by Kim Roshell
Ashley breathes the sigh of someone who’s been holding their breath for way too long, nods. “I should’ve figured he told you after the way you left.”
“Mmm.” Not sure how hearing his news plausibly leads to my late-night trek, but I guess the dots connect for her.
“I heard him tell Ryan he thought you were pissed, but I didn’t hear why. Stupid boy. He should have known you’d be on my side.”
Is that honestly what she believes? That I think Whit should base his entire future on her dreams of hitting all the keg parties wearing matching blue and white gear?
“Yeah. Well, I’m over it,” I lie. Blink. Really do swallow my gum. “Gotta jet.”
Okay, escape. Whatev.
“Lunch in the courtyard. Don’t forget.”
“Right.”
I slam my locker shut, praying I won’t suffocate under the guilt crushing my lungs when Ashley hugs me before I shoulder my way through the crowded hallway leading to D-wing.
CHAPTER THREE
Simone
Forgetting my Government book meant yet another unplanned return to my locker for the second time today, then back to D-wing in the small window of time they allow for transition from one class to the next. This time, I’m late. However, showing up in Mrs. Thorne’s class without the required supplies results in a loss of ten points I can ill afford given the barely B I’m averaging this grading period.
Bombed a pop quiz.
Twenty-four pairs of eyes swing my way as soon as I step inside the classroom. One pair, I feel more acutely than others. They’re hazel, framed by dark lashes that are no doubt lowered in half-mast scrutiny. I’ve avoided them for most of the day. Is he trying to make everyone suspicious?
“Ah, Miss Bruckner,” Mrs. Thorne booms by way of greeting. She uses the ink pen she keeps on the ready for pointing and detention writing to nudge the glasses teetering on the tip of her beak-shaped nose. “Just in time to give the class two ways the Supreme Court is insulated from public opinion.”
How I forget this particular consequence of being tardy, I don’t know. Maybe because I’m not usually the one making a grand entrance after the bell has rung. Most days, I’m the first at my desk with time to spare since Trig is right down the hall.
Walking in late for Mrs. Thorne’s doesn’t cost any points out of her grade book. Stragglers do, however, lose a bundle in shame. Mrs. Thorne is famous for calling people out, asking questions well beyond normal comprehension. Political crap. Stuff you don’t necessarily hear anyone talking about on the news, or whatever. Politics isn’t my favorite subject. My grade, at present, reflects as much.
You’d think indiscernible blushing would be a perk of being a black chick. Not so with me. My complexion hides absolutely nothing. And it’s not like I’m what some would consider super light, either. I’m more mocha latte, if I had to describe it. There are plenty other black people with way less melanin than me, but apparently, I’m just deficient enough that being out in the cold turns my nose into Rudolph’s. Embarrassing moments? Stand in the middle of the street, and I can stop traffic.
I’ve never had detention, though I’d take one now if it meant I can take my seat without humiliation. I shrug the strap of my backpack higher in a quick save from it slipping to the floor and offer Mrs. Thorne an apologetic smile.
She doesn’t look moved.
I swallow, still feeling that gum in the center of my chest. Tug at the hem of my plaid wool skirt like that will somehow help. One of the idiots in the back—probably creepy Mike Taylor—admonishes me not to bother on his account, which of course sets off a wave of chuckles from his equally idiotic friends.
Honestly, boys are pigs.
Okay, let’s see. I was sick when we talked about Supreme Court stuff right after the inauguration, but I’ve read something about this. “By serving indefinite terms?”
“Only partially true. They can be impeached.”
Right. By Congress. “Also . . . uh?”
She returns her focus on the lesson plan spread out over her desk. “Knowledge on this information is pertinent during these changing times, Ms. Bruckner. Perhaps your lack of full comprehension will compel you not to make a habit of arriving late for my class in the future.”
“Sorry, Mrs. Thorne,” I mutter, slipping into my front-row seat. The hard plastic feels like an ice pack against the back of my thighs as I lean over, yanking out a notebook as well as the primary reason for the shame I just endured. Check the board to see what page everyone is on.
