“If you know me so well, you already know I’m going to say no. Why bother asking?”
“I like watching you blush.”
There is nothing I loathe as much as that smile.
“I am not blushing.”
His grin grows bigger, taunting me.
I’m saved from further torture by Mr. Okar’s lesson, which is so intense it leaves little room for flirtatious banter. There should be a rule requiring math equations to have at least one number in them. I somehow doubt Mr. Okar would obey.
As I’m packing up my bag post-lecture, T.K. rests a hand on my shoulder, causing my whole body to freeze and catch fire simultaneously.
“Have fun in English,” he says. He takes his hand off my shoulder and exits the room, leaving me standing alone with my mouth slightly open like an idiot.
It’s becoming sort of a pattern.
“I don’t know what he wants from me!” I exclaim to Lindsay as we make our way down to lunch. I hate how flustered I am.
What is wrong with me?
He’s a stupid high school boy. Sure, he’s a weird, boy of my dreams–technically, of course–but still. He’s a stupid, maddening, awful boy. He shouldn’t be able to make me blush, or nervous, or anything at all.
“Oh, Raye,” she says, shaking her head. “T.K.’s got it bad for you. What does he have to do to convince you?”
“I don’t need convincing. I need him to stop.” I pause to shove a few freshmen heading in the opposite direction. “Move, cattle!”
“A date would do you some good, you know. Plus, he’s super hot. And super into you, like I said. Give the boy a chance.”
“I don’t need the distraction. Or want it, for that matter.”
Lindsay sighs, stopping mid-step. “I don’t know what to do with you. Most girls would kill to have T.K. look at them the way he looks at you.”
“He doesn’t look at me,” I huff, taking a seat at our usual table.
I’m not in the mood for food.
Lindsay snorts, giving me incredulous eyes as she slides in next to me. “Are you blind or in denial?”
I cross my arms, giving her an unimpressed look she completely ignores. “That boy looks at you like you’re a work of art. There’s no way you haven’t noticed.”
“He does?” I ask, the blush creeping back into my cheeks, where apparently it is now at home. Stupid hormones.
“Yes! At least consider giving him a chance. He’s a million times better than Mitch, and you’ll need to date eventually if I’m ever going to be a godmother,” she says matter-of-factly.
Ugh. I rest my head on my crossed arms.
I do not like T.K. Knight.
At least, I do not want to like T.K. Knight.
“There, there.” Lindsay uses her nails to scratch my head soothingly.
“Hey, ladies!” I recognize Marcella’s voice instantly, although I didn’t hear her approach over the cafeteria’s chaos. “Is she okay?”
“She’s having an internal conflict,” Lindsay says, her voice an octave sweeter.
“About?” To Marcella’s credit, she doesn’t laugh. She actually sounds concerned.
I sigh, defeated. Miss Perfect never fails to disappoint. I have to remind myself to play nice for Lindsay’s sake.
“Whether she likes your brother enough to break her own personal rule about never dating slash getting close to a person other than me ever again,” Lindsay answers in one breath.
“Lindsay!” I lift my head off the table to glare at her properly.
“Oh, calm down, it’s not like it’s not true,” she says, silently reminding me of our previous conversation with her eyes. This is Lindsay’s way of showing me Marcella can be trusted. That she is good, wonderful, and worthy. I take a deep breath in.
“I see.” Marcella pauses thoughtfully, considering her new information. “Honestly, Raye, T.K. and I don’t see eye to eye on many things, and for the most part he annoys the hell out of me and he’s too cocky for his own good, but even I can admit he’s interested in you. If you’re worried about that part of the equation, you don’t have to be.” She speaks so fast I have to focus to hear her. “But you can definitely do better.”
“Marce!” Lindsay widens her eyes, unimpressed all her convincing is being shot out the window. Meanwhile, I’m internally cringing at the new nickname. It’s been one week!
“I’m just saying.” Marcella throws her hands up in the air and shoots Lindsay a pleading look. “His interests tend to be quite fleeting. I wouldn’t want Raye to fall victim to what I’ve been told is an extensive toolbox of charm.”
