Burned: A High School Bully Romance (Del Sol High Book 2)

by McKayla Box

  Mercy shrugs. “He's cute and he's always nice to me. And I like tall boys.”

  “Why does everyone wait until this week to ask people to the dance?” I ask. “It feels weird.”

  “It is weird,” Brooke says. “It's tradition. Supposedly, the first winter ball at Del Sol was put on at the last minute so people didn't have time to ask their dates or plan until the week of the dance. That's the legend, anyway. So everyone waits until the week of the dance to find their dates.”

  “Except for you and Nick, who do your weird ass ritual of pretending not to be a couple but really are and then show up together,” Dylan says.

  “We're not together,” Brooke says.

  “So are you going together?” Dylan asks, raising an eyebrow.

  Brooke studies the remainder of the slice of pizza in her hand. “Yep.”

  We all laugh.

  “Well, I guess that just leaves me,” Dylan says. “May have to fly solo.” She looks around the courtyard. “Unless I can find someone who looks fun in bed.”

  We all laugh again and I'm shaking my head, when I see someone approaching me from the side.

  I turn and notice Ricky coming toward us.

  He slows when I see him, then holds up a hand in greeting.

  I hesitate, then hold up my own hand, and get up.

  “If you want me to kick that dude, I will,” Dylan says.

  “I'm good,” I say and walk toward him.

  He's got his cap on and he tugs on the bill. “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  “I, uh, looked for you this morning, but couldn't find you,” he says. “You think anymore about the interview?”

  I shrug.

  He frowns. “Look, is there anything I can do to convince you? If you really won't do it, I gotta go tell our advisor and listen to her yell at me. And I'd rather do that sooner than later.”

  I sigh. “You'll seriously get busted if I don't do it?”

  He nods. “Oh yeah. And, look, it's my fault. I shouldn't have said you would before talking to you. So that's on me. I just didn't think you'd say no.”

  I look away from him. They are still trying build the beach ball snowmen on the stage. They are now trying to put sunglasses on the balls that are functioning as the heads.

  I look at Ricky. “How long will it take?”

  His eyes widen for a moment. “To interview you? Half an hour, tops. Probably more like twenty minutes. I swear it won't be painful. And I can just record your answers. I don't haven to write anything down. It won't take long at all, I promise.” He pauses. “And I'll have to take a picture.”

  I sigh again. I'm trying to remember my grandmother's words and to not overthink what he's asking for here. I still don't want to do it, but I also don't want him getting in trouble for something that shouldn't be that big of a deal.

  “Can you do tomorrow after school?” I ask.

  He tugs on his cap. “Yeah, for sure. When and where? I'll be here.”

  “Let's do right after school,” I say. “Can we use the library?”

  He nods. “Yeah, totally. Okay. I'll be there five minutes after the last bell.”

  I nod. “Okay, me, too.”

  He gives me a thumbs up. “Awesome. Thanks so much for doing this. I'll see you tomorrow after school.”

  I watch him walk away.

  And I hope I'm not making a mistake.

  Chapter 19

  “I hate the mall,” Dylan says, pushing her sunglasses up on her head. “It always smells like the zoo.”

  It's after school and we are at Del Sol Commons, a sprawling outdoor shopping center at the north end of town. We've decided that since three of us have dates and one of us is still contemplating hers, that we should find dresses. So after class, Brooke drove us to the mall, which doesn't really feel like a mall at all. I am used to indoor malls with food courts and escalators. This mall is a single level plaza with massive fountains and sunshine everywhere-

  “It doesn't smell like the zoo,” Mercy says. “The zoo smells like the zoo.”

  Dylan wrinkles her nose. “Whatever. I don't like this place.”

  “This place is like my home,” Brooke says. “I will probably miss it more than my actual home when I leave for school.”

  “Yeah, but you're like Elle Woods,” Dylan says. “All glamorous and shit. Of course you like this place.”

