He scanned the tickets. “Cam, these are right behind home plate.”
“I hear that’s pretty good seating,” I teased. He grabbed me so suddenly; I dropped my purse to the ground.
“We have to leave- a half an hour ago! Mr. Camden, thank you so much,” he reached to shake my dad’s hand, but he pulled him into a hug.
“Be safe, don’t be too late, and text me constantly. That’s all the thanks I need.”
By the time we were on the road in Logan’s black Camry, it was almost dark. “Just curious… where were we going tonight?”
Logan smiled, his eyes on the road.
“What?” I demanded.
“The Indian’s game. Bleachers, though. Great minds think alike, Camden.”
I warmed inside, threading my fingers through his.
The Indian’s stadium was nostalgic for me. For years, as children, Logan and I went to games together. Until just a couple of years ago, we were lucky to benefit from the season passes that his father’s company passed out each winter. With the economy what it was, most companies did away with extravagant gifts for their employees- including Mr. Rush’s. I hadn’t been to a baseball game with Logan since I was thirteen years old.
The bright lights turned night into day, giving the illusion of walking into another world. The evening was balmy, and the familiar smell of the hot dogs and popcorn near the gate brought a smile to my face as we walked hand in hand to our seats.
Once settled, Logan was in awe of our view. He thanked me again, and I kissed his cheek. “You’re welcome. I want to tell you something,” I said, my pulse quickening. I was ready for this, but still, my nerves were live wires.
“Oh, yeah?” I licked my lips, taking a deep breath. He took my wringing hands out of my lap and held them tightly. “What is wrong? You’re freaking out,” he scolded.
“Never mind,” I said, breathing deeply to calm myself. “Let’s just enjoy the game.”
We stayed for the fireworks after the final inning. Cleveland beat the Yankees, so our walk back to the parking garage was filled with Logan’s excited chatter about the plays in the game, the calls the umpire made, and the error that he could not believe had happened. I listened, just happy to have spent the evening with him. By the time we were back in his car, in traffic and heading toward the highway, I finally found the courage to talk to him.
“Pull over, please?” I asked. He gave me an incredulous look, gesturing to the traffic. We were trying to follow a detour for construction.
“It’s pretty crazy out there.”
“I know, please, just for a second. Just pull next to that memorial.” I pointed to the War Memorial Fountain. He nodded in the direction I pointed to.
“The giant naked guy on fire?”
I giggled. “Yes, that one.”
He did as I requested, ignoring the honking horns as he pulled into a no parking zone near a row of orange construction barrels. “I’d guess we have about eight to ten minutes before we get a ticket. What’s up?”
I smiled shyly, smoothing my hair before taking his hands. “Logan, I love you.”
He smiled. “I love you too, Roam Eva Camden.”
I cringed. “Okay, good. No middle name, please.”
He chuckled.
“I, um,” I swallowed, my hands gripping his for support. His puzzled expression turned to worry.
“Roam, please- now I’m starting to freak out. What’s wrong?”
Out with it. “I… think I’m ready. For you. For us. It’s your birthday… and your parents are away… and I think tonight is the right night.”
He raised his eyebrows, skeptical. Now that I had said it, I heard the cliché in my words and winced. I waited, giving him time to look at the steering wheel as if it was a crystal ball. I had never asked him to tell me the truth about Abby, and if they ever took things further. Now, I wondered if he was thinking of her, of them together, and of how I’d compare. I then decided I needed to work on my self-esteem.
I dug my fingernails into the pads of my fingers. When he turned back at me, he looked… disappointed? “You’re not ready for that, Roam. I refuse to be a regret in your life. We’ve talked about this, and I know you’re afraid. Just because it’s my eighteenth birthday- doesn’t mean you’re suddenly ready.”
“Logan…,”
“Look, let’s just go home and get some rest. We’ll talk about this when it’s not my birthday, and you don’t feel pressured. Okay?”