Naturally, Marcella’s warning has the opposite effect.
In free period, I can’t help but let my eyes wander to where T.K. sits, his boots kicked up on the table, asleep per usual. Mitch is working away on more Shakespearean translations, asking a stupid question every few minutes.
“Are we supposed to believe they loved each other so much they were willing to die? It sounds like a chick-flick gone wrong.”
“It’s Romeo and Juliet, Mitch. It’s a beautiful classic. Maybe if you knew anything about love, you’d understand,” I snap, arguing for no other reason than to put him in his place.
The truth is, I agree with him. I can’t imagine loving anyone to the point I’d be willing to die to be with him. There are plenty of fish in the sea and all that bullshit.
From the corner of my eye, I see T.K. adjust his position. Maybe he’s only pretend-sleeping. I have to exert a disturbing amount of energy to avoid watching him.
Mitch doesn’t speak again for the rest of the period, leaving me to peacefully edit my essay on the similarities between Shakespearean comedies and tragedies. In a few short weeks, we’ll be done with Shakespeare altogether, and my time with Mitch will come to a merciful end. Mr. Base can’t possibly expect me to tutor him through every unit we cover.
“What did that guy do to you, anyway?” T.K. asks, catching up with me as I make my way from the library. The bell still chimes overhead, making it hard to hear what he’s saying. I refrain from moving in closer. “You seem to hate him more than you hate the average person.”
“It’s a long story. It happened years ago, and I don’t want to talk about it now.” Especially with you, I add silently. I swerve around another student, trying to lose him in the crowd.
I should know better by now.
“I have time,” he offers, lightly brushing my arm.
“This isn’t one of those feel-good, I open up to you about my troubled past and we fall madly in love moments,” I hiss, turning to face him.
Sometimes I forget how green his eyes are.
“Who’s talking about falling madly in love?” His eyes widen slightly with his response. Right, because I’m the absurd one. “I’m trying to make conversation.”
“Well, I’m still not interested.”
T.K. grins wickedly. “That’s not what I hear.” He shrugs, tosses me another all-knowing smile, and heads back the other way.
So much for Marcella being trustworthy.
∆∆∆
After biology, I head to the girls’ change room to prepare for practice. Since there isn’t a game and tryouts are finished, Lindsay doesn’t make us wear our uniforms. I change into a pair of yoga shorts and a loose tank top and head to the field to meet the merciful captain herself.
From a distance, it looks like Lindsay is teaching an old routine to Marcella and one of the other new girls whose name I can’t remember. I glance to the stands, thinking I’ll see T.K. waiting for his sister like last time, but Chane is alone, flipping through a fashion magazine halfway up the bleachers.
Why bother attending practice if you aren’t going to watch?
“Raye!” Lindsay ushers me over with a pompom. “Ready to show the newbies how we do things?”
The idea makes me instantly exhausted.
I put on my peppiest face and struggle through the entirety of practice, making Lindsay proud. I even ask
Marcella if she needs a ride home, although I’m secretly hoping she’ll turn me down.
“That would be great!” she replies, warm and enthusiastic. “T.K. and Darien bailed early. Chane and I were going to walk.”
I wish she said no.
“It’s not a problem.” I smile; I’m sure it looks fake, but at least I’m trying.
Not bothering to change, we all pile into my Honda, Chane and Marcella in the back and Lindsay next to me in the front. “Tell me where to go,” I say, backing out of my spot.
They live quite close to Lindsay, a few blocks over in a slightly nicer part of the town, although not nearly as nice as where I live. I’m mildly surprised, given their car.
The house looks like an average townhouse, except it’s detached and sits several yards behind the others on the street, shaded by various trees and plants. I pull into the driveway behind T.K.’s Audi. There’s no other car in sight, so their parents must still be at work.
“Do your parents work late?” Lindsay asks as Marcella unfastens her seatbelt.
Chane murmurs a faint “Merci” and bolts from the car before I even put it in park.
