by Einat Segal
"Do you live nearby?" he asks.
I shake my head and begin walking toward the school. I set the pace on slow. "Had to leave my ride."
Landon imitates me by pushing his hands into his pockets. He falls into step beside me. "Same."
"So, what's the deal with that car?"
I look at him as I ask my question. It's hard to believe someone actually has such a beautiful face. I got used to the idea that this amount of beauty on one person could only be photoshopped.
He shrugs broad shoulders that put Greek gods to shame. "My uncle is weird about these things."
"Is he, like, a crime lord?"
Landon peeks at me from the corner of his eye. I'm still watching him like a cat watching a butterfly. He grins, causing a dimple to cut into his cheek. "Something like that," he answers.
I nod, feeling the pigeons take wing in my stomach. How much “like that” is that something? I want to ask, but he asks something first.
"Hey, Sophie, do you want to go somewhere after school? Just us."
"Are you asking me out?” It can’t possibly be this easy.
“Maybe.” He chuckles. “We can go to a sandwich place. You can practice your throw."
I smile. The whole issue with Shawn is as good as solved. "Deal."
* * *
Landon and I walk side by side to school. Neither of us speaks. I think he's not a big talker—this could actually work. Either he's incapable of finding what to talk about, or he doesn't think small talk improves upon the silence.
The third option would be that he's stupid.
I glance at him. He's not looking where he's going. Instead, he's watching me as if he expects me to spontaneously combust.
"Is there something on my face?" I ask, holding his gaze.
He gives me the smallest of grins. It's enough to make my heart falter completely. "No. Just feeling lucky."
"Lucky?" I don’t get it. Sounds too cheesy to be worth talking about. I continue walking straight, but I'm still unable to take my eyes off his face.
"Well, I didn't think my morning would start like this."
"You mean running into me on the street?" I ask.
"Oi, Sophie, you're about to—"
Glong.
That's the sound the lamppost makes when I walk into it. I stagger backward, arms flailing, before I regain my balance.
Landon stands there, staring at me with his mouth open. I can tell by the way he holds his hands up in the air that he wants to approach and help me, but then isn't sure if that'll cost him his life.
He bites his lower lip, and his cheeks turn pink, very obviously in the process of repressing laughter.
I blink. The sight of someone trying so hard not to laugh at something that I'd personally find hilarious combined with how tired I am makes me lose control. It’s like a balloon explodes in my stomach. All the laughter comes out of me at once. I cough, doubling over, and have only enough control over my limbs to not lie flat on the sidewalk.
My shoulders shake, tears forming in the corners of my eyes. Next to me, Landon loses it completely. He grabs hold of the lamppost and clutches his side. He has difficulty breathing between bouts of roaring laughter.
It takes a while to both calm down without setting the other one off.
I’m light-headed and dizzy when we finally leave the lamppost behind. "What time is it?" I ask, trying to sober up.
"It's . . . Shit, it's 7:18."
How the hell did it become so late? Our first class starts at 7:25, and we're a ways away from school.
I have AP Italian first thing in the morning. My Italian teacher, Mrs. Sachetti, is insane about tardiness. I don't care about upsetting her. I really do care about my grade and getting into NYU.
I break into a run, and seeing me, Landon does too. I must've lost it, courtesy of Shawn, because the giggling starts all over again as I run.
* * *
Several people had seen us pink-faced and bright-eyed, running into school together. It doesn't take much to create a rumor. I hear the tale spinning around me throughout the day as classes chase one another.
Esmeralda isn't at school today. Just the second week, and she's already got the flu. She'd have doubtlessly been curious to know who I came to school with and why she didn't get a ride too.
At lunch, I enjoy the solitude of my spider hole. Landon doesn't come here this time.
I allow myself to enjoy the illusion of peace, until Laurie Astamkar shows up. "Sophie, this is bad," she cries, panting. Her big, frantic eyes dance in her face. "Shawn's confronting the new kid, Landon. There's going to be a fight. You have to come."
Have to come? That's just rich. "No, I don't."
Laurie doesn't get it. In her mind, she's incapable of perceiving why I wouldn't be agitated by this development. "But they're arguing over you."
"And?"
"You have to stop them!"
"Why should I? It's their own choice to be idiots. It's not like I'd magically go with the one who manages to punch harder."
I'd just go with the one who isn't Shawn Henderson.
Laurie gapes at me, completely at a loss. The rules of her entire universe have all been dented.
She makes it too easy to pick on her. No wonder she's on the bottom of the food chain among the popular kids.
"I'll come watch, though. I like to see a good fight.” Who doesn’t? It’s exciting. I get up.
"What?"
“I wish I had popcorn," I say.
* * *
We find Shawn and Landon on the bleachers by the track field. Even from far away, I can tell that I'm going to be disappointed. There's a crowd of people, but it's made up entirely of girls.
Actually, calling it a “crowd” isn't the right word. When I come closer, I see that it's nothing but a cluster of Ashley's friends who are admiring the scene with lots of giggling.
They all stop what they're doing when they notice me approaching. One of them gives a thumbs-up to Laurie, causing a frightened little smile to appear on her face.