I nodded, humiliated. He sensed my embarrassment and gathered me into his arms. I pressed my face against his shoulder. “You are so lucky that it’s me in this car, your best friend in the world, not some other guy. If I didn’t love you as much as I do, I’d drive ninety-five miles an hour to get to my house right now. I’d never let someone pressure you into something you’re not ready for- not even me. Not even on my birthday.” He kissed my forehead, and then my lips. “But- I’m pretty sure the naked guy on fire is pretty disappointed with my chivalry.”
I gasped a tearful laugh, returning his kiss. “Thank you for that.” I whispered.
He shifted into drive, signaling to move into the street. “I’ll never hurt you Roam. And I’ll never let anyone hurt you. I promise you.”
I nodded, resting my head against his shoulder as he drove.
“I believe you.”
Chapter Two
“Ro!” Alison May squealed with delight, slapping her flat palm against my open locker dramatically. “OMG. Please tell me you have AP World History.”
“I have AP World History,” I mused, entertained as always by Ally. Logan, Ally-May (as I called her since I learned to talk), her brother Jason and I had been best friends and neighbors since we were babies, but throughout high school she drifted away and Logan and I grew closer. As much as I loved Ally-May, we had little in common any more. When Jason left for college last year, she complained that she felt like a third wheel with Logan and me. As much as Logan and I politely protested, we felt the same way.
I adjusted my book and binder in my arms, careful not to let the two new mechanical pencils roll to the floor. Her smooth, caramel skin had the perfect amount of make-up applied, leaving me to feel inadequate with only a little eye shadow and mascara. I had always envied her curls, and it wasn’t until my mother explained to me in third grade that Ally-May was genetically blessed with her dark ringlets; no curling iron or hair spray could give me her African-American heritage.
“Girl, the teacher is new and he is so hot. OMG!”
“Ally-May, you do know that ‘OMG’ is not a word, right?” I glanced at my iPhone. Text from Logan.
You look cute in argyle. ILY. That morning, he told me he liked my ‘weird-plaid’ shirt. I’d informed him the print was called ‘argyle.’
“What period is your history class?”
“First- right now.”
“Okay, right after class please meet me at my locker. You have to tell me everything about him!”
“I’ll try, but I have to meet Logan. See you later,” I smiled as she caught sight of another friend and rushed away with a quick wave.
Oh, a hot teacher. I had made it through almost my entire high school career without dealing with such a thing. Smirking, I texted Logan back quickly.
Silly. ILY2.
We hadn’t discussed our talk in the car last night, and I was relieved. As Logan had suggested, after a full night’s sleep and without the dramatic element of my boyfriend’s eighteenth birthday looming over my head, I saw clearly that I was making a foolish, emotional decision. I should have discussed this with Morgan. Morgan was the closest I had to a mother, and now, apparently, I couldn’t trust my own feelings. I swear to God, every time I kiss Logan, I lose a batch of brain cells.
I found my class easily, but there was no sign of a teacher in the front of the classroom. I glanced around, searching for an adult-looking person, but found only the same group of kids I’d spend most of the day with. I affectionately referred to us al
l as “smart seniors.” Ally-May called us “nice nerds.”
The bell rang. I chose a seat front and center, as usual. Hot teacher or no hot teacher, I wanted to do well in this class. As a potential history major at Princeton or Yale, I needed this class on my transcript right next to an A. I was excited to see that the books were brand new, the latest edition. Anxious, I opened to the first chapter and began reading The First Civilizations.
“Welcome to Senior AP World History. My name is Mr. Perry, and I’ll be your teacher for exactly 182 days.” His voice startled me. I raised my eyes quickly to the door.
He spoke into the air, facing the thermostat on the wall. “I like it about sixty-eight degrees in here, so please dress appropriately.” Satisfied with the adjustment, he turned around to face the class.
Blood rushed in my ears. I moved quickly to smooth my hair, in the process sliding my new book just close enough to the edge of the desk to teeter. I slapped both the desk and the book in an ungainly attempt to save it from the plunge.
It crashed to the floor at my feet.