  We all laugh as Brooke leads us into the boutique dress store on the other side of the fountain. We take a few minutes to search the racks. Brooke and Dylan each find several to try on and disappear into the changing rooms, leaving Mercy and me to continue sifting through the dresses.

  “What's the matter?” Mercy asks after a few minutes.

  “Oh, I just don't see anything that looks like me,” I tell her.

  “Not what I meant.”

  “What do you mean then?”

  She looks at me. “You look...preoccupied. You keep wrinkling your nose, even when you're not looking at a dress.”

  I laugh. “Do I?”

  She nods. “Totally. What gives?”

  I sigh. “I told that Ricky kid I'd do the interview for the paper. And I'm having second thoughts.”

  “So tell him no then.”

  “If I do that, then he'll get in trouble,” I say. “At least, that's what he says. And I don't want him to get in trouble over something like that. I know it'll be fine. I'm just being weird.”

  “What worries you about it?” she asks, sliding several dresses to the side.

  “I don't know. I'm just not used to talking about myself.”

  She looks over the rack at me. “If you're worried he's gonna ask about your dad, just tell him you aren't talking about.”

  I feel my face redden. “Is it that obvious?”

  She smiles. “No. But I just assumed that's what you might be worried about. And you have every right to tell him that's off-limits if you don't want to talk about it. It has no business in a dumb school paper thing anyway, so hopefully he's not even going that route. But if he does? Tell him to get lost.” She pulls a peach-colored dress from the rack. “And this would look killer on you.” She holds it out to me.

  I take it from her. “You're right. I just need to chill about the whole thing. If he brings it up, I'll tell him I'm not gonna talk about that. That should be fine, right?”

  She nods. “Yes. And if he gets snotty about it, then just bail it. Then he can deal with getting in trouble or whatever he says is gonna happen.”

  She's right. It's the right attitude. I can control it. And I need to stop worrying.

  I look at the dress she's handed me. It's gorgeous. And it is a color that doesn't look terrible on me. “This is pretty.”

  “Try it on,” she says. She holds up a lilac-colored one with spaghetti straps. “What do you think of this for me?”

  “The color is amazing,” I say, nodding. “Yes. And you're right. I can control the interview. I'll stop stressing.”

  She grins. “Good. Now, let's go see how hot we look in these.”

  We find our way back to the changing rooms. Brooke is standing in front of the mirror in a red, strapless, floor-length dress that looks like it belongs on a movie star. She turns around when we get there. “What do you think?”

  “I think even I might want to sleep with you in that,” Mercy says. “Holy shit, that looks incredible.”

  “Incredible,” I echo. “You look beautiful.”

  She twirls around once in it, watching the mirror. “Yeah, I like it, too. Okay, this is the one.” She looks at one of the closed doors. “Are you coming out here, bitch, or what?”

  The door opens and Dylan steps out in a midnight-blue dress that barely covers her ass. She glances in the mirror. “I think it's too long.”

  “Too long?” Brooke says. “Girl, if it's any shorter, we're gonna see your ass cheeks.”

  Dylan tugs on the bottom of it. “You think?”

  “She's right,” Mercy says. “It's hot.”
/>   “Definitely,” I say.

  Dylan makes a face. “Alright, I'll think about it while you two try your shit on. Hurry up.”

  I step into the small dressing room, wiggle out of my clothes, and pull the dress on. It's longer, to my ankles, but with a slit in the skirt that rides up to mid-thigh. It's strapless and fits me about as well as a dress will ever fit me. The color looks right. There aren't many times I look in the mirror and like what I see, but this is one of those times.

  I step out of the stall and Dylan lets loose with a loud wolf whistle. “Hot mama!”

  “That looks great,” Brooke says, nodding approvingly. “Don't even try on anything else.”

  Mercy comes out of her dressing room and the lilac dress is stunning on her.

  “Oh my god,” Dylan says. “I hope you want to fuck Jake Kellogg, because he's one-hundred percent gonna wanna do you in that dress.”

