by L. E. DeLano
“He looked pretty bad,” she tells me. “He was there with his parents and they brought him in an ambulance. Haylee said he was out the next week, when we were off.”
“He was. He’s better now.”
“That’s good. He seems okay. If you like that type.” She gives a shrug. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”
I follow behind her, but my mind is whirling. What could have sent Devon to the hospital? In an ambulance? And why hadn’t he said a word about it? I mean, I know I haven’t been his girlfriend for long, but this is ridiculous. The guy doesn’t want to talk about anything. A trickle of unease runs down my spine.
What isn’t he telling me?
19
"Dude, start a baking club. I’ll join if I can get free food. Or maybe a taco club. Like, a different kind of taco every meeting. You could meet on Tuesdays.”
Jules punctuates her suggestion by shoving a large handful of chips in her mouth, some of which fall out and scatter across my bed.
“Then we’d have to spend time waiting for stuff to cook,” I say. “Plus, we’d have to clean up. And knowing Ramsey, we’ll have to write up every recipe, pull the AV club in to produce a video of it, and then publish a cookbook at the end of the semester. But only after the vice principal has reviewed each recipe to make sure there isn’t a secret sexual message inside.”
“You could get pretty steamy with that,” Jules says.
“Bananas and whipped cream.”
“You could bake bread and do a whole series on shaped buns.”
“We could bake gingerbread voodoo dolls, decorate them to look like teachers, and sell them at lunch.”
Jules crams in another handful of chips. “Mmmff,” she says, nodding in agreement.
“Just a thought.”
“So what time is super-secretive skater boi coming by?” She asks, after she clears her mouth.
“He should be here any time. And his name is Devon.”
She waves a chip-filled hand. “I know, I know. He seriously hasn’t kissed you yet? Maybe he’s waiting for Valentine’s Day. Or his big secret is that he’s gay.”
“You don’t go to the hospital in an ambulance just because you’re gay.” I point out.
“Maybe somebody beat him up.”
“Don’t you think that would’ve made the news? I’m sure his parents would’ve pressed charges. And I don’t think he’s gay. He’s just—” I don’t even know how to describe it other than to say that he’s just Devon. I can’t deny that it is odd that we haven’t had our first kiss.
“We haven’t been together that long,” I remind her.
“Just sayin.’ Maybe his parents found out and they’re the reason he needed an ambulance. Have you met them yet?”
“No!” I deny vehemently. “I mean, no, I haven’t met them but also no, his parents didn’t beat him. He would mention if his parents were horrible people.”
Something cold and awful twists in my stomach as I remember the way his mother looked that day when I dropped him off at the house. And that night at the playground—he was crying. He was all alone in the cold and he was crying. He looked so . . . hopeless.
“No,” I say again. “It’s nothing like that.” Please don’t let it be anything like that. “He’s just a really private person. And anyway, he’s pretty well-adjusted. One of those naturally optimistic kind of people. It’s kind of annoying, actually. I doubt he could be that way if he was getting abused on a regular basis.” Could he?
“Maybe it’s drugs,” Jules says, wadding up the empty chip bag and tossing it, missing the trashcan by my bed.
Before I can answer that, Mojo starts barking his head off at the sound of the doorbell. Jules rolls off the bed.
“I’m outta here,” she says. “Let me know if he figures out the kissing thing. Or if you find out he’s a serial killer.”
No one gets to read my book, he’d said. Not until I kill the villain. What did he mean by that?
I smack Jules on the back of the head.
“Stop it,” I say. “The guy is entitled to his privacy.”
She rubs her head and gives me a grudging look. “If he’s got a closet full of assault rifles, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
When we get downstairs, I grab Mojo’s collar as she opens the door. Devon is holding a large soda and he’s draining the last of it from the gurgling sound it makes. He lets out a loud, satisfied aaah and then follows it up with a burp.
“Sexy,” Jules remarks.
Devon looks only mildly ashamed. “Sorry. Had to finish washing down my burger.”
“How much red meat can one man eat?” I ask, gesturing for him to come in.
Jules makes her way around him. “Nice seeing you again,” she says, as she heads out the door. “Behave yourselves.”
“Why? Are we planning a bank heist?” Devon asks.
“Her mom won’t be home for hours, and her dad’s out of town,” Jules informs him. “It’s just the two of you.”
I give her a look. “Goodbye, Jules.”
Devon waves and shoots me a crooked grin as I close the door. “She’s not going to be hanging around peeking in the windows, is she?”
I grimace. “It’s entirely possible with her.”
“She does like to talk. I noticed that in class.”
“You have no idea.”
I let go of the dog’s collar, and he runs right at Devon, sniffing and yipping and making a nuisance of himself. Devon drops down to his knees, scruffing up Mojo’s ears as the dog’s entire back end whips frantically back and forth.
“He’s an excitable little guy. I love wiener dogs. You know they were bred to hunt badgers? Everybody’s afraid of badgers except daschunds.” He remarks. “What’s his name?”
