‘No, dumbass,’ Melody said, cocking her head at him. ‘We both made the dance squad, which meets last period. That’s when we had bio last semester, so we had to switch. Lucky us.’
Her glance flicked over me then, taking swift inventory of the tats peeking from the sleeves of my thermal henley, the bar through my eyebrow and the stud in my ear. For the space of one second, our eyes met before hers slid away.
‘Jesus, Dover – no need to be hostile,’ Boyce chuckled.
She glared, objecting to being called by her last name, I’d guess – especially by Boyce, who’d admitted to me that he’d called her Rover Dover all through elementary school. Having pretty much burned every bridge he crossed, our friendship was like a malfunction of his usually deficient people skills.
Our table was at the back of the classroom. Boyce and I leaned against the wall, stools tipping on to two legs in defiance of classroom policy. Mr Quinn either didn’t notice the infraction or didn’t care to confront us. Melody and Pearl had to turn round to face the front of the classroom, leaving their notebooks and bags on the table, vulnerable to Boyce’s inspection.
The girls had been writing back and forth in Melody’s spiral, and when they turned their backs, Boyce slid the notebook to our side of the table to read it.
‘Cut it out, man,’ I whispered. ‘What the fuck.’ I moved to push it back, but he held an elbow up, blocking me.
Eyes wide, he pointed to the feminine scrawl that I recognized as Melody’s. I shook my head, and his brows elevated. ‘Look, dude. Seriously.’
I scanned the page and read, Is it just me, or is Landon Maxfield OMFG HOT this year??? Holy. HELL.
But you have CLARK, Pearl had written beneath this pronouncement.
Melody replied, I can look, can’t I? Switch chairs with me. I want to sit across from him.
I glanced at the back of Melody’s head, her silky blonde hair hanging straight and heavy down her back to brush the tabletop. It covered her ears today, hiding the side of her face from view. She remained diagonally across the table from me. Pearl had shaken her head, frowning, at some point in this written conversation – probably here. There was no reply from her in the notebook.
Dangit, Pearl. What kind of wingwoman are you? Melody wrote.
The kind that will keep you from making a big mistake. Duh. Pearl replied.
I rotated the notebook and pushed it back where it had been, my thoughts spinning, while Boyce pretended to grab his dick and whack off, complete with facial expressions of ecstasy. I punched him in the arm and his stool unbalanced itself and slid out from under him, crashing to the ground and making us the centre of attention. Landing on his feet, he tried to punch me back, but I brought my stool forward and leaned out of his reach.
‘Mr Wynn has decided to demonstrate what happens when someone violates the class rule concerning keeping all four legs of our lab stools firmly and safely on the ground.’ Mr Quinn sighed loudly. The rest of the class chuckled as Boyce righted his stool and sat, scowling.
‘Assclown,’ Melody muttered.
‘Do you need medical assistance, Mr Wynn?’ Mr Quinn pressed, enjoying the moment of interest and popularity his lectures never generated.
‘No, sir, Mr Quinn. My ass – and other important parts – are all in working order. It’s just OMFG hot in here. Holy hell.’ The class roared with laughter and Mr Quinn attempted to restore order.
Melody narrowed her pale eyes at him, and one second later they went wide in realization. Her gaze snapped to me and her lips fell apart as her face flamed red. I stared at her glossy pink lips and then back into her eyes. Grabbing her notebook, she slammed the cover shut and turned round with it in her hands.
I punched Boyce again, he fell off his stool again, and Quinn sent us to the office with yellow slips that would result in detention.
‘Jesus, Wynn.’ I twitched the hair out of my eyes as we left the classroom.
‘What? You didn’t wanna know that your favourite little piece of ass thinks you’re –’
I turned and slammed him into a locker and he threw his hands up. ‘Fuck me. Dude, don’t go losin’ your shit over a girl like her –’
‘And Pearl Frank is any different?’ I shot back, turning to march towards the office – and Ingram, who’d be thrilled shitless to see the two of us, no doubt.
