by Dean, Ali
This is how girls get kissed.
I shake my head because that thought was so vivid, I’m almost positive he heard it. His eyes soften and his hands bring the crown up slowly. It takes me a second to realize what he’s doing, and I start to step back.
“Oh…no. Ha ha,” I laugh it off. “It’s like you said, they vote for the same people for those things every time, and I’m…” My eyes hit his in one painful heart beat. “I’m not one of them.”
“Just try it on,” he says, one hand out, the other poised above my head, the crown inches from my hair.
I breathe in slowly and tilt my head to the side, conceding. The crown comes down, and I’m sure I look ridiculous. I look straight up at it, and my eyes can actually see the bits of fur around my forehead. The weight of it forces it to slide lower on my head, and I laugh, pushing it back up with my finger so it’s angled higher in the front.
“I guess that just means I don’t have a big head, ha ha,” I say.
I need to get out of here before I make failing and losing his eligibility feel like a much more appealing option. I start to take it off, but Jace reaches up and touches my fingers, pulling his hand back quickly.
“Wait, just…” he says, pulling his phone from his back pocket.
“Oh…no,” I laugh, trying to take it off again. His hand comes back with a stronger hold this time, his fingers wrapping around my hand, his touch warm.
These are different hands than they were six years ago.
I freeze and obey as Jace lets go, taking a few steps back to frame me for a photo. He snaps it quickly, and I pull the crown from my head in both hands, strands of my hair getting caught in the plastic jewels. I brush them away while he looks at the photo, the crooked smile from when he recited the poem coming back again.
“Look,” he says, turning his palm to face me, to force me to see. I look like me, in a recycled crown that doesn’t fit.
“I look like the court jester,” I laugh.
“No,” he says, mouth tight, but the hint of his smile still there. He shakes his head, and I hold my breath, squeezing my notebook again, feeling the metal of the spiral in my right palm. He brings his phone back to his face, and touches the screen with his fingertips, zooming in, the curve on his lips growing slightly. “You look like a princess.”
My heart slams against every wall of my chest, as if I’ve just shot it full of adrenaline and tethered it to my bones so it can’t escape. The quiet comes back, and Jace chuckles to himself, closing the photo before his eyes drag higher to take in the real-life me.
With a single blink of his lashes, I know there’s no way I’ll let him fail. It could all be a trick, but I don’t care, as long as I get this one moment of him looking at me like that. I will make sure he passes, and I’ll teach him what he doesn’t know. I’ll give up my time for him. I’ll wait patiently. I’ll hope. I…
My inner dialogue is harshly interrupted with the knock on his open door. It’s his youngest brother, Zack, the only one besides Jace still at home. He’s in eighth grade, and I babysat him a few times when they first moved in.
“Oh, sorry. I…didn’t know you had company,” he says, turning away and heading back down the hallway.
“Hey, Zack,” I say, trying to stop him. If he stays, I won’t be alone with Jace. And, suddenly, I’m terrified to be alone with him—I’m overmatched.
“Hey, Dakota. Haven’t seen you in a long time,” he says. His voice is deeper. He’s taller, too. They’re all growing up.
I look back to Jace, and his attention is now on his brother, his brow pulled in tight. I look back to catch his brother glancing in our direction, and I’m not certain, but he looks like he’s been in a fight.
“Oh…” I startle, stopping myself.
“I think he needs me,” Jace says, his hand at his neck and his thoughts elsewhere. The dented plastic crown rests at our feet, my dreams of becoming a princess dead in a blink.
“I should go anyway. We can do the second half tomorrow after both of our practices, if you want,” I say. So much for me calling the shots.
“Yeah,” he says, not really here in this room with me any more. His eyes come to mine briefly, then he looks back down to his hands, his thumb swiping his phone off. “I don’t know. Can we play it by ear? I’ll call you.”
He’s already out the door ahead of me, so I follow, taking the hint. I want to be offended, but then at the same time, his brother looked really upset, so I suck it up and take my pride with me, swallowing all of those girl feelings that make me feel slighted or foolish.