“No,” Marcella says, playing with a strand of hair from her ponytail. “It’s us and our uncle, actually, and he works from home. He’s sort of a homebody; he doesn’t leave often.”
“What happened to your parents?” Lindsay loves a good sob story, and her voice is flowing with concern. I’m surprised the topic hasn’t come up sooner given their sudden closeness. I nudge Lindsay in the side as a warning. Maybe it is a touchy issue, like with my dad. I feel new empathy toward Marcella.
“They’re diplomats,” Marcella replies, her voice touched by an emotion I can’t decipher. “We travelled with them for a while, but it became overwhelming. We wanted something more permanent, so our uncle agreed to take us in. We still move around a lot, but at least we stay mostly on one continent.”
Just as quickly, my empathy dissolves.
Lindsay, of course, is fascinated. “Is that why Chane has such a strong accent?”
“Oh, that.” Whatever emotion I detected in Marcella’s voice before has vanished. “Yes, unlike the rest of us, she’s spent most of her life in Europe. She was quite unhappy about moving here, but our parents felt it was best.”
I glance up as a loud noise vibrates the car. T.K. is standing on a ladder pressed against the side of the house, snapping tree branches with a large pair of scissors. He’s shirtless. Of course.
Marcella groans, following my eyes. If humans could be photoshopped in person, I would bet my life savings T.K. had invested in such a tool. How can a person have abs like those? As he begins to climb down the ladder, I twist my head around to avoid the view.
“Wow.” Lindsay doesn’t bother.
“Can we go?” I duck my head, praying he won’t see me, even though my car is clearly visible.
“Why?” Lindsay gives me a saucy smile, tossing her hand up to wave at T.K.
“Goddammit, T.K., put on a shirt!” Marcella yells, stepping out of the car and walking up to the house. “No one wants to see that!”
“I don’t mind.” Lindsay says, rolling down the window. He definitely hears her. T.K. waves at us, his eyes managing to find mine, even though I’m still ducked behind the wheel.
“I hate that guy,” I say, putting the car in reverse.
“Liar, liar,” Lindsay sings.
∆∆∆
I spend the rest of the week avoiding T.K. as much as possible. I don’t know what game he’s trying to play, but I want no part of it. He and his abs can find someone else to torture.
As Friday ends, everyone is discussing the homecoming dance. We skip last period to attend the first football game of the year, and the cheer team is buzzing excitedly as we change into our uniforms, ready to encourage and inspire.
When I first joined the squad alongside Lindsay, I was horrified by the idea of donning a skimpy skirt and fawning all over the guys I had spent the previous year mocking and avoiding. Mitch is on the football team. It was hard at first, to hear people cheer his name and have to smile along with it as though I was unfazed. Now that I’m actually unfazed, it’s nothing more than a mindless activity that gets me out of class.
“Who’s number one?” Lindsay shouts at the crowd.
“R-A-M-S!” the team choruses back at her.
“I said who’s number one?” She raises her hand to her ear.
“R-A-M-S!” I watch in mild horror as people stand, clap, shout, and toss things across the stands. Whoever said teenagers are the future must have depressingly low standards.
Eventually, I lose myself in the tumbles and the words. I throw my body into a front flip, feeling the air cling to me as I land back on my feet. I hate the phoniness of it all, but I don’t mind the activity itself. It’s incredibly difficult to focus on your own problems and do a shoulder-stand. Due to my size, I’m usually a flyer, which involves a good chunk of my concentration. Who knew suffering through four years of gymnastics in childhood would provide such mind-numbing bliss later in life?
Once our cheer is over, we take to the bleachers to watch the rest of the game. The air is cool, a dramatic difference from the start of the week. The temperature dropped at least ten degrees over the past couple of days. My bare legs are covered in goosebumps, and I’m beginning to regret buying a dress without sleeves for the dance. I’m going to freeze.
