by CJ Daly
later.After a quiet lunch of hiding out and finishing my Pre Cal homework,
I left the confines of the library and stepped outside for the first time since
morning. The sky was a wide expanse of periwinkle blue, with a few wispy
clouds dispersing into thin streaks with the blinding sun. As if on a whim,
the wind picked up, vigorously blowing the new season up my tied shirt. I
shivered and threw my arms around my waist. I decided I’d tried about a day
and a half too late for this look and wished fervently for one of my shapeless
sweaters as I leaned into the wind. A group of senior guys lounging over
the hood of their truck began cat calling. I waved back shyly but continued
forward with wolf-whistles following my trail. I smug-smiled to myself—
looked like my jeans were doing their job.
Predictably, I was the first one in class so I marched right up to Mr.
Sanchez to plead my case. And I only felt a twinge of guilt telling him I got
contacts . After al , hadn’t I been lying about needing glasses all along? He easily agreed to move me back to my original seat. I beamed and headed for the
door with a cheerful, “Thanks, Mr. Sanchez!”
“Don’t you mean, muchas gracias, Señor Sanchez?” he corrected.
“Lo siento. Muchas gracias, Señor Sanchez. ”
“De nada.” His smile was a little too enthusiastic.
Oh Gah! I scurried out the door, cringing at the thought of my teacher
checking out my assets. I still wasn’t accustomed to wearing pants to school,
much less butt-hugging jeans that clung to my legs like second skin. Apparently,
more than just Pete liked the “country Kate look.” This morning one of the
most popular senior boys said something that made me roll my eyes and blush
at the same time: I hate seeing you go . . . but I love watching you leave. Really, so cheesy. Still, it brought a smile to my face, because it had been as easy as
walking by. Who knew catching boys’ attention could be so easy? But I wasn’t
• 333 •
fishing for just any ole big fish in our small pond. I was hoping to attract an angelfish . . . from somewhere beyond the sea.
Firmly holed up in the bathroom till class, I made use of my time
smoothing down my hair with my slick palms. I took another minute to self-
evaluate and decided to add some lip gloss and mascara to my shopping list
this afternoon to add more oomph to my look. I still eschewed makeup as a
whole; couldn’t stand the clogging feel of it on my skin. When Ashley-Leigh
used to use me as her life-sized Barbie, I would run to wash off all her efforts
the second she let me go. Mama always referred to these sessions as “gilding
the lily.” I sighed, thinking: como cambio el mundo—how times change. I
wished we could still be friends because I really missed her mom and female
camaraderie.
But I was on a whole different wavelength now.
The warning bell rang. So with a final swipe of vanilla lip balm, I headed
out, not wanting to be tardy, just late enough that Molly Donaldson already
had a chance to move seats. I saw her sitting up front and center in my
newly vacated seat. It was hard to tell who was scowling more: her, Miguel,
or Ashley. Definitely Ashley-Leigh. I stifled a smirk because Miguel turned around to give me a disapproving grimace. A helpless shrug was my only stab
at commiseration before slipping into my seat in front of Pete. I gave him my
Mona Lisa, not exactly sure where we stood with each other. He instantly
shot back with the kind of primal smile that should be tamed before it turned
indecent. Blood swarmed to my face, shot down my neckline . . . and headed
south.
Gah! Try to at least act cool, Kate.
I forced my body into stillness, but it took roll call and the bell-ringer just
to get my heartbeat regulated. The expectation was killing me. Heaving a sigh,
I flipped back some hair, that had fallen along my neckline, and attempted to
focus on the Spanish film we were watching today. A beat later, soft movement
rippled down the length of my hair—Pete’s finger parting the curtain and
trailing along the back of my neck. A pleasurable, almost unbearable chill
swept down my spine. I whipped around, my eyes flashing to his dark ones.
Slowly, one cheek lifted in that way it did when he was aroused to humor.
“Sorry,” he whispered, “I was just removing a hay seed from your hair.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying but epically failing, to keep a smile off my
face. “Ha-ha, very funny. Aren’t you supposed to not be speakin’ to me?” I followed that bit of maturity up by turning around and grinning like an idiot.
“Fine. I won’t talk then,” he mouthed into my ear, then proceeded to
• 334 •
flick my hair with his pencil every few seconds, presumably just to annoy me (although it was having the opposite effect).
Playing hard to get, I refused to turn around. A minute later something
crackly poked my back. I sighed exaggeratedly, waited a beat, then opened
the note with Ashley-Leigh shooting sidelong daggers at me.
Does this mean you’re talking to me now?
I scribbled back a brief sí, and tossed it back over my shoulder. Warm
air stirred the back of my hair as he chuckled quietly. I noticed we were on
the receiving end of several curious glances—guess it was pretty hard not to
attract attention with a mile-wide smile on your face. I was pretending to take
notes when I felt paper brush the forbidden half-inch of exposed waist. My
eyes cut to Mr. Sanchez, who had paused the TV to point out the vosotros
form was used in Spain but not in Mexico. Apparently, we were visiting
Barcelona today, but I had no idea because I was over the moon. Feigning
impatience, I unfolded the note.