He sighed and followed, our boots echoing in the otherwise empty hallway. ‘I’m realistic, man. I just wanna do her. I know I can’t have more than that.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, but doing her is completely possible.’
He grinned. ‘Hell, yeah. I’m Boyce Fucking Wynn. Anything is possible.’
I couldn’t help but laugh, pulling the office door open. He didn’t even hear what he’d just said. In one breath he insisted that all we were to girls like Melody and Pearl was a good fuck, and in the next, anything was possible.
I was holding out for the latter.
‘Ain’t you ’bout to be sixteen?’ Grandpa said to me, the night before my birthday.
‘Yeah, Grandpa.’ I waited for the punch line. With Grandpa, there was almost always a punch line to these sorts of queries.
‘I didn’t know if you were wantin’ a flouncy pink dress or somethin’ to go with that earring.’ He chuckled to himself and I smirked.
‘Pink’s not really my colour. But thanks.’
He was showing me his secret weapon to chewy box brownies – adding one less egg.
‘Your grandmother never could figure out how my brownies came out better’n hers,’ he said, and I laughed.
‘You kept your secret a secret from Grandma?’ My father’s mother had died when Dad was in high school, so I’d never known her.
‘Hell, yeah, I did! She did try to wheedle it outta me, God love her.’ His eyes glazed over, reminiscing. I stared into the bowl and beat the ingredients together, giving him his private moment. As I stirred, he leaned closer. ‘The ladies love chocolate. Don’t ever forget that, boy. If you can provide homemade chocolate, all the better. This secret will getcha out of the doghouse, guaranteed. Mark my words.’
‘Grandpa – this isn’t actually homemade.’
He harrumphed. ‘Close enough.’ I layered the creamy mixture into the pan he’d made me butter with my bare hands – which was kind of gross. ‘That butter’ll crisp it up. Get it into all the corners,’ he’d said.
Once they were baking, he asked, ‘What we were talkin’ about? Oh, yeah. Your ever-advancin’ age.’ He snickered and I rolled my eyes when he wasn’t looking. Still waiting for that punch line.
‘I was thinkin’ that tomorrow, we ought to start you learnin’ how to drive.’ My mouth fell open. When I didn’t reply, he said, ‘’Less you don’t want to.’
‘I want to!’ I answered, jerking out of my stupor. ‘I just … I didn’t think you and Dad would –’
‘Don’t get too excited. Ain’t no muscle car behind this proposal. Just my old Ford truck, when I’m not using it. Figured you might wanna go on a date or somethin’ – as long as it’s not with that Boyce Wynn. You can do better’n him.’ He laughed to himself again, and this time, I joined in, shaking my head.
‘Thanks, Grandpa. That’d be awesome.’
He shuffled down the counter and pulled a driver’s handbook from the drawer next to the cutlery, full of secrets tonight. ‘Start learnin’ the rules, and I’ll alert the populace to vacate the back roads this weekend.’ He grinned and patted my shoulder, leaving the kitchen, and I stepped into my pantry room, flopped on to the bed, and opened the book, listening for the brownie timer.
Mr Quinn walked table to table, assigning diseases. ‘Each team will identify how their particular disease is caused – genetic, viral, bacterial, chemical, et cetera. I want to know if there are methods of prevention, if there are known or debated treatments, and whether or not it’s contagious.’
The table next to us was assigned anthrax. We got lactose intolerance.
‘What the hell kind of lam
e-ass –’
‘Mr Wynn, I’ll thank you to keep your language deficiencies to yourself.’
‘But, Mr Quinn – lactose intolerance? What kinda disease is that? People who get the sharts when they drink milk?’ The class erupted into howls while Melody stared at Boyce with homicidal intent and Pearl covered her eyes, elbows on the table, sighing. Our teacher’s face screwed into a knot of exasperation. Predictably, none of that deterred my friend. ‘Stop drinkin’ milk – problem solved! Can’t we have something like, I dunno, Ebola?’
Quinn returned to the front as the bell rang. ‘Start your research tonight, and be ready to debate your findings within your team tomorrow!’ he called over the shuffling as we all headed for lunch.