“Mojo.”
“Mojo. I like it.”
“My brother picked it out. I thought it was stupid at the time, but it suits him.”
“It does,” Devon says, then he lowers his voice, and in a guttural tone he rasps out: “Guter hund!”
“What the hell was that?”
“I’m learning German now. He’s a dachshund, so I told him he’s a good dog in German. I think.”
Mojo wags even more enthusiastically, lapping up the attention. They’re both adorable together. How could you think of Devon as anything but harmless?
I take a deep breath, refusing to let Jules’s stupid words eat my brain. She’s right about one thing. Devon and I are going to be alone in this house for at least the next four hours. I’m going to make the most of it. But first—
“I need your help with something,” I tell him.
“Sure. Whatever you need.”
“You have to help me put together glam kits for a birthday party full of nine and twelve year-old girls.”
He looks confused. “Okay, not my normal, but I’m sure I can manage. Why didn’t you ask Jules to help you?”
“Because she would ask too many questions,” I sigh. “And then she’d run her mouth at school about it all day tomorrow. I kind of want to keep this on the down-low.”
“A mysterious, secret girly glam party,” he says, putting his empty soda cup down on a nearby table and rubbing his hands together. “Sounds exciting.”
I gesture for him to follow me and we walk through the house and into the garage.
“We’ll start here,” I say, pulling a large plastic bin off of one of the shelves built into the wall. I pop off the top and start pulling out the tote bags, purses, and wristlets, and arranging them by style and color group.
“That’s an ugly purse,” Devon says, holding up a large, rectangular zippered bag with multicolored flowers all over it.
“It’s not a purse. It’s a covered casserole tote.”
“Who the hell carries around a casserole?”
He peers again into the container. “They’re all girly. Manly men would not possess these items.”
“You and your fragile masculinity can select eight of these and line them up for me—and make sure they’re all different patterns.”
He gives me a salute. “On it.”
I yank another plastic tote down from a shelf and paw through it. “Let’s see . . . skin toner, lengthening mascara—no, maybe not. Their moms might not let them wear makeup yet. We’ll stick with the toner, some lip moisturizer, and—oh good! Nail wraps!”
I line them all up in groups of eight as I find them, and Devon steps over to take a look.
“Are those like peel and stick fingernails?” He asks.
“Yeah, but they’re really pretty good quality. They last a couple of weeks, as long as you’re not free solo climbing a rock wall or something.”
“Damn,” he says, snapping his fingers. “I was eyeballing that black-and-white checkerboard pattern, but I guess my active lifestyle won’t support my need to be a trendsetter.”
I pick up the nail wraps and toss them into the lunch totes one at a time. “These were trendy two years ago. That’s why they’re out here with the clearance items. Start grabbing things and stuffing them in.”
He reaches for the skin toner as I grab another bin, lift the lid, then close it up and slide it back on the shelf.
“This one’s got diet shakes. No good.”
“Don’t want them starting early with the body issues,” he agrees. He tosses the last tube of toner in. “What now?”
“Um . . . let’s try this one.”
I gesture toward a large container on the top shelf and he reaches over me to pull it down.
“Holy guacamole,” he says as I lift the lid. “It looks like Disney threw up in there.”
“They’re leggings—just the patterns that didn’t sell well,” I say. “We’ll pull out any that are small or extra small. Maybe grab a couple of mediums and larges. I’ll give her extra since I don’t know the sizes of the girls.”
“How come I never see you wear these?”
“I’m not a crazy patterns kind of girl. I do have a couple pairs of straight black.”
“For when you channel your inner Goth?”
“No, because they go with everything, smartass.”
Devon starts to reach for a large red bin on the middle shelf, and my hand shoots out to stop him.
“No. Not those.”
“Are they too ugly to be worn?” He asks, his face frozen in mock horror.
Heat floods my cheeks. “It’s too—adult. My mom used to sell adult products at home parties.”
His eyes go wide. “Seriously? I’ve got to look now.”
He opens the lid on the bin and lets out a low whistle. “God. They’re in all sizes. And colors! Not much variety in girth, though.”
I shoot him a deadpan look. “Please.”
“Maybe they should team up with the leggings people and offer some crazy patterns,” he suggests as he puts the bin back and grabs a lunch tote.
“I’ll put you in touch with their marketing rep.”
“See that you do.” He holds out the lunch tote, so that I can throw in some aromatherapy cream.
I tap my chin, thinking for a moment before I point. “That heavy bin on the bottom—grab it. That’s got all kinds of funky soap.”
“Funky?”
I pop the lid off and hold one up for him to smell. “They’re samples for the soap making kits. They have the basic stuff like lavender and generic floral, but they also have silly stuff like this one.”
He takes a deep whiff. “It kinda smells like bananas.”
“That’s why they call it Monkey Farts,” I say, flipping the bar over so he can look at the label on the plastic wrap.
“Monkey Farts. I like it. Can I keep one? I promise to rub it all over my hot bod and think of you.”