“Yeah, that’s…fine, I guess. You don’t have my number, but…” I start.
He stops at his brother’s door, hand on the knob.
“I’ll just come by your house. I’ll get your number then. I’m…I’m sorry. I need to see what’s up with Zack.” His words are abrupt—not quite curt, but definitely not the kind that leave behind traces of butterflies. I barely remember how those kinds of words felt, and they slipped from his lips less than five minutes ago.
I nod and hold up a hand to say goodbye, then turn down the steps, wishing I could dash down two at a time just like I did on the way up. I’m not that nimble, and the thought of falling now would be one of those epic kinds of failures, so I settle for quick and steady. I get to his door, and push down the sinking feeling of dread and the mix of emotions I’m left with from my afternoon with Jace, ready to call Brit to dissect and formulate a new game plan, when I hear him one last time.
“Dee,” he whisper-shouts. A rush of shivers crawls down my spine and legs. He hasn’t called me that name since the first summer we spent together.
I turn quickly, raising a brow, lost for words.
He smirks one last time.
“It’s a really great poem.”
And just like that—the butterflies…they’re back.
Show
“Sleep is overrated anyway,” Brit says, swinging one hand into me with her pack of gum. I take two sticks, because I hate when the flavor runs out.
“Says the person who slept just fine last night,” I sigh.
“It isn’t my fault that you’ve blown up your crush into some crazy daytime soap storyline,” she laughs.
“Gee, thanks,” I say, pushing my first piece in and going right for the second. I think I need to angry chomp for a while.
The best-friend waters have gotten tricky. I turn to Brit for most of my secrets, only there are a few I have now that aren’t mine at all—and they’re precious. Jace trusts me, and I won’t betray that—even though he also messes with my head, and I need my best-friend/psychologist’s advice now more than ever.
I’ve twisted this into a lie of sorts. I told Brit Jace offered to help with the poem—his poem—and that’s why I was at his house. She still thinks I need to tell him to do things “his damn self,” but at least my lie gave me enough pretense to then talk about the crown, and the fact that he called me a princess. She waved a hand at it and chalked it up to his usual player ways, but I was there. That tiny scene in his bedroom was different. I know it.
I part ways with my best friend in the hallway, and round the corner into Mrs. Mendoza’s room. Jace isn’t here yet, so I take my seat and slide open the day planner the school gives us at the start of every school year. I think I’m the only person who actually uses mine; the pages are torn, and I have tape holding the spine together. I’ve never actually seen anyone else write in theirs. I gloss over the next week, making notes in the margin for my to-do list, and what I need to study over the weekend. Our volleyball games are away this week, so I’ll get most of my studying done on the bus. I wonder if Jace will try to copy my test in government. I know I’ll let him. I’ve backtracked on everything—I just haven’t told him that yet.
“Hey, Dakota.” I can see denim-covered knees pointing my direction from the desk next to me. They belong to Michael Fisher, my smarty-pants opposite at Miller High. We’re both tied for valedictorian, though Michael
has a poem going to district while I have Jace, so it looks like he’ll be the one giving the speech at the ceremony. I bet his poem sucks. He always writes about animals and hunting, politicizing everything. It’s what gets him attention.
“Hey, Mike,” I say, using his short name. He prefers Michael. I’m not even sure why I consider him an adversary. Truthfully, he’s pretty nice. I feel bad now, so I put my pencil down and turn to square myself with him and give him kinder attention. “Sorry, I was trying to remember something.”
I was trying to remember to forget Jace.
“No worries. I get it,” he says, leaning forward so his elbows rest on his legs. He has dark hair that flops in his face all the time. Truthfully, it’s cute. There’s a lot of truthfullies I ignore when it comes to him. And the reason I do just walked into the classroom behind him. Jace’s eyes narrow on me, his brow raising on one side in question as he sees me talking with Michael. I get a small tinge in my gut—Jace Padgett…is jealous.