  We all laugh.

  “Oh, please,” a voice says behind us. “No one is gonna wanna do any of you four hags. Get real.”

  We all turn.

  Reese is standing there with Bree and Fallon, an ugly smile on Reese's face.

  “You guys here to play princess dress up?” Reese asks. “Maybe go home and have a tea party?”

  “More like a skank party,” Bree says.

  “The more, the uglier,” Fallon murmurs.

  “You guys are in the wrong store,” Dylan says. “I believe the quick liposuction place is a couple places over.”

  All three of them glower.

  “You guys know you can't find guys at the mall, right?” Brooke says. “I mean, not to date anyway. I guess you might run into a blind guy now and then, but something tells me even he would know to stay six feet away from all of you.”

  Reese smirks at her, then moves her eyes to me. “And don't you look oh so shitty for Archer. Can't imagine what you had to bribe him with to get him to go to a dance.”

  “Literally nothing,” I tell her. “He asked me. He wants to go.”

  “Yeah, right,” she says. “No fucking way.”

  “Yes fucking way,” I say. “But don't worry. I'll make sure and thank him the right way for taking me. I made sure this thing slips right off.”

  Reese's mouth flattens into an angry slash.

  “Are you cows going to be done soon?” Bree asks. “We need to get in there and try on dresses that don't look like shit.”

  “Isn't that everything you put on?” Mercy asks. “You're like the opposite of Midas.”

  “We might need a couple more...hours,” Dylan says. “So you'll just have to wait.”

  They look ready to fight and, for a moment, I'm imaging the seven of us all going at it in a dress shop at the mall. It's like a really bad movie.

  But then something flashes through Reese's eyes and she smiles. “Come on, ladies. Let's go find some coffee and some dresses that don't look like they were found in a garbage can. We can let them have their little dress-up party. For now.” She focuses on me. “Your time is almost up, bitch. Have fun now. While you can.”

  I watch the three of them turn and leave the store.

  I don't know what she means about my time almost being up, but I don't like the way she says it so confidently. It makes me nervous. It makes me think she's plotting something.

  As we go back into the stalls to take the dresses off, put our clothes back on, and then pay for our dresses, Reese's remark reminds me of how vulnerable I am because I'm still holding back. I'm still keeping secrets. If I want to feel stronger, if I want to make sure no one can hold anything over my head, I have to open up and tell the truth.

  Especially with Archer.

  Chapter 20

  Brooke drops me off at home. I show my grandmother the dress and she approves. Everything feels normal for a moment and it's like I can breathe.

  But then I remember that I've made a commitment to go talk to Archer and all that air goes away again.

  I ask my grandmother if I can borrow her car and then text Archer to see if he's home. He responds right away and I ask if I can come over.

  Yeah, but make sure you're fully dressed when you get her. My dad's here.

  Ha. I wasn't going to drive naked.

  Mmm. Another time then. Hurry up and get here.

  I run a brush through my hair, tell my grandmother I won't be gone long, and head out. The whole way to his house, my fingers grip the steering wheel like I'm trying to choke it. I try to figure out the right words to say to him, but nothing sounds exactly right. By the time I get there, my stomach feels like it's full of rocks and there is sweat on my neck. I take a couple of deep breaths, wipe the sweat off my skin with a tissue, and get out.

  He's already got the front door open by the time I get there. “Bummer.”

  “What?”

  “I was hoping you were lying about wearing clothes.”

  I roll my eyes and he pulls me into him and kisses me. I melt against him and I'd so much rather push him into his bedroom than tell him what I need to tell him. I slide my hand down below his waist and feel him inside of his shorts. He groans and pushes his hips forward.

  “What are you doing?” he whispers. “I told you my dad's home.”

  “I know,” I whisper back. “I just wanted to say...hello.”

  He chuckles and kisses me again. “I wish you could say hello a little longer.”