The mental picture slides into my head and the resulting heat makes my cheeks redden again. I pull down another bin filled with scented candles and wax melts and start unloading.
“So,” Devon says, packing as he talks. “You haven’t told me who you’re doing this for.”
“You’ll keep it secret?”
He mimes locking his lips and throwing away a key.
“Maya Rodriguez,” I explain. “Her sisters have birthdays close together this weekend, and Maya’s mom has to work extra hours at their store, so it’s on Maya to put the entire party together.”
“She told you all that? Without throwing a punch?”
“I’m sure it crossed her mind,” I say grimly. “She just seemed really stressed and I felt like I should—like I ought to—help. I mean, my mom has all this stuff and it’s just gathering dust here. I can get rid of it for her, and all Maya has to do is make the cake.”
Devon breaks into a wide grin. “That’s insanely nice of you.”
“I didn’t do it to be nice,” I snap.
He raises his hands. “Don’t bite my head off for telling you that you did a nice thing. I’m just saying.”
“Well I’m not doing it to try and butter her up or anything. We are not going to be buddies. It just seemed like somebody should help her. Help them.”
I have no idea why, but tears sting my eyes. Devon reaches out and his fingers trail over my cheek, keeping me from turning away. His eyes lock with mine and before I can take a breath, he moves in, pressing me into the containers on the shelf behind me, and his lips are on mine.
The kiss is slow, sweet and searching—like he’s trying to figure me out, learn what I like. And I like this. Oh, do I like this.
My lips part as his tongue traces their seam, and the kiss deepens. My hands slide up and into his silky-soft hair, gripping fistfuls as this kiss goes on and the heat of his body is seeping into mine. I groan low in my throat, and he answers with a groan of his own, shifting to push even tighter into me, rocking the shelves behind me. A loud whump! startles us both as a container crashes to the ground, spilling technicolor phalluses and edible underwear at our feet.
I stare at the pile, stunned. Devon barks a laugh. “I promised you a spectacular first kiss, didn’t I?”
I laugh, too. Loud. And I can’t stop. I’m snorting with laughter, which makes Devon howl and that makes me laugh even more.
“That’s got to be the most ridiculous first kiss in history,” I manage to gasp out.
“I’ll get these cleaned up.” He says. “Whoa! Look how far some of them bounced!”
“I’ll grab more Monkey Farts,” I say, moving over to the soap bin. “Then we can head upstairs and raid the outdated costume jewelry and whatever else she has shoved into the guest room closet.”
He clacks a couple of colorful products together. I laugh again.
“I love to hear you laugh,” he tells me as he tosses them in the bin and reaches for two more. “I’m going to make it a personal mission to get you to do that more often.”
“I’ve laughed more since I met you than I have in the last year,” I tell him truthfully. I get up on my tiptoes and plant a peck on his cheek. “Thank you.”
With a wicked grin, he tosses the phalluses over his shoulder, and reaches for me, kissing me once again.
20
I knew Monday was going to be a bad day as soon as Mom made me breakfast.
She likes to sleep in, and unless she’s got an early meeting or product delivery that day, she’s usually just getting up when I leave the house for school. I stayed up FaceTiming Devo
n really late last night and didn’t take a shower before bed. My hair is an absolute nightmare if I skip a shower so I got myself up early and dealt with it. And I hate getting up early.
Mom was waiting for me in the kitchen, with two mugs of Green Bright Beginnings tea—which isn’t as bad as chamomile—and a plate of really awful muffins that she baked with ingredients from this month’s meal subscription box. They have so much granola in them they look like they’re made of sticks and twigs, and they turn to sludge in your mouth, requiring multiple drinks of liquid to clear them from your throat. I make a face as I glance down at them.
“I don’t have time for breakfast,” I tell her.
“You don’t have to be at school for another twenty-five minutes.”
“Yeah, but I have to stop by and get Jules, and you know how she is. I’ll probably have to wake her up.” That’s not entirely a lie—it’s happened many times before. But I’m not taking Jules with me today. She’s faking sick so she can finish her history paper, but Mom doesn’t know that.
“Oh?” She says, cocking her head slightly to the side. “I thought you’d be riding with your new boyfriend. The one I have yet to meet. You had him over on Thursday and I thought he’d stay so you could introduce us.”
“We were working on a project.” That is also not entirely a lie. We honestly were packing those gift bags most of the time, with some incredibly hot kisses sprinkled in. I wasn’t about to get him naked when my mom could walk through the door at any minute. Besides, he wasn’t pushing for it anyway. Which makes me like him even more.
“You were out with him twice this last weekend. You couldn’t have brought him in?” she persists. “It would’ve been nice to have met him.”
“He had to get home after the movies, and you weren’t home yesterday.”
“Meredith says he’s a neighborhood boy. He lives on her cul-de-sac.”
“Yeah, over on Willow.” Meredith is one of the neighborhood gossip squad who is also in my mom’s downline. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and grab a couple of Pop Tarts out of the pantry.
“I gotta go.”