Surprise, surprise, there’s nothing written. Mrs. Thorne also happens to be known for skipping her way around the book. Says it’s her way of keeping it fresh. Her “fresh” method tends to keep the entire class confused more than anything else. Almost the entire class, anyway. A certain someone is guaranteed to mess up the chance at a decent curve for the rest of us.
Chloe Baker despises me. Looking in her direction is pointless.
Honestly, how was I to know she seriously needed help climbing down from that jungle gym? I mean, really, who has such brittle bones in the fourth grade?
“One twenty-eight.”
I pretend not to hear the distinct drawl from the row directly behind me. I’m well practiced at it, so the act isn’t a real hardship. At least it shouldn’t be.
Raina Cuberman sits to my right. Per the norm, she’s dressed like a walking Clearance Section Rejects model. Nothing ever matches. One side of her naturally dirty blond hair is dyed the same shade of yellow reserved for hazardous waste signs. Girl’s mad weird on days ending with a Y, but her weirdness makes her oddly endearing.
I lean over casually, take a peek at the lower left hand margin of her book at the page number. One twenty-seven. Big shock.
I flip pages, ignore the derisive snort coming from behind me.
“Anyone know how many have been impeached? Anyone?”
“Jus’ one.”
No need to turn around to know Mr. Government himself is reclined in his chair, legs crossed at the ankles, his mouth tilted in that trademark own-the-world grin as he speaks to my back. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing at attention, so I know I’m right.
Totally regretting the pigtails today.
“Samuel Chase, 1805. Overturned. And,” his voice dips low into one-on-one conversation territory, “’nother way justices are insulated is they’re appointed by the POTUS ‘stead of elected by the people. Alleviates the urge to bow to public opinion all the time.”
“Excellent, Mr. Devereaux,” Mrs. Thorne croons, having obviously overheard every word. She opens her grade book, no doubt to add another point to his already perfect grade. “We can always count on you for correct answers.”
“Suck up,” I mutter under my breath.
“She speaks.”
How the heck did he hear me?
CHAPTER FOUR
Never trouble trouble 'til trouble troubles you.
—Granddaddy’s answer on moving a beehive.
Whit
Bet she didn’t think I’d hear that.
Wonder what she’d say if I told her that ever since we kissed, I’ve heard every word she’s muttered more clearly than anything she’s said through those luscious gloss-slickened lips in all the time I’ve known her?
Therein lies the trouble.
My nerves are set on high alert to all things Simone. Don’t matter who’s around or what I’m doing. Thoughts of that night drift back to the details I most need forgetting. The scent of her hair, how she felt in my arms when she lifted on her toes and pressed her body snug against mine. That moment she opened her mouth beneath mine, stealing my breath. Those sexy moans of hers bringing me back to life.
The delicious taste of strawberry lip gloss melting on my tongue as she did that thing with her tongue.
Freaking incredible.
This is the same girl who, unless there’s damn good provocation, keeps conversation with me to the barest minimum. Don’t be fooled by all that chitchatting
we did afterward. The moon was definitely full. Two years of sharing classes, I can still probably count on one hand the number of times Simone and I have exchanged more than five words at any given time without Ashley present.
How’s it goin’?
Good. You?
Good.
All right, six words, but you get my point.
If our tepid exchanges happen to progress a step further to Got any plans this weekend?
Stop the presses.
Plainly put, we don’t talk.
Only, the other night, without intent, my eyes scoured the collage of pictures plastering a whole wall in Ashley’s room, searching for Simone’s image, while my girlfriend lay across her rumpled sheets, pouting.
We had the house all to ourselves.
I hardly touched her.
Insanity. And it’s only getting worse.
I was fully prepared to let it go, pretend neither Simone nor I crossed too far over the line, but somehow, she’s jacked my resolve. It’s like everything she does screams, “Hey, Whit! Look at me!”