My fellow smart seniors gawked at me, amused. Flushing, I felt as if Mr. Perry had cranked the thermostat to ninety degrees. “Sorry,” I mumbled, grabbing my book and trying to smooth out the ugly, dog-eared pages that were victims of the fall.
“Miss Camden, are you okay?” He asked, thankfully having the decency to look concerned. He bent to gather my pencils that rolled to the tiled floor.
“I’m fine,” I breathed, giving up on my book. “Thank you.”
I lifted my eyes to his and met the darkest blue eyes I’d ever seen. He was incredibly tall and broad- even kneeling he was as tall as I was, sitting at the desk. His white dress shirt was rolled casually at his wrists, paired with khakis and brown, leather loafers. His sandy blonde hair was just long enough to reveal a slight curl. Tanned skin told the story of time in the sunshine, not narcissism and a tanning bed. His five-o’clock shadow was nine hours early. Hot did not describe Mr. Perry.
I was captivated.
“Fine?” He repeated, smirking.
“I- yes,” I whispered. Beat! I ordered my heart, panicking for the seconds it failed to function.
“Great. Okay. As I was saying, welcome to AP World History. I respect you, you respect me. For example, when Miss Camden here dropped her book, I did not laugh at and ignore her, I asked if she was okay and helped her pick up her pencils. You have known Miss Camden since elementary school; I have known her for five minutes. I showed her respect. Try it.”
Chastised, the class murmured and looked directly at me. I melted into a pool of mortification.
“If you are staring at your crotch and smiling, I know that you are texting- which is unacceptable in my classroom.” He looked directly at Michelle Crane, who was bent over in her seat, most likely text-blasting her contacts that Roam Camden had a convulsion over Mr. History. When she finally realized the class was looking at her, she quickly tucked her phone into her backpack, squirming in her seat. “Thank you, Miss Crane.”
Does he already know everyone’s names and faces? How is that possible? Some emotion struggled to surface inside me. Did I feel bad for Michelle? Was I irritated that Mr. Perry said ‘crotch,’ a word which- I thought- was highly inappropriate for a teacher?
“Ringing phones are mine. Texts get read- out loud. You should have no expectations of privacy on school grounds. That’s my first and only warning.” He paced while he spoke, and I made a mental note to choose a seat against the back wall tomorrow.
He smiled suddenly, his teeth flawlessly straight and white. I widened my eyes, pulse quickening. What is wrong with me? As Morgan would say, I needed a good, solid slap across the face.
“I rarely offer extra credit, so please do the work on time and right the first time.” He stopped pacing at the far corner of the chalkboard, easing into a rolling, leather chair at his desk. “And last but not least… this is history class. Timelines. Events. Dates. Don’t bore me with your opinions; I won’t bore you with mine. Just facts.”
My hormones began to simmer as that elusive emotion tried again to surface. Why was I irritated? He’s arrogant. Of course he is. Anyone who looks that good can be as arrogant as he wants to be.
I raised my hand, adrenaline sending a fresh stain of red to my cheeks. He looked surprised, but smiled politely. “Yes, Miss Camden?”
“Just to be clear; are you opposed to us voicing our opinions on history, or forming them all together?”
Someone snorted in the back, and a few snickers followed. Mostly, I was being gaped at, I could feel it.
Mr. Perry tilted his head to the side slightly, as if considering my question. I held my breath. Those dark eyes met mine assertively, but I kept my gaze locked with his. “Miss Camden, I’m sure you’ll have more than a few opinions once we get started. I’d love to hear each and every one of them. But- please make an appointment with me. I will not let one student monopolize another student’s time.”
He smiled, disarming. “As I said, I am restricted to only 182 days- something tells me you’ll need a little more time.”
I returned his smile and decided to be mature. “I feel like you know me very well,” I conceded, feeling as though the ice was broken- a little- in the heavy classroom. He laughed a husky, baritone laugh that made two girls to my right audibly swoon.
“Well, I make it a point to know who I’m teaching,” he agreed, crossing his arms over his broad chest. I looked around; even the guys in the room were forming a jocular bond with him. How can he be so superior but so damn charming?
