by Sarah Wathen
“Meg?”
I gasped. He was standing just behind me, his head cocked to one side, looking over my shoulder at the Tolstoy.
“Hi, I’m Tristan.”
He was squinting into the sun, and it was hard to tell if he was smiling or frowning.
“Yeah, I know who you are.”
He shaded his eyes and laughed. Didn’t everyone know who he was? He was on the billboard in front of the football field, for god’s sake, his arm cocked back to throw a winning pass. Go Bobcatts!
“What are you reading?” His voice was soft and curious, and he squinted to read the pages I held open in my lap.
“Uh…” I stammered. The sun shone through his light irises like glass, shocking against his dark hair. His black polo shirt was gathered loosely around one hip, the hand in his pocket pushing it up casually over the waistband of his jeans. A slice of flesh was made visible. He stood in perfect contrapposto, a bookbag slung over his shoulder like Michelangelo’s David holding the slingshot. I closed my book and tossed it onto the table, pretending not to notice how his jeans hung, low and delicious on slender hips. “Just something for English Lit.”
“Man, that’s a fat book. We never have to read stuff like that in my class.”
“Aren’t you a senior, too?”
“Yeah. What English class are you in?”
“AP,” I shrugged.
“AP. What’s that stand for?”
“Advanced Placement.”
He furrowed his brow.
“Based on college reading lists.” I held up my “fat” book in illustration. “You take a test at the end and get college credits, depending on how well you do.”
“Oh, wow.”
I could tell he was surprised I had a brain. Most guys were. I wasn’t sure what to say next, so I held his gaze, challenging him to ask me more about books.
“How can you read out here? It’s so bright.”
Because I’d rather read a book than sit alone with no one talking to me. “I heard that people with light eyes have a harder time adjusting to bright light.”
“Really?”
He stepped closer to me, shifting his weight and putting his back to the sunlight. The color of his eyes reminded me of Halls Mentho-Lyptus cough drops after I’d sucked on one for a while and the zing got too strong to keep it in my mouth—icy blue and transparent.
“I don’t want to bother you or anything,” he said, dropping his voice lower, since we were face to face then. He smelled like soap and clean laundry, with something gritty underneath. Something undeniably male.
“No, I—” I cleared my throat. He was even better looking up close. “I’m not busy.”
He glanced back over his shoulder and the group of girls who had been watching suddenly picked up their conversation again, all of them talking at once and fumbling with their lunches. I was waiting with as much anticipation as they had been—why on earth was he talking to me?
“I’ll let you get back to your book, but I just wanted to ask you something.”
“Sure. What’s up?” Those eyes.
“Would you be my date for Homecoming this weekend?”
“Cough drop—” I spluttered.
“Huh?”
I slapped my chest and choked out a cough. “I mean…uh, the dance?”
“Yeah, the dance.”
“In five days?” It was Tuesday and the dance was Saturday. I hadn’t planned on going, for many reasons.
“Four. Depending on how you count it,” he said, a blinding smile spreading across his face. “Today’s halfway through.”
“I guess it is.”
“And Saturday would only be a half-day, since the dance is that night.” He was daring me to accept the challenge. I could never refuse a dare, especially one with such an irresistible smile attached.
“Wait. Don’t you have a girlfriend?” I wasn’t exactly buddies with anyone in the popular crowd at Andrew Jackson, nowhere close. But everyone knew that the star quarterback and the head cheerleader had been together since freshman year. Sugary sweet.
“No. I don’t have a girlfriend.” That smile again, but with an undercurrent in his voice.
The neighboring table had gone silent once more, the bombshell news of Tristan’s single status freezing them all mid-prattle.
“Absolutely.” I grinned over his shoulder—a present for our shocked audience.
“Absolutely, you’ll go with me?”
Did he really think I would say no? The curiosity itself was enough for me to agree.
“Sure. Why not?” I shrugged, like it was nothing to me. Yeah, right.
“Great. Okay, lemme just get your number.” He handed me his phone and I punched my number in, wondering what kind of psychedelic rabbit hole I had accidentally wandered through. Had somebody drugged my orange juice that morning? He took his phone back and saved, whispering, “Meg…Shannon,” as he typed. “I’ll call you, so you’ll have mine.”
“I don’t have a cellphone. That’s the number at my house.”
“Oh.”
I felt my cheeks getting hot, and nothing to do with the sun. Was I the only person at school without a cellphone or something?
“Okay. Well, I’ll see you around, then?”
“Yeah, see ya.” I resisted the urge to bite down on my knuckles.
He winked at me and waved over his shoulder as he turned back to the courtyard entrance. His jeans looked even nicer from behind, snug around his well-shaped glutes and muscular thighs. “Bye, Meg.”
“Bye.”
I picked my book up again, refusing to gaze at his retreating form in concert with the other females. A wink—what did that mean? Maybe it was just the bright light on his Mentho-Lyptus eyes. I opened Anna Karenina again and pretended to concentrate for the rest of lunch. But I couldn’t read another word.
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Catchpenny
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Sarah Wathen
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Catchpenny
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