Turbulence

by Whitney Gracia Williams

  I make it to the parking lot and head straight for the after-school bus stop, muttering and cursing under my breath.

  “Mia?” Dean calls after me from behind. “Mia?”

  I say nothing. My mind is still stuck on the fact that he purposely stole my notebook; that he was in class the day I pleaded for everyone to keep a look out for it and let me know if they knew anything.

  Asshole...

  “Mia...” He suddenly grabs my shoulders from behind and spins me around to face him. “Mia, I know you can hear me.”

  “I really can’t. I’m completely deaf to assholes who steal things, assholes who steal things on purpose.”

  “Look. I tried to give your notebook back weeks ago, but you wouldn’t talk to me.”

  “So you stealing my notebook is my fault?”

  “It’s fifty percent your fault. I did try to give it back.”

  “The only thing you said to me was, ‘Hey, what’s up!’”

  “Exactly. If you would have answered, I could have told you.” He gives me that trademark gorgeous grin and I almost smile back—that’s how charming he is. I quickly come to my senses, though, and snatch my arm away from him.

  “Thank you so very much for stealing my notebook and having the decency to give it back,” I say. “Now, if you would please continue to leave me the hell alone for the rest of the day—No, the rest of the year, I’d really appreciate it.” I don’t give him a chance to respond. I rush to the bus stop and lean against one of the posts.

  A slight drizzle begins to fall and I look down the street, hoping that the headlights of a yellow school bus will soon appear.

  I take out my earbuds and turn up my music. It’s going to take me a minute to return to my original happy mood.

  Just as I’m starting to calm down, I see a black Camaro pull in front of me. It’s Dean. Again.

  I turn around and give him a great view of my back. I turn my music up louder, just in case he tries to talk to me, but my headphones are the cheap, flimsy kind, and they don’t have outside sound block.

  “Let me take you home to make up for stealing your notebook, Mia,” Dean says, actually sounding sincere.

  I ignore him and start nodding along to my music, hoping he’ll just go away.

  I knew I was right for hating him...

  “Mia...” He speaks again. “Mia, have you noticed that you’re the only one at the bus stop? The last one left ten minutes ago.”

  I glance at my watch and groan. I’ve forgotten that the new schedule for the after-school bus starts today.

  Shaking my head, I turn around and start walking. There’s a city bus stop six blocks down.

  I expect Dean to go away, but he doesn't. He stays on pace with me in his car, driving alongside me as I stride up the sidewalk.

  Whenever I speed up, he speeds up. Whenever I cross streets, he makes a U-turn and does the same. And when I reach a crosswalk with a pedestrian stoplight, he tries his luck again.

  “Look, Mia,” he says, leaning over the passenger seat. “Let me take you home.”

  “Not interested.”

  “Well, at least let me take you to the next bus stop.”

  “A four block ride? No thanks.”

  “So, you’re really going to walk all the way home in the rain?”

  I hesitate, now realizing that the slight drizzle has turned into actual rain, and from the look of the skies above, it’s about to get even worse.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I guess I really am going to walk all the way home in the rain. Thank you for your concern. Goodbye.”

  He parks his car and gets out, walking over to me. Without saying a single word, he puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me to his car, opening the passenger door.

  “Get in, Mia.”

  The pedestrian light turns green and I want to back away, but hatred of Dean or not, I know I’m not going to last four more blocks in the rain.

  I slip inside, and he shuts the door behind me. He returns to his place behind the wheel and drives through the light.

  “Where do you live?” he asks, looking over at me.

  “The corner of Seventh and Broadway.”

  “Okay.” He turns on the radio, and I’m surprised to hear my favorite band blasting through the speakers. I almost compliment him on his good taste, but then I remember he’s a thief.

  Thieves do not have good taste.

  Neither of us speaks as he drives through the suburbs and onto the backstreets, obviously taking the scenic route. I can feel the tension building between us; I can even feel butterflies fluttering around in my stomach. Every so often, I catch myself staring at him, admiring his profile. I can’t help but turn away every time he glances back in my direction; his being so close to me has my body at full attention.

  As we approach Seventh and Broadway, he slows the car’s speed. “Mia, you do not live here. This is just the entrance to your subdivision.”

  “So? Did you really think I would give you my real address? I’ll walk the rest of the way. The rain isn’t that bad now.”

  Smiling, he immediately speeds up—driving past the entrance, far down the street, and parks the car in an abandoned lot.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. “Go back. Go back right now.”

  “I need your help with AP English.”

  “I need your help with learning directions. My neighborhood is back there.”

  He ignores my comment. “AP English is the only class I don’t have an A in.”

  “What? You make A’s?”

  “Yes.” He smirks. “I make A’s, except for English. I have a C plus and I need at least an A minus if I’m going to look appealing to colleges.”

  “Wait a minute, what?” I temporarily put my annoyance aside. “You’re the star quarterback. You don’t need to make good grades to get an athletic scholarship. You just need to keep playing football. Isn’t that what you want?”