I look on to where Shawn and Landon are sitting side by side. Yes, sitting. Not fighting. They're not even arguing, just talking.
They seem to be getting along.
On the row below them sits Ashley Glick, her body half turned to them, as if she just sat down temporarily.
She's smiling and fluttering her eyelashes. I watch how she leans over, flaunting her cleavage, and places her hand on Landon's knee as she says something to Shawn.
How boring. More high school posturing. I'm about to turn to leave, but Shawn spots me. He's on his feet and walking my way in a manner of seconds. I can't get away, because to top that speed, I'd have to run. "There you are, babe," Shawn calls, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and planting a kiss on the top of my head.
I turn my head to stare at the people who are staring at me. Ashley in particular. She doesn't have her hand on Landon anymore, but she's still sitting near him. She looks at him as he looks at me, and I think she thinks she understands everything.
Landon smiles and waves. He makes no move to come toward me. He looks quite comfortable where he is.
I shake off Shawn's arm and aim a very precise kick at his shin, making him bend over to grasp his leg and making everyone around us gasp. "I told you not to—"
He looks up at me with a face filled with admiration, ecstasy, and lust.
"Of course, my queen, I'm sorry," he says breathlessly.
For a split second, I don't get what he's playing at this time, but then I remember.
Even though it has already been a week and a half, there's still a rumor going around about us being into this kind of BDSM stuff.
It's a rumor I started.
But I don't care. This isn't like with my parents. The thoughts going through these people's minds couldn't matter less to me. "Whatever," I say, and turn to leave.
Whispers rise around me like a swarm of angry hornets as I cross the track field back to the school’s main b
uilding.
"Wait a minute, Sophie," calls Ashley from behind me.
Here's the good part. I don't have to listen to her. She wants to argue with me, but I don't want to have to endure the pleasure of her company.
Without looking, I can sense her running up to me. She grabs my upper arm, forcing me to face her.
"Aren't you going to explain?" she demands.
"No." I don't even know what she wants me to explain, but I don't feel the need to explain anything to anyone.
"Okay, I didn't want to say this to your face, but you're just asking for it." Ashley's voice is high-pitched. It carries throughout the field. Quite a few people crowd closer to watch. Even Landon decides to rise from his comfortable perch on the bleachers and step closer.
I would be happy to number among the spectators and have my boring high school life disturbed by a juicy fight.
But I hate being in the center.
"You're sleeping with both of them, aren't you?" Ashley asks.
For a virgin, I sure get around a lot.
Someone who doesn't get Ashley would have straight out denied the accusation. I just smile at her in a way I know makes me look crazy enough to unnerve her. I pull my arm out of her grasp, taking a step toward her to invade her personal space.
"Is that a problem?" I ask, my voice low and calm, a complete contrast from hers.
She meets my eyes with her wrath burning in her gaze and then takes a step back.
I win.
"I never knew you were such a whore," she hisses.
"Whore? Why a whore?" I wear mock-confusion on my face.
Ashley takes another step back. She's the sort of girl who'd mentally abuse someone in an instant, but she's useless if things get physical. She's terrified of being hit.
"Oh, 'cause I'm a girl?"
I grab Ashley by the chin and bring my face down to hers, our lips less than an inch apart. Then I slide my cheek against her cheek. "I think 'player' suits me better," I say into her ear. I don't whisper it. Nobody would be able to hear if I did, and that'd just be cruel toward our doting audience. "Playing the players is like stealing from thieves. It doesn't count."
I shove Ashley away from me. She stumbles back but manages not to fall over. Her face twists with rage. She didn't see this coming; she didn't expect me to be like this.
But I'm impulsive. I live for these moments when I surprise even myself.
On my way to class, everyone looks at me, but nobody dares get in my way.
* * *
My little scene with Ashley could very well have cost me a visit to the principal's office. It's a fortunate thing the faculty avoids the track field like the Witch of the West avoids water.
Nevertheless, it set the school buzzing.
In my school, if you have no friends, have no intention of interacting with anyone, and don't do anything out of the usual, no one will even know your name.
But within moments, everyone knows who I am and what I supposedly did.
Everyone has sex by senior year. That's a given, a fact. It's a pressure that lies on the shoulders of all high schoolers, a nagging little fly in our ears. You must have sex, it buzzes. You didn't have sex yet? Have sex, have sex, have sex. What are you, some kind of rock?
It's this pressure that wraps sex up in constraints, games, and rules, and makes it a topic talked about in whispers as if it's some kind of taboo. Everyone's hooking up with everyone. Everyone's having sex.
No one's sex life is the subject of widespread public debate.
It’s like there are neon lights flashing out of my hair with the way people stare at me as I pass through the corridors. The fear that my presence commanded right after I confronted Ashley has ebbed down. I keep my face blank, my back straight, my chin up. I’m inclined to strut, but I don't.
Okay, maybe just a little.
I don't care about my changed position. I want to be having sex. I don't care about whether people look at me or they don't. The only thing that's bothering me, if I'm perfectly honest, is that they keep trying to talk to me between classes as if I'm some sort of hero. I even have some random guy ask me out. This makes moving around the school much slower than I'm used to.