Really. Look at her. That outfit? Those flirty ponytails circa 90’s Britney? The fitted turtleneck that draws the eyes directly to her tits? She has to know the combination is way too much temptation for male viewers between the ages of thirteen and death. Did she even consider how she’d affect the entire male population when she slipped into that skirt? Not to mention the pleats on that little number are deceiving. When she walks, they swish over her thighs like unpredictable surf on a windy day. High crests with each knee bend, accentuated crash with every footfall, only to surge upward all over again. Like those waves that pull you under no matter how decent a swimmer you are. Let’s face it, all the tugging in the world won’t bring the hem of that thing closer to those sexy over-the-knee schoolgirl socks, and I say God Bless America for it, but she has to know the whole outfit, right down to those shoes, is the perfect storm to rouse the attention of every guy in the building. We’ve been tripping over ourselves, trying to catch a peek on the low.
While we’re at it, could she not have chosen any other color besides red? Like puke green or that suck-ass shade of yellow in Raina Cuberman’s hair? Everyone knows red makes even the plainest girl, noticeable.
Red on Simone stops brain activity.
Don’t get me started on yesterday’s jeans.
But I digress.
Clearing the air is an absolute necessity. We need to set the record straight. Get back to openly ignoring one another. I’ll forget about Cake Seduction, get my brain back on my girl and how her hair smells like flowers.
I like flowers.
Well, much as any straight guy likes flowers, anyway.
Ashley is perfect for me. Gorgeous. Natural blonde, sparkling blue eyes, brilliant white teeth. Petite frame, loves running. A cheerleader with an uncanny ability to wield those assets to her advantage at just the right time. When she dresses up? Stepford Wife personified, but not in that weird, psycho-bitch way. More the looks-awesome-by-the-side-of-an-up-and-coming-attorney type. Smiles, plays a good hostess, makes other guys wish they had my life.
Bonus: Ashley wants to be an Interior Designer. Means our house will look great.
Extra bonus: Mama loves Ashley.
Goes without saying, I love making my mama happy. What respectable Southern boy doesn’t?
In summation? She'll make the perfect wife.
I know. By the standards of most folks born north of the Mason-Dixon, I’m way too young to be thinking about marriage. Eighteen year-old guy planning his settling down? Unheard of in these parts. Life’s different where I come from. We’re groomed that way in the South. Scouting for potential marital prospects begin on the first day of Kindergarten. Sooner, if possible.
By no means am I racing to the altar, but Ashley and I are on the right course. A smooth, unwavering track paved just like Granddaddy’s and my sweet Nana’s. Well, pretty damn close anyway. We’ve hit a few bumps along the way—this school thing is looking a little more like a mountain—like any other couple. Sure my grandparents were no different. Like us, they met in high school, married young. Almost fifty years, they’re still going strong, reaping the benefits of commitment and hard work. Toughed out the lean years, raised five kids while Granddaddy worked his way up to an appointment as a federal judge.
That’s my plan: Right girl, right focus, right life.
Textbook recipe for unequivocal happiness, if you ask me.
Which brings me back to this Simone thing. I’ll feel better once I’ve done some damage control. Lord knows I have enough to worry about come fall when I’m off at college, on top of how I’m going to keep things smooth with Ashley once we’re miles apart. None of my immediate or distant plans include explaining to my girlfriend how I gained intimate knowledge on the tiny chip on the edge of one of her best friend’s teeth.
Mrs. Thorne heads down our aisle, giving me a perfect opportunity to get this party started. “Need a pen?”
From the looks of it, Simone’s got about a hundred of them bulging the pocket of her bag, but this is the closest we’ve come to an actual conversation in days. I’ll take whatever progress I can get, even if it means I have nothing left to write with. Long as Mrs. Thorne don’t get an itch to freshen our lesson with a surprise quiz, or something, I should be fine.
“Nope. We’re not talking about it, either.”
Ah, good. She got my message. Ryan said he’d redeem himself for talking everybody into that game. He must’ve slipped the note in her locker right after I fessed up about everything that went down that night.
Ryan won’t tell anyone.
My lips are sealed.
Simone? She’s the wildcard. I’ve watched her in action a few times. The girl can’t lie for shit. Licks her top lip about a million times like deception has a flavor, and she can’t look anyone in the eyes to save her life.
