He opens his mouth and lets his tongue tease my lips just as I hear footsteps. I open my eyes just enough to see our Geography teacher, Mr. Pritchard, headed our way.
I tear my lips away from Harry’s.
“What?” he asks. But the second he sees that I’m looking beyond him, he turns around.
“This is quite inappropriate,” Mr. Pritchard says sternly.
“It is, isn’t it?” Harry says, agreeing, taking Mr. Pritchard by surprise. He puts his hand over his chest, looking appalled as Harry grins at him and continues, “Bloody good fun though.”
My mouth practically falls open in sync with Mr. Pritchard’s, and I gape at Harry because I can’t believe he just said that!
Mr. Pritchard looks like he might burst, and his hands go pale as he squeezes them at his sides.
“I’m sorry,” I cut in, trying to salvage the situation. “It was, like you said, completely inappropriate, and we are both,” I emphasize, “very sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“You can tell that to the headmaster.” He scowls, making us follow him to the office.
And I’m freaking out for the hundredth time today.
Harry looks seemingly unaffected, which makes me want to yell at him. Because we might have had a chance if he hadn’t been so sassy!
I shake my head, trying not to overreact. I mean, what’s the worst that can happen?
“Detention,” Headmaster Compton says, crossing his arms. “Tonight and then again next Tuesday and Thursday.”
“Shit,” Harry mutters from the chair next to me.
I glare at him.
“Excuse me?” the headmaster says.
Harry pulls his lips into a tight smile.
“Nothing,” he mutters.
The headmaster nods. “As I thought.”
I stay silent, looking pitiful and as sorry as I can. I really have no interest in adding more nights of detention because I was being disrespectful.
“Now, get out of my office.”
Harry and I get up, get out, and make our way back to the lunch room.
“I can’t believe you,” I growl at him.
“What?” Harry says, sticking out his bottom lip. “Are you upset with me too?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to keep a straight face, but watching Harry pout is adorable, and my lips ache to smile. And that sort of pisses me off, so I fight my lips, urging them to stay mad.
“You have to admit,” Harry says, taking my hand, “seeing Mr. Pritchard’s reaction was fucking brilliant.”
“I thought he was going to strangle you,” I admit, trying hard not to laugh.
“I’m here to always keep things interesting.” Harry laughs heartily.
“Yes, I know, but I can’t imagine how awkward Geography is going to be now.”
“Nah. Mr. Pritchard knows me. I’m always getting into trouble. Don’t worry about it. He’ll blame me anyway, not you.”
“Why do you think that? You’re always harping on yourself. Besides, aren’t you usually only blamed for the things you actually do?” I question.
Because, sometimes, something seems off about the way he talks. Like he’s always getting in trouble, so he will always be blamed. But maybe if he wasn’t getting into trouble, he wouldn’t be blamed? Right?
“Mallory,” he says, turning to me, just short of our lunch table, “my parents think I’m useless. My teachers know I don’t try. And no one expects anything different from me. They don’t push me to be better or to get my shit in order because they don’t see potential in me. So, if you’re worried that Mr. Pritchard will hold it against you, he won’t.”
I can feel the sincerity in his words. And I realize that he actually believes all he said.
“Harry,” I start, but he glances toward our table, to Noah and Mohammad. “Look at me,” I plead.
He shrugs, looking uncomfortable. “What?”
This gorgeous boy is standing in front of me, his blue eyes, short blond hair, and crisp white shirt making him look all the more charming. But I notice him squirming under my gaze. I realize that he’s hiding behind his outgoing personality. Behind a facade of not caring. He doesn’t care what people think about him because he thinks they’ve already decided.
“Just because someone doubts you doesn’t mean you should doubt yourself. You can do whatever you want to do, Harry,” I say, taking his hand. “If you want people to believe in you, you have to believe in yourself first.”
“That’s very American of you,” he says.
“It’s true though,” I push.
“It’s different here, Mallory. I can slack off and have fun now because my parents are away. They don’t respect me; they don’t care. But one day, they’re going to come home and expect that I start helping with the business. That I put on a suit and fall into line. That I keep my mouth shut and follow orders to maintain what they’ve built. I have a choice now to go against what they want for me. To push back. To have my freedom. But eventually, I won’t,” he says with resignation.
“And you’re just going to accept that? I don’t understand. Because you don’t have to follow anyone’s plan but your own.”
“I won’t have a choice,” he replies seriously.
“But why not?” I ask, feeling frustrated.
“Because I’m sealing my fate now,” he says, looking upset. “They think nothing of me, and I’m fulfilling that every day. Because it’s the only way I don’t disappoint them. At least I can fulfill that one expectation of me.”
I stare at him, wondering if he really feels that way.
If Harry is that insecure. The whole situation makes me want to cry for him—cry with him. But, all of a sudden, Noah is standing next to us, placing his hand on Harry’s shoulder. Harry doesn’t look either of us in the eye, and I instantly feel bad for pushing him on the subject.
