, what? She'll—Buzz scoffs, keeping the blunt held just out of her reach. Typical cheerleader.
"That's a bitch move," Buzz says without any heat.
"And I'm a bitch," she agrees, giving a grin, "now gimme."
Buzz takes a long, slow hit off of it to be spiteful, but presses it between her waiting fingers when he finishes. He lets his breath out and coughs on reflex, glancing to his right. Lyla fucking Vandermorgan takes an equally long drag off of the joint, sitting forward to keep any ash from dropping onto her white tank top.
"Trash weed," she coughs out, but takes a second hit as soon as she catches her breath. "Terrible shit."
"Better than nothing," Buzz argues, taking it back from her and allowing himself another puff.
She makes a sound in the back of her throat and takes the joint straight from his lips, nearly grabbing the cherry in the process. It glows a bright red-orange in the reflection of her eyes as she sucks in, her eyes red-rimmed from coughing but so impossibly fucking pretty. Buzz watches, mesmerized, as she tilts her head up and lets the smoke out. The white of the rolling paper stains pink from her lipstick; the tacky lipstick bright against the little bundle. He likes that, in a weird sort of way.
Lyla fucking Vandermorgan regards the joint as she taps the ash off. A moment passes before she picks the glowing cherry off with precision, careful not to melt her fake nails or damage the paint. It drops into the dust and she covers it, letting the ember smother beneath the sand. His brows come together as she blows the end off and reaches for her skirt.
"That's mine," Buzz protests, watching as she neatly tucks it into her skirt pocket. "Vandermorgan, I paid money for that."
"Mine now," she teases, patting the pocket. "You're a big, smart boy. I imagine you know where to get more."
Buzz does know where to get more. He and Lazlo Curious are on decent terms these days, even after Buzz kicked his ass. Lazlo definitely rips him off with his prices, but Buzz doesn't usually care. Usually, there's not some pretty but mean cheerleader stealing his half-smoked joints, which means he will need to buy weed again sooner than expected. That'll eat up most of his allowance, and he still needs to buy a prom ticket.
"Listen—" he starts, and finds himself abruptly cut off.
Lyla fucking Vandermorgan leans in and presses her lips against his. It's—okay, admittedly, he fucking hates the taste of lipstick, but he thinks he could get used to the taste of it so long as the person wearing it is Lyla fucking Vandermorgan. Lipstick could be totally okay. Lipstick and ash and whatever fucking flavor her gum was. She kisses him like she means it, spreading the bubblegum pink between the two of them. Buzz gladly lets her, because hell, he'll never be more happy to wear lipstick than in this moment. He doesn't even care about the joint anymore. She can keep it.
She cups his jaw with a pretty manicured hand, a finger stroking his sideburn. Buzz—he can die happy here. Right here, right now, in the chilly Saturday evening of Strangetown, kissing his crush. Here lies Buzz Edwin Grunt, his tombstone will read, he died kissing a girl with bubblegum pink lipstick and loved every minute of it. She giggles against his lips, almost like she can read his mind.
"It's gonna be dark soon," she says as she breaks the kiss, "you have any blankets in your truck?"
Kiss-drunk and confused, he breathes out, "Yeah?"
Wiping the sad remains of her lipstick off with her thumb, Lyla fucking Vandermorgan offers him a smile, a real one. "Lay them out in the bed of your truck. We should watch the stars."