I remember only during seventh period that I have band practice today, and with all the Shawn craziness, I forgot my oboe at home. Last week’s practice was cancelled. I haven't touched my instrument at all over the summer and forgot to buy reeds.
I've been playing the oboe since I was six. I'm passably okay at it. I'd've quit if it weren't for the fact that participating in the school band looks very nice on my college application.
Mr. Sovarski, my AP calculus teacher, rambles on in the front of the class. The decision to skip eighth period solidifies in my mind. Now all I need is to convince my date that we’re going to commit the crime together. I scribble a memo on the corner of my notebook and tear it out. Landon's conveniently sitting right next to me. I manage to catch his eye as I fold the little note four ways.
He raises his eyebrows at me, one corner of his mouth turning up in a half-smile. He lets his hand, the one nearest to me, fall from the desk and rest palm upward in his lap.
In one quick motion, I pass him the note. He attempts to close his fingers around it, but grasps my hand in the process. The touch of his skin is warm and smooth and sends happy little sensations up my arm.
As I slip my hand from his, the back of my palm grazes his thigh. I lick my lips. Calculus, please be over.
I have never in my life wanted another human being to this extent, and I get it now. It's fun. I'm having fun wanting him. My body is filled with this electric energy that's at once both painful and pleasing. I get why people do this. I even get why they obsess over it.
When he reads my note, a wide smile breaks across his face, and he gives me a thumbs-up. I nod my head once and then go back to concentrating on what Mr. Sovarski has to say about numbers.
* * *
Calculus ends just when I'm hanging on to the last threads of my patience. Landon and I are out of there faster than anyone can say hooky. The best part? Shawn sees us leaving together. I push my hand into the back pocket of Landon's jeans as I look over my shoulder at the other boy.
Landon notices what I'm doing and wraps his arm around me, drawing me against him.
I can't hide my glee when I see Shawn's expression. His jaw tightens, and his eyes squint into a steady glare. I like Shawn's angry face. So pretty.
My head snaps back to look straight ahead, and it suddenly sinks in that my hand's in Landon's pocket.
Wow, his butt. It's spectacular.
“So, where’re we going?" I ask. We round the corner, and the school falls out of sight. Maybe this is all happening too fast. I was thinking about revenge against Shawn, but there’s no reason to actually go through with this.
Except, that I want to.
"You hungry?"
I shrug. "Depends for what." It could be some kind of food.
Or not.
Landon lets go of me and takes a step away so he can look me up and down, checking me out in a most lurid way. "You don't strike me as the ice cream type."
"I'm not cool, creamy, and sweet enough?"
"You're one of the least sweet girls I've met." He's grinning to show me that he means this in good humor. He doesn't have to. I'd be repulsed if a guy considered me sweet.
"And that's saying a lot," he adds with a frown. It's the first time I see an unhappy expression cross his face. This golden boy with his scratchy Australian accent sure looks sexy when he's troubled.
I decide to pick at where it hurts, because if he can't take it like a man, he's not the man for me. "You've been through a lot of bad girls?"
The smile is back on his face, masking the darkness I glimpsed. "More like bad girls have been through me."
I take a big step toward him, coming up right against him. His hands automatically go to my waist. "Are you sure you want to try another? I may be the worst of them all."
<
br /> His eyes light up with a fierceness I instantly like. That hungry look on his face can't be mistaken. He's not into food; he's into me. "I'll take my chances," he purrs.
Me oh my. I really, really hope he takes more than just his chances.
Then he does something very weird. He tilts his head to the side and sniffs my neck. It's not bad weird. It's sexy weird. Shivers race down my spine.
I press myself closer against him, sliding my hands over his arms. Whoa. Muscles. My fingers try to dig against the hardness of his biceps, but it's like clawing at stone.
His arms lock around my waist, and like this, we stay for a while.
Yes, we're hugging. Hugging.
I don't usually hug people. I'm not touchy-feely enough. I hugged my mom when Dad was in the hospital after his heart attack. But before that? I didn't hug anyone for years.
When a big black car pulls up beside us, we break apart.
Landon doesn't say a word. He saunters over and opens the passenger door, swinging his arm in a wide, theatrical arc, signaling for me to go in first.
I slide inside, scooting toward the middle to give him room to enter. The seats are cream-colored leather, and the car smells new. The driver is a woman with white-blonde hair. That's all I can tell about her. She stares at me through the rearview mirror. Her eyes are an intense, pale blue.
Landon sits beside me and closes the door.
"You act fast," the driver says with a thick Queens accent.
"Sophie, this is Dianne. Dianne, this is Sophie . . ." Landon makes the introduction in a flat voice while gesturing between us.
"Hmmm . . . Sophie," Dianne drawls. I don't know what to think about this.
"You're his aunt?" I ask.
"She's my uncle's assistant," Landon says quickly. Too quickly.
Suspicious, but I'm willing to roll with it.
Or maybe I'm intrigued. "What does your uncle do again?" I ask.
Landon chuckles, and the driver smiles.