  He doesn’t answer that. Instead he sighs. “I need you to help me with the literature components and help me strengthen some of my essays.”

  “But why do you want me to help you?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? You have the best grade in the class and I’m pretty sure that being a smart ass, which you clearly are, requires quite a few brain cells, so I figure there’s no one better to ask.”

  “Maybe, but I’m not interested.”

  “I’ll pay you.”

  I look at him for a second to see if he’s being serious. “Is that how you normally get what you want?”

  “No, that’s not my normal method, but I figured you wouldn’t go for that, so I’m not going to go down that road with you.” That stupid grin is on his face again.

  “My services don’t come cheap,” I say. “They’re very expensive.”

  “Honestly, I’d be disappointed if they weren’t.”

  “Then in that case, I’m sure you can’t afford me.”

  “Try me.” He cranks the engine and drives, heading toward my subdivision again.

  I contemplate for a moment, unsure of what tutors usually charge. Then I come up with a number I know he won’t agree to pay. “Twenty dollars an hour.”

  “Deal,” he says smoothly.

  “Deal? Just like that?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s a lot of money.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be worth every penny.”

  “Fine. We’ll start in two weeks.” I wait for him to drop me off at the corner, where I told him I lived, but he drives into the neighborhood instead.

  Looking over at me, he warns, “I’m not letting you out of the car until you tell me which of these houses is yours. I need to make sure you get home safely.”

  “So, now you’re a gentleman?”

  “Only for some girls.” He smiles and I roll my eyes, deciding to give in so I can get this ride over with.

  “5632...Down a few more houses and on your left.”

  He nods and speeds up a bit, eventuall
y pulling right in front of my mailbox.

  “Thanks for the ride.” I immediately unbuckle my seatbelt and collect my bag from the floor.

  “Wait a minute,” he says. “I need your phone number...For tutoring purposes, of course,” he adds with a sly smile.

  He hands me his phone and I reluctantly type in my number. I save it under “For Tutoring Purposes, of Course” and give it back to him before rushing inside my house.

  As soon as I make it upstairs to my room, my cell phone buzzes with a text message notification. It’s an unknown number.

  This is Dean. Here’s my number, you can save it under “For ANY Purposes, Of Course...”

  I should’ve known to stay away from him that very day...

  PART I.

  The Past

  (Don't worry...This won't take too long. It never takes a guy that long to fuck things up.)

  Chapter 1

  MIA

  A couple weeks later...

  I glance at the clock above the library’s door and groan for the umpteenth time.

  I told Dean to meet me here at four o’clock, told him exactly where I would be and how important it was for him to be on time. Yet, unsurprisingly, he’s late. And it’s not even a nice “It’s only five minutes” type of late.

  I’ve even texted him about his lateness three times: When he was fifteen minutes late, I messaged, “Are you still coming?” and he said he was on his way. When he was thirty minutes late, I sent, “Have you somehow gotten lost in the school you’ve been going to for the past four years?” And just now, at forty-five minutes past the hour, when I sent him an, “I think we need to try this another day” message, he didn’t even send me an apology. His response? “I don’t. I’m in the hallway.”

  Ugh! I should’ve known better than this....

  I pack up all my books and push my chair away from the table so I can leave. Just as I’m standing up, Mr. Popular strolls through the door looking unfazed as ever.

  “Hey,” he says, walking over to my table. “Why is all your stuff packed up? Where are you going?”

  “I’m off to see someone who respects my time.”

  “Who is that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re damn near an hour late.”

  “So?” He shrugs, looking genuinely confused.

  “So? No, not ‘so.’ We agreed to meet at four o’clock, Dean. You pay me twenty dollars an hour and I’ve just wasted one of those hours. I’m not going to waste anymore.”

  “I’m sorry you feel that way.” He finally offers. “I mean, don’t you have homework of your own? Maybe if you would’ve been working on that while you waited, it would have kept you distracted from looking at the time. Maybe you wouldn’t be so unnecessarily angry right now.”

  Is he SERIOUS?! “You know what?” I take a deep breath, refusing to let him get me riled up any further. “Thank you for that terrible half-hearted apology. I guess that makes up for everything, doesn’t it?”

  “No,” he says, reaching into his pocket, placing a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “But this does.”

  “No, this does not.” I slide it back.

  “Wait, what’s the problem here?” He shakes his head. “I said I’d pay you for three hours. You just got paid for one—for not doing a goddamn thing by the way—and once again, as you can see, I’m always looking out for you. But you’re mad because we’re only going to have two hours to spend together?”

  “Oh my fucking God!” I can’t hold it in. “That’s not the point, Dean!” I’m seconds away from really going off, but a varsity cheerleader steps right between us.

  “Hey, Dean.” She smiles, batting her long eyelashes at him. Then she looks over at me. “Mia,” she says, looking unimpressed.

  “I’m leaving.” I step away and head for the door.

  “Wait, Mia. Don’t leave.” Dean rushes in front of me and blocks my exit. “I promise to do better next time.”

  “There won’t be a next time.”