“So, are you ready for District?” I ask, forcing myself to look Michael in the eyes. As hard as I try to focus only on Michael, I can still see Jace in the periphery, and somehow he’s perfectly clear.
“Yeah, I was bummed you didn’t make it in,” he says. I open my mouth, but, instead of talking, I let my shoulders slump as I sigh. I wanted to explain how I got screwed over, but then I stopped myself because—Jace.
“I know. It’s okay. Lots of poems in my future.” I smile.
“Yeah. That’s right. You’re applying to Saunders still?” he asks. I was looking at Jace, but Michael’s words rattle me a little, and I shake my head and return my attention to him. He remembered my college choice from a very offhanded conversation at last year’s awards banquet at the end of the year. He…remembered.
“I am,” I say, with a small tilt of my head. “And you’re…”
I, on the other hand, did not commit his school plans to memory. Now, I feel rude.
“UCLA,” he says through a small laugh.
“Right…right.” I nod.
Mrs. Mendoza walks in, her hands full of binders, and, as she passes through my row, I notice Kayden now talking with Jace, turned sideways in her seat while he leans forward so far in his that the back legs of his chair are actually lifting up. He’s practically leaping into her lap—or perhaps her cleavage.
“Or if you’re busy…it’s okay…”
I only catch that last part of what Michael says, my eyes clicking to his in a snap.
“I’m sorry. I…I got distracted. We should help her,” I say, changing subjects to the binders now sliding on the floor from Mrs. Mendoza’s desk. I’m covering for not hearing what I instantly think might be Michael asking me out.
“Oh, damn,” he says, standing from his seat and catching the last few books before they fall to the floor.
“Thank you,” Mrs. Mendoza says.
I step up behind him, and we both kneel down to gather the scattered books and papers. When I look back up, I catch both Michael’s lopsided grin and Jace’s curious eyes.
“So, what I was saying…before? I wanted to know if maybe you’d like to go see that new Choice Decker movie with me tonight. I got special passes. And the screening is at eight, so you’d be home from practice…but…if you’re busy…or it’s a school night and you can’t…” He trails off, crinkling his eyes as he waits for my response. The fact that he’s nervous is almost a miracle, especially given that I’ve been on six dates ever, and they were all doubles with Brit and with boys I could probably knock out in a single punch.
I should be flattered. I am flattered. But I need to help Jace. And just…well…Jace.
I’m about to let Michael down—gently, of course—when my eyes catch a glimpse of Kayden’s fingers smoothing out one of Jace’s eyebrows. It’s such an innocuous gesture, but she’s doing it to be flirty, and Jace…he’s smiling.
“I’d love to,” I say, bringing my eyes back to Michael, whose own are wide in shock. He didn’t think I was going to say yes either.
I breathe in slow and deep through my nose, my mouth a tight, closed smile to mask the kicking and screaming happening inside. It’s just a date to one movie with a boy who will easily pass Candi and Lucas Wright’s test for who is allowed to drive their daughter somewhere after the sun goes down. Michael looks harmless, and I’m pretty sure it’s because he is.
I write my number and address on a sheet I tear from my notebook, and, as Michael folds it and stands to move back to his own seat, I focus on the empty one he leaves behind. I blink once, and the moment my lids open again, Jace is in the chair facing me.
“Looks like I can study tonight,” he says.
It takes me a while to process. My forehead creases slowly, and my eyes move up from his knuckles, which are wrapping nervously on the desktop, to his arms and neck and then that face. He has a small cut in his lip, and I furrow my brow at it and am about to ask him what happened, when he speaks.
“Unless…are you…busy now?” His head cocks to one side, and his eyes give him away with the quick dart they make to Michael’s back.
Un…believable!
“Actually,” I say, chewing at my lip. “I sort of am now. I’m…I’m so sorry. I just told Michael I would go to this advanced screening thing with him. You said you might not be able to do tonight, so…”
“Yeah, sure. Fine…whatever,” he says, slipping from the seat without another word or another look at me.
