by Janet Walker
Chapter Thirty-Eight
A TIME TO PREY
One day in the middle of October, Tracy Sullivan closed the door to her locker on the first hall of the classroom building. She was the only person in the corridor. The guidance counselor had summoned her to the office to give her a form Aunt Madge needed to fill out, and the deviation from her routine had made Tracy late for third period. Now, hugging a fresh supply of books to her chest, she spun around and immediately bumped into the broad chest of Eric Richardson. Tracy stepped back, gasped, her face instantly hot with embarrassment.
“Boy!” she cried in surprise, her voice lowered. “What you doing here?”
Eric smiled crookedly. “Looking for you,” he said softly.
Tracy’s heart pounded. The only time Langston boys were allowed to socialize with Beck girls on campus was during lunch, and before and after school, and for the latter they were restricted to the parking lot and courtyard. But here was Eric, in the Big Sisters’ classroom building! Had he really come looking for her? She examined his face—his sly smile, deep dimples, the playful gray-green eyes that bore earnestly into hers. Maybe he did mean what he’d said. An acute attack of bashfulness made Tracy’s face damp, so shimmering warmth glistened on the skin beneath her eyes.
“You…gonna get in trouble for being over here,” she stammered.
Eric held up a purple slip of paper in his fingers, a Langston hall pass. “I’m legit. Running an errand for Coach. Going to see your coach,” he said, a light in his eyes.
Tracy nodded but didn’t ask why he was going to see Miz Grace. Instead, she remembered who he was and was afraid someone might see them and wonder why she was talking to Sheila Roundtree’s man. “I gotta go before I’m late for class,” she said, hugging her books tighter and stepping around him.
He grasped her gently by the arm. “Wait.”
She hesitated, looked at him, tried to conceal her curiosity.
“Why you keep walking off every time I talk to you?”
She took in a shaky breath, not sure how to respond—until she remembered Sheila. “You know why,” she answered pointedly.
“I don’t,” Eric insisted innocently.
Tracy rolled her eyes and sucked her teeth but couldn’t think of a retort. Instead, she found herself gazing at the front of his body. He wore a pastel blue cashmere sweater that seemed to strain under the pressure of his muscular chest. Her gaze dropped to his pants. The fabric puffed out in the lap of his blue jeans, and she wondered how much of it was air and how much was him. She jerked her gaze away, her face hot, and stared down the hall, hoping Eric hadn’t noticed where her eyes had been.
“What?” he probed. “Because of Sheila? I already told you—ah’ight,” he broke off. “Ah’ight, I’m not gonna lie to you, Tracy, ’cause I like you. I do.” He hesitated, leaning close to her. She smelled him—floral-spicy men’s cologne—and felt weak. “You’re right,” Eric admitted softly, gazing down the corridor. “About Sheila and me. Ah’ight?”
Eric trained his large gray eyes on her. Because of his beautiful stare, something hesitated pleasantly in Tracy’s chest, but she tilted her head indignantly, glowered at him, and started to walk away. He reached out again and gripped her wrist, not letting her leave.
“I’m not trying to disrespect Sheila. Or you. But I can tell you’re not like these other girls around here, Tracy. All they care about is clothes and money. And gossip. But you’re different. Don’t seem like you get involved in all that immature stuff. Right?”
Tracy lifted a brow but didn’t reply.
“In fact,” Eric continued, releasing her wrist, “you look like a girl who can keep a secret. So I know I can tell you things and…they’ll stay between you and me, right?”
She stared at him, sensing that it was not safe to agree with him.
“Right?” he repeated.
She nodded but refused to speak.
“Ah’ight, then. The truth about it is that you’re so pretty to me, Tracy. I can’t help myself around you. I feel weak every time I see you.”
This time, she couldn’t suppress it—her expression revealed surprise and uncertainty. Was the beautiful Eric Richardson really saying something like this to her? And did he mean it? Her heart began to thump hard.
“It’s like this,” he continued. “You like chocolate milkshakes, right?”
“What?” she asked, confused. Milkshakes? An image of a McDonald’s restaurant flashed through her mind and she thought he was going to ask her out to eat.
“I’m serious. You like chocolate milkshakes?”
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“I do, too. I love chocolate milkshakes. But suppose you drink one every day? Eventually, you’re gonna want something different—strawberry or vanilla. Right? That’s natural. Doesn’t mean you don’t like chocolate any more. Just means you want to taste vanilla, for a change. You follow me?”
She didn’t, and her expression revealed this.
Impatience flickered across Eric’s face but softened into a seductive gaze. “You’re vanilla, Tracy. You’re vanilla milkshake to me. And I just want to see how you taste.” He flicked his tongue over his full rosy lips. “Am I wrong for that?”
She gasped. A flood of warmth spread across her face and arms and chest and belly, causing her to look away from his eyes.
“Think about it,” he advised. “Keep it between us, ah’ight?” he added. “I’m trusting you—”
“Eric Richardson!” said a stern, reedy male voice. “Why are you in my school?”
Tracy and Eric, startled, looked down the hall. Standing outside the Big Sisters dean’s office was Dr. Allen. His manner was one of mock anger—everyone liked Eric Richardson—and so Eric burst into a grin and held up his purple hall pass.
“I gotta pass, Doc! Coach sent me over to borrow a stopwatch from Miss Grace! His broke!”
“If you don’t get out of this classroom building and leave that young lady alone, a watch won’t be the only thing that’s broken! I have told you boys to stop preying on my girls!”
Tracy grinned. She was surprised to hear the soft-spoken Dr. Allen speak forcefully. And she liked the fact that he called the Beck students his girls as if he were the father of them all. The first time she had heard him refer to the student body that way, something wonderful had stirred inside her, a tender and foreign emotion that made her feel guarded and owned.
Now, in response to the principal’s order, Eric lifted his hands in surrender and dramatically stepped away from Tracy. “Sorry, Doc. One of my boys likes her and I was just telling her that. But ah’ight, ah’ight, I’m leaving,” he told the principal, and then he moved down the hall, pushed through an exit door, and was gone. Tracy headed for class, dazed and submerged in a rush of emotions that was, on the one hand, the excitement and confusion of a teenager caught in infatuation and was, on the other hand, the fear and panic of an animal caught in the crosshairs of a gun.