You’re wearing my favorite outfit . . . and look particularly ravishing today.
Another grin threatened to split my face. So, he’d taken the bait. I
scribbled back: F lat ery will get you nowhere in my fanciest scrawl, then tossed it back over my shoulder with nobody noticing but Ashley-Leigh, who looked
like she’d just popped a Sour Patch candy in her mouth. Pete coughed out a
laugh before quickly stifling it with a cleared throat. Once again, I marveled
at how much difference a day makes.
The bell rang, and we stood up, grinning at each other like a couple of
goons . . . until I felt the pressure of Miguel’s eyes on my back. I turned to
see him savagely stuffing books into his backpack. My easy smile faded, and
when I turned back around, it was to find Pete zipping his backpack around
his notebook while waiting for me. Miguel almost tripped over my backpack
in his rush out the door. Pete continued to quietly observe me as I finished
packing up. I had a sudden, sure feeling that he’d missed me almost as much
as I’d missed him. My stomach took a plunge at that heady thought.
About that time Ashley-Leigh decided to make her exit, flouncing past us
with a look-what-you’re-missing smile aimed at Pete. He returned a semblance
of a smile before maneuvering me—hand to the small of my back—through
the jam-packed hallway. Together, we exited out the door and into a blast of
crisp autumnal air. As if in mutual appreciation of the moment, we paused
to watch the flags snap and bi
llow in the breeze. Then my backpack was
confiscated from me, and we began ambling our way up the sidewalk behind
the stragglers stringing behind the pack.
• 335 •
“You know . . . those jeans ought to be outlawed.” Pete’s icebreaker was followed by a lazy, lop-sided grin.
“It’s funny you say that. They’re on my father’s,” I paused to air quote,
“‘forbidden list.’”
He barked out a laugh. “In this particular case, I can’t say that I blame him.”
“Well, maybe you two outta get together and go bowlin’—you do seem
to have a lot in common,” I said way sharper than I intended.
“No offense, but I sincerely hope not.”
“Military background, dead-set on sendin’ my little brother away for
strangers to raise, antiquated notions about what constitutes suitable attire for
females,” I listed out for him, and then immediately regretted my momentary
lapse; I hadn’t planned on busting up the good vibe so soon.
Pete pursed his lips. “Nah,” he disagreed lightly, “just antiquated notions
about what constitutes suitable attire for one particular female.” He nudged my shoulder. “Sides . . . I’d rather go bowling with his daughter.”
Happiness surged through me. God, how I missed him! His gorgeous,
heart-stopping smile, the flirty banter, the just plain ole basking in his golden
presence.
“Well I hate to break it to you, but as far as I can tell from the conversation
I had with my father last night, I’m already spoken for by another”—I cleared
my throat—“and I used the term loosely here—man.”
Pete snort-laughed. “What’s one more hurdle?” I didn’t have time to
decipher the edge in there because he said, “So . . . who’s the lucky guy?” He
leaned over and put his mouth to my ear. “You’ll have to point him out, so I
can kick his ass.”
“I think you can already check that off your to-do list,” I said with a grin.
He threw his head back and laughed. “Good to know—you’re way too
good for any of these guys anyway.”
Almost to gym now, we paused before going our separate ways. A portion
of his entourage was waiting for him inside, fiending for their allotted time
with their hero. The dismal little P.E. class had been basking in Pete’s refracted
popularity; their self-esteem suddenly bolstered by the esteem in which Pete
was held. Most likely their whole day revolved around the glory of sharing a
gym class with him. I hated to tell them their days with him were numbered . . .
as were mine.
Pete acknowledged his fans with a chin lift, and we shared a conspiratorial
smile over his instant, overwhelming popularity. I laughed out loud. I loved
him being a good sport.
“Think I’m ready for my fifteen minutes to be up,” he said with a grimace.
• 336 •
An immediate jolt shook my system, my smile kind of imploding on
me. I shifted my eyes to the flow of multi-colored hoodies ahead of us,
bottlenecking to get in. Pete would soon need to go left while I went right—
seemed like a metaphor for our life.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothin’.” I shook my head. The truthfulness of his statement stung like
an insult. He was ready for his time here to be over. He wanted to get back to his real life—the privileged one he belonged to. Who could blame him? There
was nothing remotely interesting in this small town to keep a guy like him
interested. A heaviness seeped into my chest, dragging me back down to earth.
“Kate, did I say something to upset you?”
Oh Gah. I was doing it again—bringing him down, the mood down.
“I-I was just thinkin’ about that awful fight you got into on account of
me,” I said, making something up on the spur of the moment.