My mouth hung open, I begin to think of ways to get out of my date and to give Jace what he wants when it hits me—I’m tired of giving Jace what he wants. My lips promptly close, and I turn in my seat to face Mrs. Mendoza while my hands open my planner back up in front of me. She begins our lesson for the day, but, before I start to take notes, I make one for myself in the 8 p.m. line for tonight.
BIG DATE.
I draw a circle around it, then change my mind, erasing it and turning the loop into a heart. I don’t heart Michael Fisher. I don’t heart him in the least. But, if there’s a chance Jace is watching me write this, I want him to see that doodle—and I hope it stings.
It was bad enough that my dad insisted on talking to Michael before we left for the movie, but now that he’s done and we’re walking through the garage, my father giving my date one last firm shake as a warning to be respectful to his only child, I can now see the next obstacle in our way. Jace and his friends have not played football in this street in years. And, suddenly, they have a full game going, at least a dozen members of our football team out here under the streetlight throwing the ball as hard and far as they can.
Jace is literally standing in our driveway, close enough to Michael’s car that I kind of think he could hold onto the bumper when we drive away.
I didn’t dress up much, but I curled my hair and put on some eyeliner and shadow along with a little lip gloss. It’s warm out tonight, so I have my denim shorts on with my favorite Hurley T-shirt; money and my phone are crammed in my back pocket. I keep my head down as Michael leads me toward the passenger door, but I knew an interruption was coming. Jace simply cannot stand that my life isn’t revolving around him right now.
“Oh, hey. Big date!” he says, catching a pass a few feet away, and stopping with his palm flush against my door.
“Yeah,” Michael grins. “We’re seeing that new Choice Decker movie, Wormhole.”
“Ah man, dude. I’m jealous!” Jace says, holding his knuckles out. Michael pounds them as I look on and wish I could teleport to the theater. “I hope you’re ready for this one—she hates snakes.”
Jace whispers that last part, jerking his head in my direction. I don’t know a thing about this movie we’re going to see, but he’s right—I do hate snakes. Nobody really knows that, though. Except my parents…and the boy who once scooped up three garden snakes with a shovel, so I could climb down from the tree I fled up. My eyes move to his at the memory.
“Good to know. We can leave early if it gets to be too much,” Mi
chael chuckles, finally pulling my door open. I leave my eyes on Jace’s as I step inside the car, and I can’t tell if he’s trying to hide laughter, or something else, in his expression.
Michael closes the door for me, and I watch from the side mirror as he and Jace exchange a few more words. It looks like nothing but easy banter—jokes and lots of nothing. Only it’s something. I’m just not sure why he’s interested.
Seconds later, Michael is buckled and pulling away. The theater is less than a mile from my house, and, by the time we arrive, they’re already letting people in. We spend the few minutes before the movie starts talking about classes and how stressful it is to fill out scholarship applications. I hold our seats while Michael gets us each a drink and a shared popcorn. I spend the next two hours avoiding hand grazes, and holding in my screams from the dozens of snakes in this god-awful movie about a man trying to save the world from poisonous reptiles.
The ride home isn’t as easy as the ride to the theater, and I know it’s because this is the end of the date, and we’re both thinking about those things that happen at the end of dates. I decided somewhere around the stoplight before the street that leads to my house that if Michael leans in to kiss me, I’ll let him. Not that I really want him to, but I’ve never really been kissed, and I kinda want to get it over with. I’ve had pecks on the mouth, but nothing with tongue. Brit has had tons of boyfriends, and I’ve almost become immune to watching her slurp and grind next to me at movies while I awkwardly hold hands with some guy she thought would be a good match for me.
But nobody’s ever a match. Even now as the car slows, and my lips tingle in preparation for a kiss from Perfect Michael, I know he’s not a match. He’s filler. He’s why not.
I pull my seat belt off, and turn to face him, noting the way his hands are gripping the steering wheel nervously. It’s sweet.
“I had a really good time,” I say.
He chuckles.