‘How can you be friends with that idiot?’ Melody asked as we pressed towards the exit.
I lifted a shoulder and smiled down at her, catching the edge of the door and holding it open. ‘He’s entertaining?’
She conceded with a tilt of her head. ‘If you’re amused by complete idiocy.’ She started to return my smile, but it vanished when her boyfriend dropped his arm over her shoulders the moment we entered the hall. He was usually waiting for her after class.
‘Hey, babe.’ He fixed me with a look. ‘Hey, emo freak. Get your dick pierced yet?’
‘Clark,’ Melody gasped as we entered the flow of students, most of us eager to escape campus for half an hour.
‘Why are you so fascinated by my dick, Richards?’ I asked.
He turned round and then glanced over my shoulder, where I knew Boyce was. ‘Fuck off, freak,’ he said, leading Melody down the east hall, towards the parking lot.
‘I think Richards needs a new repertoire.’ I watched the sway of Melody’s hips, her boyfriend’s arm round her neck like a collar.
‘Huh?’ Boyce arched a brow. ‘You know he’s buyin’ from Thompson now, right?’
I laughed. ‘Perfect. So he’s a hypocrite as well as a douche.’
‘Dude. Coulda told you that years ago.’ He knocked knuckles with a friend over the heads of a couple of girls as I watched Melody and Clark disappear through the far door. ‘Did I tell you he tried to pay me to fuck you up again?’
I pulled to a full stop and a freshman slammed into me, bounced off, and sprawled on his ass. Reaching down, I grabbed his hand and yanked him to his feet, guessing he had every textbook he’d been assigned in that backpack. He weighed twice what he should.
‘What’d you tell him?’ I asked Boyce as the freshman stammered a thank-you and scurried away.
Boyce grinned, one brow arched. ‘Told him to go fuck himself, of course.’
LUCAS
Jacqueline didn’t text or call me, so I concluded that either (a) she hadn’t seen the number on her cup or (b) she saw it and wasn’t interested in talking to me.
Considering that she’d volunteered her name and asked mine, I didn’t think she was indifferent.
She emailed Landon, but her message was economics-related only. Or so it seemed on the face of it. She mentioned going out with friends Saturday. When I replied, I referred to that comment: I hope you enjoyed your night out. A night out I knew all about. She wouldn’t tell Landon any more about her Saturday night, of course … but I wanted her to. With every exchange, I dug myself a bigger hole, but I couldn’t stop digging.
Then I alluded to her breakup, and the fact that I’d never meant to be rude by acting as if I didn’t want to know the details. Between the written lines, I urged, Tell me, but I didn’t expect her to answer that unwritten directive – to reveal such an unprotected part of herself.
With one paragraph, she laid it all at my feet – the amount of time they’d been together. The fact that she’d followed him here to school, instead of auditioning for a prestigious music programme far away. The way she blamed herself, completely, for being stupid. For believing in him.
She thought she was stuck somewhere she wasn’t meant to be in consequence of that decision.
I wasn’t a believer in fate or higher powers, as much as I wanted to be. I had faith in taking responsibility, and clearly, so did this girl. But I couldn’t fault her for following someone she’d loved for three years – it pointed to a loyalty she wasn’t giving herself credit for. If she believed in responsibility, then the best thing for her to do would be to take control again. To own the decision she’d made, however she’d made it. To make the best of it.
So that’s what I told her.
Wednesday, she arrived in class early, and I made an impulsive decision – all I seemed to be capable of where Jacqueline Wallace was concerned. I slid into the seat next to her and said her name. She startled a little when she looked up, expecting the guy who usually sat there, probably. But she didn’t lean away from me.
‘I guess you didn’t notice the phone number on your coffee cup,’ I said.
‘I noticed.’ Her voice was soft for such a smart-ass retort, candid curiosity in her steady gaze.
I asked for her number in return, and she asked if I needed help in economics. I almost choked, strung out between a now-familiar guilt trip and amusement at the absurd corner I’d backed myself into. Do you need help in economics? I asked why she’d think that, wondering, for two heartbeats, if she knew and was screwing with me.