Something heavy drapes across my shoulders, startling me. I mumble, turning around to the row behind me. T.K. has moved from his original spot at the back of the stands and is now squeezed in-between the two sophomore girls behind me. Neither looks upset about being squished in next to him, although they do look a little irritated I’m wearing his jacket.
“You’re turning blue.” I watch, dumbfounded, as he zips up his navy sweatshirt.
“Uh, thanks,” I reply, not knowing what else to say. I’m not used to nice gestures, nor do I usually accept them when offered, but I’m cold and the jacket smells good.
It’s warm, falling to my knees, and erases my goosebumps in a matter of minutes. I shrug my arms into the sleeves, though my hands don’t come close to poking out the other ends. It smells spicy, like apples and cinnamon. I try not to inhale the scent more than I have to. It’s more familiar and comforting than I’m okay with. What does he do, bathe in apple pie filling?
“What’s this?” T.K. asks, running a finger along the back of my neck. It sends a shiver down my body, even though I’m pleasantly warm inside his jacket.
I usually wear my hair down to cover my neck, but the high tail it’s in must show him the faint marks running parallel along the bottom of my hairline. I turn to face him, forcing him to remove his hand. He looks at me, his jade eyes piercing. His intensity and warmth catch me off guard. I remember why I’ve been trying so hard to avoid him.
“When I was fourteen, I slipped and fell on a broken bottle,” I answer, running my hand across the scars.
I was at a party with Shawn, had taken a cocktail of illicit substances, lost my balance, and fell backward on a row of empty beer bottles. Things could have been worse than a neck wound, although my mom was furious when she had to leave work to pick me up from the emergency room. I was amazed Shawn brought me to the ER in the first place.
T.K. gives me a knowing look, causing me to wonder how much he’s already heard about my past from others at school. There’s no judgment in his voice when he responds. “They make you look kind of tough.”
“I am tough,” I say, less forceful and more playful than I intend.
“Oh, I know.”
I keep my eyes on him a moment longer, before turning back to the game. We’re losing, which is typical. I watch with a spark of joy as a stocky player from the opposing team tackles Mitch, his helmet bouncing off the ground.
Go, Wildcats, go!
“What’s the point of cheering for a team that sucks?” Lindsay says, exasperated as we make our way to my car after the game. Ou
r school loses at least eight out of ten games they play.
“Hey, you’re the cheer captain. Shouldn’t you be more positive?” I nudge her in the side, laughing as she stumbles in surprise.
“You’re in a good mood.” She hesitates, eyeing me with interest.
T.K. let me keep his jacket.
“I’m allowed to be happy, aren’t I?” I say, sliding into the driver’s seat.
“Well, yeah, I guess. Are you feeling feverish?” I roll my eyes as she places her hand to my forehead in mock-concern.
“Shut up, Linds.”
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with your new jacket, would it?”
“I’m cold, that’s all.” My voice lacks its usual defensiveness. “I have been thinking though…”
“Yeah?” Her eyes focus intently, wide with excitement. It is a wonder I tell her anything at all.
“Maybe it wouldn’t kill me to give him a chance. You know, in case he’s not as awful as he probably is.”
“Oh, I knew it! You do like him! No one sees abs like his and walks away. Are you going to go to the dance with him?” Lindsay is practically floating over her seat with glee.
“No,” I reply firmly, causing her face to fall. “But I’d be open to the possibility of dancing with him. Maybe. If he even shows up,” I add, doubting myself immediately. What am I thinking? “What about you?”
When in doubt, change the subject.
“You know I’m not going with anyone,” she says, finally clicking her seat belt into place.
“What about Marcella?” My good mood is causing me to venture into a topic I’ve strategically avoided for the last year.
“What about her?” Lindsay’s voice goes up an octave, but still within the realm of clam.
“Oh, give it a rest, Linds, you’re not fooling me. You never have.” I turn to look at her as I stop for a crosswalk. She’s watching the opposite side of the road with intense interest, even though there isn’t a human in sight.
It takes her four Mississippi’s before she sighs and stops looking out the passenger’s window. “Do you think she knows?”
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