“It wasn’t your fault—I was being an ass.”
I pulled a face. “No disagreement there, but you still didn’t deserve to be
ganged up on like that.”
“It worked out okay. But I gotta say: two shiners in two weeks is a record
for me . . . one I definitely don’t want to break anytime soon!”
“Right.” I forced a laugh. “I never apologized . . . sorry about that.”
“Sorry for not apologizing or sorry for the shiner?”
I laughed more naturally. “Both. . . . That reminds me of something
Ashley said about you the first day of school.”
“Ashley Squared?” he confirmed. When I nodded, he rolled his eyes.
“This outta be good.”
“Actually, it was good.”
He arched a brow. “Do tell.”
“She, uh, said—” I broke off, blushing. “You know what? Never mind.
It’s not important.” I was heading off to the locker room, when a tug on my
backpack snapped me back.
“Oh, no you don’t!” Pete scolded. “You don’t get to just laugh and say I
remember what someone said about you and then just sally away like that . . .
It’s just plain rude.”
“Is it?”
“It is,” he insisted.
I looked up at his face all lit up with humor, noticing how it softened the
chiseled perfection. I must’ve been staring too long, because he cleared his
throat.
“I’m waiting . . .”
• 337 •
“Right. Um, she said that you looked like you’d be more of a, uh . . .”—I did my own hmmm-hmmm, mentally kicking myself for bringing it up—
“lover than a fighter.”
His lips twitched. “And do you agree with her assessment?”
A sly smile spread my lips. “I would tell you . . . but then I’d have to
kill you.”
My borrowed funny was followed by a burst of his pleasant laughter. “For
once, I agree with Ashley-Squared . . .”—he brushed his thumb across my
lips—“I’m definitely more of a lover.”
I swallowed and failed at speech.
The tardy bell did its thing, and I didn’t linger further, running to go change
into my shortest shorts and tightest shirt. This I did in record time while
Shelby relayed her hopes that Jake would ask her to homecoming. I smiled
warmly and told her they’d look cute together. She beamed then hesitantly
asked me about Pete. I gave her an abbreviated update. Couldn’t deny we were
something; the intensity of our relationship was fairly obvious.
Thankfully the whistle blew, and we filed outside to our half of the
practice field. Coach Sams counted us off again, only this time, Pete and I
ended up on the same team. I hoped this was the symbolism our future held.
We worked together really well, passing the ball back and forth with little
(on my part) to no (his part) interception. The coaches had put Jake, Diego,
Shelby, and anybody with any athletic ability at all on the opposing team, yet
we were still up four to zip at halftime. Coach Sams must’ve taken pity on the
other team, because she benched Pete and me for the duration of the game,
reorganizing the teams to allow other players a chance to play.
In companionable silence we sat together on the bench, dispassionately
watching the disaster unfolding on the soccer field. I noticed he was drinking
from the same dark bottle he always seemed to have on hand. He twisted off
th
e cap, and a wisp of steam evaporated into the air.
“What kind of water is that exactly?” I asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen
it before . . . not that I’m a bottled water expert.” I took a sip from my metal
canteen. “All I drink is good old-fashioned Clovis well water.”
“You drink well water?” He said this like I’d just said I went out back to
use the outhouse.
“Yup.” I took another defiant sip.
Pete looked funny for a second then swung the bottle between his legs,
staring intently at our kicker as he attempted a long-range field goal. Awkward.
“Forget I asked.” I leaned my elbows on my knees, and my chin in my
• 338 •
hands, and watched as the ball just grazed through the posts. I hated how evasive he got about everything. I still knew next to nothing about him or
his organization.
“It’s purified, oxygenated water provided by the Academy,” he finally
answered, as though the field goal had earned me three little facts.
“Oh.” Weird. Did they ship it to him because Clovis water was polluted?
Was the plethora of regular bottled water you could purchase at any
convenience store still not good enough?
I was trying to lure in an elusive, exotic creature, so didn’t want to make
any big, sudden movements. So I just let it go for now—he obviously didn’t
want to discuss his life at The Academy in any kind of personal way.
The wind whipped up again, rushing stinging bumps down my arms.
I shivered. Weather this time of year could be volatile, dropping twenty to
thirty degrees in the blink of an eye.
“Are you cold?” he asked.
I shrugged the same time he shrugged out of his long-sleeved, navy tee
and handed it to me. Underneath, he had on another shirt, only this one was
worn and tighter so that it clung to his chest. I took a moment to admire his
physique. Pete had the kind of musculature that manifested itself in a natural
way—say from playing lacrosse all day rather than pumping iron.
“Thanks.” My smile faded when I noticed the gold motif covering his
heart. It was hard to make out at first because the letters were peeling off like
chipped paint, but the roaring lion head was unmistakable.
After a moment of me holding on to his warm shirt, he slid a smile my
way. “You gonna put that on or continue to wound my chivalrous pride?”