“So, let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves. This is the kind of thing you’ll need to get used to for college next year. We’ll try a thirty-second elevator speech- who are you, where have you come from, where are you going, and why? The concept is- you meet a potential contact or employer in an elevator, you need a speech and a business card. You’ll need to make connections to be successful in this world. I’ll begin.”
He owned the floor. “My name is West Perry. I have a PhD in World History from Harvard University. I’ve taught at several universities in both England and the US. I enjoy traveling, reading, and music. I look forward to an…,” he looked directly at me, grinning. “insightful year with all of you.”
What? A PhD from Harvard?
“Mr. Perry? Why are you teaching at a random public school with a PhD? I mean, lucky us, but… huh?” Brandon Trusink asked, and a collective agreement followed.
“I have my reasons,” Mr. Perry said quietly. Whoa- privacy zone. Brandon took the hint and nodded. “Roam, since you’re right up front, you can go next.”
Again with the flushing. I was careful to keep my hands folded, avoiding creating another scene with my textbook. My lips went dry, so I wetted them quickly and cleared my throat. “Sure. My name is Roam Camden. I plan to attend Yale and major in history. I enjoy reading…,” suddenly mortified that Mr. Perry and I sounded like a Match.com commercial, I panicked. “…swimming… watching movies… and spending time with my boyfriend.”
He raised his eyebrows, interested. “Good luck to you, Roam.” He looked at me intently. “Do you mind if I ask you where your name came from?”
Thrown, I widened my eyes. I looked around at the other students who were clearly enjoying my discomfort. “My name?”
“Roam- spelled like ‘to travel.’”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, annoyed that he would have the gall to ask me such a personal question in front of the entire class. Biting the inside of my cheek, I, gripped my textbook. “The B52’s song. Roam. My mom was a fan.”
He smiled broadly, as if I had some philosophical answer he’d been searching for his whole life. “Ah yes. Great song.”
“Yes.” I looked expectantly at the boy to my left, and he introduced himself as James Linton III. Halfway through his dissertation on the importance of history in culture, I glanced sideways at Mr. Perry.
His eyes were still on me.
/> I looked down immediately, trying to focus on listening to the other students. Something about him was disconcerting, something other than his incredible good looks. Anxiety flooded me as I stole another glance at him. This time, he was nodding and listening to James, absently running his palm up and down his right, inner forearm.
I finally realized what I was feeling.
Pin-prick chills began in my scalp, crawling on hands and knees down my neck and scurrying over my body.
I was afraid.
Chapter Three
My hair is spread out under my cheek on the mattress; a strange, sweet smell permeates my nose. I wake up slowly, my subconscious dragging as if jogging in water. First I see my hair; my hair is blonde, and it’s not a trick of the eerie light creeping in the torn shade through the window ahead of me. Why is my hair blonde? I splay my hand over my hair, touching the rough mattress. Where are my sheets?
I am still, my eyes darting around the room. I think that it is a motel room. A strange mirror is on the wall by the bed, directly in front of me. The surface of the mirror is liquefied, but I can still see myself clearly.
I am at least ten years older.
The sound of metal chinking metal draws my attention. Someone is sitting at the foot of the bed, feeding what appear to be coins into an old television set. “Of course, time runs out when I need the news,” he spoke, dragging the thick cigarette in his hand with his mouth. Is that a cigarette?
“What are you smoking?” I speak, and my voice is deep, mature- I do not recognize my own voice. He turns to me.
“Relax, I’ll roll you one in a second,” He responds. I widen my eyes; I think he’s freshly showered because his hair is wet. He is wearing a white undershirt and jeans.
It’s Mr. Perry.
“What? Drugs?” I sit up, remembering the only time I’d ever smelled pot. I had sneaked into my parent’s bedroom, watching my mother smoke in her bed. She hadn’t wrapped her head in a scarf that day, so I could see the clumps of hair mixing with the bald spots. When she saw me, she began to cry and told me that she didn’t want me to see her like this.
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