  I squeeze him and pull my hand away. He whimpers.

  “You'll live,” I tell him.

  He laughs again and steps out of the way so I can come in.

  I am always astounded by his house. It's straight out of a magazine. Floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the Pacific. Sleek, modern furniture. Marble floors. Granite counter tops. Everything looks like it was custom ordered and expensive. I always have this fear of breaking something whenever I'm there.

  “You want something to drink?” he asks. “Soda or something?”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  I follow him to the kitchen and his dad is standing there at the massive island. He's an older version of Archer, his hair graying at the temples, stylish black glasses on his face. He's tall and lean and tan. He's wearing a pale blue dress shirt and black linen slacks, staring down at a bunch of paper on the island. He glances up when we walk in, looks back to the paper, then looks up again.

  “Nola,” he says. “I didn't realize you were here.”

  I hold up my hand. “Hi. Just got here.”

  “Arch didn't tell me you were coming by,” he says, smiling. “Nice to see you.”

  “Nice to see you, too.”

  His father has always been polite and friendly to me, but it's always felt like there was something in the way. Archer has told me it's not me, that it's him and that's just how he is. Distant, a bit aloof, especially after Archer's mom died. I try not to take it personally.

  “How are things?” he asks.

  “Just fine,” I say.

  “How are your grandparents these days?”

  “They're good.”

  “I ran into your grandfather last week,” he says. “He's a good man.”

  Archer pulls a soda from the stainless steel fridge and sets it in front of me.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  He looks at Archer. “I've got a dinner meeting tonight. There should be some leftovers in the fridge. Or you can order in.”

  “Got it,” Archer says.

  “Or if you wanna wait until I get home, I might not—”

  “I got it,” Archer says again. “I'll figure it out.”

  I open the soda to have something to focus on because the exchange is awkward and the silence that follows even more so.

  “It's the meeting with Les Holtman,” his father says. “I told you about it. He's in town for about four hours and—”

  “It's fine,” Archer says. “You don't need to explain. I got it.”

  They share a long look and neither of them seems willing to break it. Finally, his father looks down at the pape
rs on the counter.

  It's a reminder that things are still very awkward between them and that Archer is still harboring anger toward his father over the way he handled his mother's death by not telling him until the end how sick she was. We've had several conversations about how it created this mistrust of his dad and even though he doesn't want to be angry with him, he can't help it.

  And it's the thing I fear most about telling him about my mother.

  That he'll feel the same way toward me.

  His father picks up the stack of papers on the counter and takes a moment to straighten them. He takes off his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose for a second, then slides the glasses back on. “I really should stop by the office before I meet with Les. Which means I probably need to be going now.”

  “Okeydoke,” Archer says, not looking at him.

  He forces a smile at me. “Nola, I'm sorry I have to run. I feel like I'm always leaving when I see you.”

  “That's okay,” I say. “I understand.”

  “Soon, it would be nice if the three of us could have dinner together,” he says.

  “I'd like that,” I tell him.

  He nods, then waits awkwardly for a moment, like he isn't sure what to do next. “Arch, I'll text you when I'm on my way home.”

  “Yep,” Archer says, opening his own soda.

  His dad smiles at me again, gathers the papers, and walks out of the kitchen. About a minute later, I hear the alarm beep as the front door opens, then closes. Outside, I hear the rumble of a car engine in the driveway and then it slowly fades away.

  “Did I show up at the wrong time?” I ask Archer. “Things seemed...tense.”

  He shakes his head. “No. It's pretty much always like that.” He turns around, opens the fridge again, and pulls out a beer this time. He twists the cap off and takes a long drink. He sets the bottle on the counter. “Just the way it is.”

  “Does it have to be that way, though?” I ask.

  He picks up the beer, looks at it for a second, then takes another long drink. He sets the now half-empty bottle on the counter and looks at me. “He made it that way. So, yeah. It does have to be that way.”