“Thinking about joining us for lunch anytime soon?” Noah asks. “Or do you plan on torturing Mohammad and me, standing here, chatting away, while we sit, desperately awaiting your company.”
I’m surprised by Noah’s words. They’re unusually light and airy, but they do have the desired effect of cheering Harry up.
“Well, if I knew that Mallory and I were torturing you by denying you our presence, I would have at least taken some pleasure in it.” Harry wraps his arm around Noah’s shoulders, ushering us all to the table.
“Where have you guys been?” Mohammad asks in between mouthfuls of pasta.
“In the headmaster’s office,” Harry says like it’s no big deal, stealing a soda off of Mohammad’s tray.
“What?” Mohammad asks.
“Why?” Noah adds, looking at me, concerned.
I lower my hands in front of me, urging him to stay calm.
“This one was getting frisky with me out in the hallway,” Harry says, nodding his head in my direction and winking at me. “Couldn’t keep her hands off me.”
“I’m not sure that’s exactly how it happened.” I smile at Harry, knowing he loves the attention.
I look to Noah and watch as his face drops from Harry’s down to his lunch tray. He takes a bite of his pasta, slowly chewing it. I stare at him, wanting him to look at me, but he won’t.
Is Noah upset?
“I’m going to get something to eat,” I say, getting up from the table.
I walk away, feeling my stomach twist. Because first I upset Harry, and now, even Noah seems off.
Everything just feels—kind of wrong.
I’m not the kind of girl who gets caught kissing in the hallway.
I’m not the kind of girl who pushes people to share their past.
I’m not the kind of girl who lies to her host family about where she was the night before or gets detention.
I’m not feeling like myself at all.
But when I get back to the table, everyone’s mood seems brighter. Harry and Noah are smiling, Mohammad is telling a joke, and it’s like everything is back to normal.
Just giv
e him time.
Geography
“Are you all right?” Noah whispers to me as we leave lunch.
“I’m just feeling weird,” I admit, grateful to be talking to him. “The things Harry was saying. About getting in trouble. About what people think about him.” I start to spill my guts but then stop. I don’t want to break Harry’s trust, but I also get the feeling I’m not telling Noah anything he doesn’t already know.
“Harry’s special. He’s one of the most special people I’ve ever met,” Noah says.
“I agree.”
“The problem is, he doesn’t know it or believe it.”
“But why not? Because Harry is special, and he deserves to feel that way.”
“Look, you and me, Mal, we have it good. Great. We have families who love us, care about us. My mum always tells me that she loves me, no matter what. Harry was raised, being told the opposite. His relationship with his family is, in a word, rough. And that’s putting it mildly. He was raised, being told that he was a screwup. That he was never good enough. He was raised to believe that he could only be loved if he met certain conditions.”
I shake my head. “But he knows that you and Mohammad love him.”
“But we don’t talk about it like you do. Girls like to talk. Guys,” he says, shrugging, “we just show it. With a pat on the back, a hug. A few drinks when things are shit. Harry, Mohammad, and I, we’ve always been like that. We like action. We notice it and are thankful for it. But we don’t discuss it or dissect it. Or how we feel. That’s never been how we handle things.”
“So, it’s probably hard for him to answer my questions when he’s never thought about it for himself?” I say, realizing I must have made Harry super uncomfortable.
“Exactly. Just give him time. Besides, the best thing to do is show him that you’re someone who cares. We can’t change his relationship with his family, but we can make him feel accepted.”
I turn to Noah as we get in front of my locker, grabbing on to his arm so he stops with me.
“Sometimes, I think you’re way smarter than I give you credit for,” I tell him.
Noah wrinkles his nose up at my comment. “Thanks, I think.”
“I’m on a roll with saying stupid things today.” I shake my head at myself. “What I meant is that you give great advice, and I appreciate you talking with me. I needed it.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he replies before giving me a brotherly pat on the head and walking off to his next class.
When I get to Geography, I notice Harry isn’t in his typical spot. He’s seated in the far right corner, and I look at him, confused. I take a few steps into the classroom, moving in his direction, but Mr. Pritchard sticks his arm out, stopping me.
“Your usual seat is a few rows back, I believe, Miss James,” he states.
“Right,” I comment, like I should have known all along.
This is our second form of punishment.
Like somehow having Harry not sit behind me in class will stop his desire to kiss me? Correct thinking, obviously.
I move down my regular row and take my seat. I look over at Harry. He rolls his eyes and sticks his tongue out in Mr. Pritchard’s direction.
I mouth to him, This is your fault, but he knows I’m teasing because of the smile on my face.
Despite not being happy with Mr. Pritchard’s extra punishment, I am actually able to focus more in class.
I copy down the notes he writes out across the board, not being distracted by someone adorable sitting directly behind me.
I sneak a peek over at Harry, thinking about what Noah said. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be raised like that. Knowing that my parents wouldn’t always support me. Not feeling secure and loved.
Harry is actually paying attention, too, so much that he doesn’t notice me looking at him. I watch as he writes in his notebook, glancing between the page and the board. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Harry put in any effort in class.