If so, I completely deserved it.
‘I guess it’s not my business,’ she said, miffed.
I needed to move the conversation away from this line of thought. I leaned closer and told her the honest truth – that my wanting her number had nothing to do with economics.
She picked up her phone and sent me a text: Hi.
Her classmate walked up, wanting his seat. (Benjamin Teague, according to the role sheet. I’d checked his campus address, schedule, grades and any possible disciplinary notes – there were none. He seemed harmless, his fondness for bro T-shirts aside, and he made her laugh – both a point in his favour and a reason I sort of wanted to clock him cold.)
I surrendered the seat, holding back a jackass-level grin. She hadn’t called me … but she had programmed my number into her phone.
And now she’d given me hers.
Towards the end of class, I glanced up to find her watching me – a first. I hadn’t paid enough attention to the lecture, because I’d been immersed in devising and sketching alternative tissue-engineering designs for Dr Aziz’s research project next semester. Nothing but thoughts of Jacqueline could break through my excitement after getting his email yesterday, telling me I’d been accepted. I would be working with two of the university’s top engineering faculty members, and my final semester of tuition would be paid by the project’s grant. I would still tutor for Heller and work the occasional parking-enforcement shift, but I could quit the coffee shop, which currently sucked up fifteen hours of my week.
For the seconds Jacqueline and I stared at each other, Heller’s voice receded and everyone else in the room disappeared. I couldn’t return to Aziz’s project, or recall the mass of ideas swirling through my brain one minute ago. My past evaporated. My future plans blurred. Every cell in my body was aware of her, and her only.
I knew I could be careful with her. Her trust would be hard-won, because she was afraid of being hurt again, but I could win it. I knew, from these few seconds of staring and from the one time I’d held her that she would respond to me, under me. That I could coax her body to levels of pleasure she couldn’t possibly have received from her narcissistic ex, regardless how long they’d been together.
And then I couldn’t offer her anything more. At the end of this year – mere months away – I intended to take a job somewhere far away. To escape this state, and my father. To build a career and a life for myself, with no emotional entanglements. Not for a long time, if ever.
I wanted this girl, but I wasn’t going to fall in love with her.
She deserved someone’s whole heart. She deserved someone honest and loyal.
And I was not that man, no matter how much I wanted to be.
; Landon,
We’re making steak fajitas tomorrow night – come if you’re free. Also, I’m giving a quiz over CPI first thing Friday morning, in case you want to work that into your Thursday worksheet. The quiz should take fifteen or twenty minutes of class, so feel free to grab a cup of coffee first and come in late.
CH
Jacqueline and I hadn’t gone over CPI, so as soon as I created the worksheet, I emailed it to her. I also questioned her interpretation of meant-to-be as it related to her decision to follow Kennedy Moore to college: Can you prove you’d be better off somewhere else?
I asked her major, wondering if she’d given up music altogether, hoping she hadn’t.
Her answer, music education, was a relief, but she lamented the thought of teaching, as if that would prevent her from performing. I couldn’t see the correlation. Woe to anyone who tried to tell Heller he wasn’t doing economics because he was teaching it. They’d get an earful about how he conducted research for respected peer journals, stayed current on global economic events, and participated in influential economic conferences.
I added a stern postscript ordering her to do the worksheet before Friday.
She emailed me back and called me a slave driver.
I closed my laptop and went for a run, but it didn’t lessen the uncontrollable effect of her impertinent little replies. I paced the apartment for half an hour before grabbing my phone and pulling up her number. Shoving all misgivings aside, I sent her a text: Hi. :)
She answered in kind. I asked what she was doing, and commented on her quick disappearance at the end of class. I told her to come by the Starbucks Friday afternoon, when it was usually dead, adding, Americano, on the house?
She agreed to come, and I had a moment of exhilaration followed by the desire to beat myself into a bloody pulp.
‘Why did you just sit there and let me do that?’ I asked Francis.
He supplied a steady feline stare.