  “Okay, well just give me today. If you honestly can’t deal with me after today, then we won’t have to do this anymore.”

  “See, that’s the thing, I don’t want do this at all. Especially not today.”

  “Please, Mia?” He smiles hard at me, trying his best to coax me into staying.

  “Ugh. Please don’t smile at me like that.” I roll my eyes, giving in. “We can sit over there in the back, by the computer lab.”

  “Good,” he says, walking by my side as we make our way to the secluded section.

  I take out my notes on our current assignment, Beowulf, and slide them across the table to Dean. “We have to write a three-page analysis of this. Did you start yet?”

  “No.” He smiles. “Why would I have started that?”

  “Because you want an A. Because you’re paying me to tutor you, so you can get an A. Did we not go over this a few minutes ago?”

  “Mia,” he says, his dimples on full display. “I haven’t done it because it’s not due for another six weeks. Not everyone works on assignments months before they’re due.”

  “And not everyone has a 4.0 GPA either. I wonder what that correlation is.”

  “Not having a life? Being boring as hell all the time, maybe?”

  “I do have a life.”

  “I’m sure you do.” He smirks. “How about we start on the assignment that’s due tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Yes.” He smiles. “I haven’t started that one either.”

  “You are unbelievable.” I shake my head. “Okay, the three-page reflection letter about where you see yourself ten years from now. So...” I grab a notebook and turn to a clean page. “Where do you see yourself ten years from now?”

  He hesitates and the smile slowly disappears from his face. “How about we take a different approach?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Can you let me see what you wrote first?”

  “No. We’ve been down that road before. You’re not copying what I want to do.”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t want to be a librarian ten years from now. I’m just trying to see how you structured your paper.”

  “For your information—not that it’s any of your business—I don’t want to be a librarian. I want to be an artist.”

  He raises his eyebrow, looking surprised.

  “And also,” I say, sliding him my essay. “From here on out, for every insult you throw my way, I’ll be increasing my hourly fee.”

  “I can afford it.” He laughs, but then he gets serious. “Do you think I should start with personification?”

  “No, I think you should start really simple. Just free write and we can worry about the structure at the end.”

  “Okay, done deal.” He picks up his pen and starts to write.

  To my surprise, he doesn’t say anything else sarcastic for the rest of the session, and before I know it, our two hours have come to an end and we’re packing up our things.

  “I can give you a ride home,” he offers as we walk toward the parking lot.

  “No, thank you. I’ve had more than enough ‘Dean’ for today.”

  “But what if I haven’t had enough Mia?” His eyes meet mine as his lips curve into a smile. “What if I want a little more?”

  “Goodbye, Dean.” I power walk to my stop, thanking the bus gods that I make it two minutes before departure.

  ***

  The next afternoon, a heavy rain is pounding hard against our small city, so I find myself trapped in the school’s cafeteria. The outdoor bench where I usually eat, is blocked off for the day, so I have the “pleasure” of sitting in the massive cafeteria where everyone else is.

  I wish I could say that our high school is nothing like those B-grade teenage movies, and that everyone gets along. But no, Central High School is just as predictable as Dean Collins. In the center of the room are the quintessential popular students; athletes, varsity cheerleaders and beautiful people. In one corner of the room is
where the social outcasts all convene, no matter their background: band geeks, academic club members, and foreign exchange students. In the opposite corner of the room are the slackers; the students that miss more days than they attend, and spend most of their time in detention for skipping or sneaking illegal smokes in the bathrooms.

  Unlike most other schools in small towns, though, Central High is like the Taj Mahal of high schools. With our state of the art library that’s four stories high, our Olympic-sized swimming facility that includes a sauna and steam room for our award winning swim team, and our multi-vendor cafeteria that features a knock-off Starbucks and buffet bar, Central High’s offerings are second to none in any of the surrounding counties.

  “So, how was tutoring with Mr. Popular, yesterday?” My best friend, Autumn, takes a seat across from me and passes me a cup of coffee.

  “Now you want to know?” I take a slow sip. “I tried to tell you about it yesterday, but you didn’t pick up the phone.”

  “I have a boyfriend, Mia.”

  “So? What does that mean?”

  “It means that if you call me past a certain hour, then I’m probably on the phone with him.” She smiles.

  I roll my eyes. Autumn hasn’t been the same since she “proudly” lost her virginity eight months ago. Although she’s still the most amazing friend I’ve ever had, and we’re almost polar opposites when it comes to social events, I’m hoping her current obsession with all things sex and romance will soon come to an end.

  “Well, he was actually an hour late,” I say. “But I think he might have a brain somewhere in there. I guess.”

  “What about his cock?”

  “What?” I nearly scream, but then I quickly lower my voice. “Who are you right now, Autumn? Who are you?”

  She laughs and lowers her voice, too. “Tell me, Mia...How big was it?”

  “I don’t know. How exactly would I know something like that? And don’t you have a boyfriend?”

  “I do, but I also have fantasies. You’re telling me that you didn’t look?”

  “No, I didn’t look! I have no reason to.”