I think he just puts his effort into different things—his friends, having fun. I peek a glance at Olivia, and the thought crosses my mind that maybe she knew all this.
Harry deserves someone who makes him feel special, not someone who parades him around so she can say she has a boyfriend.
It’s not funny.
Yoga
When I get to yoga, I’m feeling tired and even more hungover than this morning, or maybe it’s just the tired talking. But either way, I’m ready for this day to be over, to be home and in bed.
I stretch out before class starts, dreaming of the smell of Helen’s baking bread. I think about how Mia’s room glows from the twinkle lights she has strung up. How their house is warm, inviting, and comforting.
I ignore Olivia for the first part of class, but even from across the room, I can feel her glaring at me.
Halfway through class, Amy gives us our regular five-minute break. I get up, asking if I can use the restroom, just so I can escape the small room for a few minutes.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Olivia says, stalking up behind me.
“Anywhere other than where you are,” I comment back, so not in the mood.
“Funny, I thought you might be interested to hear what Harry had to say to me last night,” she says, putting her hand on her hip.
I turn to face her, ready to tell her that I couldn’t care less what transpired between them when she continues, “I’m sure it hurt, the fact that he didn’t stand up for you in front of, well, everyone, last night. But I figured you might want to know what Harry really thinks about you.”
“Why would I believe a single thing that comes out of your mouth?” I ask, growing angry. I’m so over this girl.
“Because you know that Harry and I have a connection. And I’m sure it’s killing you to not know what he whispered to me. What we talked about.”
I take a deep breath, trying to hold back my smirk, but if I could see myself in a mirror, I’d bet I was practically glowing now.
Because I’m not going to get mad. I’m going to get even.
“Right, Olivia. Just like I’m sure it’s killing you not to know the things he whispered to me in bed this morning—about you.” I give her a cocky grin, back away, and flip her the bird.
Because, well, fuck her.
She’s a nightmare of a girl, and this is getting ridiculous. The boys told me not to let her get to me. But they don’t have to deal with her constant insults.
I just want her to leave me alone. I’m done with all her drama.
“You bitch,” she says, seething and all of a sudden, she launches herself at me, knocking us both to the ground.
“Seriously?” I yell at her.
She has her hands on my shoulders, and we’re rolling around like idiots. I try to push her off me, but she wants a fight.
“I hate you,” she screams, trying to pull my hair.
“I don’t really like you either,” I growl, rolling her onto her back.
I get both of my legs pinned to her sides, trying to reach for her hands to stop this ridiculous scene, but then all of a sudden she slaps me. My face burns where her palm was, and she looks at me with as much surprise as I feel.
“You,” I yell, trying to grab her wrists so she’ll spot flailing, “are a lunatic!”
She scratches my arm, causing me to roll away, but because she is practically attached to me, we both wind up rolling across the floor.
I hear a deep voice in the hallway, but I can’t look up because Olivia wraps her legs around mine and shoves her elbow into my rib.
Hard.
I cough and try to grab her arms, but they’re out of my reach. When I finally do get ahold of them, I roll her off of me and kick at her, trying to push her farther away.
My face and arm are burning.
She reaches for my hair and I push back harder, because I don’t want her to get anywhere near my face again.
Thankfully, she retreats for a moment, crawling away from me.
But then I hear, “I hate you,” and she pounces on me.
Her face is bright red with anger, and she’s slapping at my chest. I press my hands onto her shoulders, trying to push her off me. When it doesn’t work, I go into protection mode, covering my face.
I need her to stop hitting me.
Next thing I know, she’s pulled off me while still swatting in my direction.
I’m so pissed off, I want to lunge after her, but someone yanks me off the ground. I look over and see that Mohammad has his arms held tightly around Olivia’s waist. But she’s still mad and flailing around.
“Get off of me,” I scream to whoever has ahold of me.
I try to push away, but then my back is pulled hard against a strong chest and I’m dragged away.
“Calm down,” I hear over my shoulder, instantly recognizing Noah’s voice.
I look around us, noticing a group of guys clapping and laughing. My eyes go to Olivia, who is still seething but no longer trying to untangle herself from Mohammad’s arms.
“What is going on here?” Amy says, running up to the four of us, looking between Olivia, Mohammad, Noah, and me.
She doesn’t wait for our response. She just points down the hall and yells at us, “Headmaster’s office. Now.”
She takes in the circle surrounding us and practically growls, “Everyone, get back to your classes, or you can all follow me to the office.”
The spectators disperse, and Mohammad starts trying to plead his case.
“But I didn’t do anything,” he whines.
“Save it,” she says, putting her hand up in the air at him.
He crosses his arms, pouting.
I look down at my throbbing arm. I have three red nail marks cut into my skin.
“I can’t believe you slapped me,” I say to Olivia.
Her hair is a mess, her face is red, and she’s still glaring at me as we follow Amy down the hallway.
“I can’t believe you kicked me in the stomach,” she counters.
“You wouldn’t get off of me,” I hiss, trying to be quiet.
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