What I am certain of, that hasty exit of hers the other night has spurred a whole lot of locker room chatter. None of the guys bought that flimsy cover she came up with, and somehow, the less I’ve talked, the taller their tales have grown. At the current growth rate, Simone will be knocked up with twins before lunch.
“Not even with Ashley?”
Think I’m playing with fire, teasing Simone with this don’t you tell your bestie everything bit?
I know I am.
Just like I know playing that card will net a reaction. The subtle threat won’t go any further than this room, if I have anything to do with it. This is my future at stake, after all.
Sure enough, Simone takes the bait, swivels in her seat, spawning a gale wind matching the strength of an Oklahoma tornado. My pulse quickens as our gazes click, hers fiery enough to singe my retinas.
Let ‘em burn. I refuse to blink.
Thing is, I’ve given this a lot of thought. A lot. Deny all she wants, but I wasn’t alone in that closet. Way I see it, Simone’s got as much to lose as I do. More, really. I just need opportunity to issue a reminder.
Her pretty brown eyes narrow into mere slits. “Sure thing. Right after class. We’ll mosey on down the hall, have ourselves a friendly lil’ chat,” she murmurs in a drawl that would raise Sookie Stackhouse’s brow.
Sexy.
I tuck the pen back behind my ear. “Don’t get your panties in a wad. Just thought we should clear the air.”
The glare she sends my way could freeze lava. “You know nothing about my panties, Cowboy, and you never will.”
What was that? Never? Where I come from tossing that word at someone’s feet is equivalent to a declaration of war. I’d be a disgrace to the family name if I didn’t fight back.
I wield my most subtle, yet effective weapon, retaliate with a lazy wink. Fight a grin when I see her chest rise. “Done other stuff I never thought I’d do, Simone. Who knows what’ll happen next?”
Her eyes widen in shock.
This time I do smile.
Raina lifts her pierced brows in blatant interest.
<
br /> Shit. Definitely, should’ve saved this confrontation for later. I’ve never seen Raina talking to friends—she’s gotta have friends, right? Crap friends for sure, since they’re obviously not honest with her about the Big Bird hair. Or the piercings. Or the rainbow vomit she wears. None of that means she won’t fly out of this room, singing like the proverbial canary, no pun intended.
On the other hand, what’s happening here is prime example of how messy things can get if Simone and I don’t nip this thing in the bud. Not that we have a thing. We don’t. At all. A few soul burning kisses hardly qualify as a thing.
I switch tactics. Lose the smile. Maintain eye contact. Focus is key, if I stand any chance of walking away from this battle unscathed. For good measure, I shrug, indifferent, then slide a bit lower in my seat.
Now, if I can stop staring at her lips.
I drag my gaze up until our eyes level again.
“Think the two of us finally having a decent conversation about something other than homework was a step towards getting along for a change, don’t you?”
Hey, we did talk while we were in there, and by speaking in past tense, maybe I can throw Raina off.
“We get along fine the way things are, Cowboy,” Simone rebuts with unexpected defiance. “Less you talk to me, the better.”
With that, she whips back around, ending our little chat.
CHAPTER FIVE
Simone
The After Church crowd has been pouring in nonstop. Tips, however, have not. Explains why I feel my co-worker’s pain as she groans at the sight of four buff guys who look like big eaters seating themselves in her section. They look near identical, though I know they’re not. The one trailing at the end seeks me out with his eyes, giving me a chin tip.
“Order up!”
“Ten bucks to greet them for me. These old hens have me running so much, my feet feel like they’re about to fall off.”
Dina is Mr. Tate’s niece. Two years older than me, she went to Grant until the end of her junior year when she got pregnant, dropped out and married Fitz, our best cook. People still talk about her pregnancy like she’d somehow contracted an awful incurable disease instead of becoming a casualty to condom failure. Dina doesn’t care. Within six months, she got her GED, enrolled in night classes at the community college and will likely earn her Bachelor’s in half the time it takes the average student.