“Dude, sleep in?” Cort asked on a laugh. He himself never came to school unless he’d showered, had to shave, which didn’t happen too often thankful y, and he was casual y coordinated.
Kevin yawned and sat back, extending long legs. “Was up chasing freaking deer out of my mom’s garden al night.”
“What? ”
“Gotta put up some stakes with hair and dried corn on
‘em.” Kevin wiped his hands down his heavy-eyed face. “So I can get some sleep.”
Cort shook his head. “Hair?”
“Hair freaks ‘em out. Or so I hope. Until then, I’m chasing them around like a freaking dog, freezing my butt off so my mom’s scotch pines don’t get eaten.”
“Just put netting over them.” Cort knew deer could ravage a yard in one night if certain plants weren’t protected; their own yard had bushes wrapped up tight for the winter to protect from foraging.
Kevin shrugged. Miss Tingey started class.
Cort looked over where Rachel Baxter usual y sat. He hadn’t seen her come in, something he watched for because she walked like a goddess.
He’d never seen a girl walk like she was saying come get me and you can’t have me at the same time.
Her desk was empty when the bel shril ed. Then the door opened and he sat forward, his heart thumping. When she came in, the room hushed.
Even Miss Tingey looked at her.
Today she wore blue jeans with random cuts and slices in the denim. Her black shirt had sleeves that hung long and weepy. She looked hot in black and wore it al the time so Cort figured she must know it.
Her hair was the color of mink and just as shiny and silky hanging down her back. He wanted to know what it felt like and his fingertips rubbed together absently.
She had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, like the sapphires his mom had. Rachel’s eyes were big and round and slanted in a way that reminded him of a kitten. Somewhere inside of him warmed fast. She looked like a kitten, but a wickedly hot kitten you weren’t sure would rub against you or claw your eyes out.
She never greeted anyone when she came in. She sat, primly erect, ready to listen. Part of that untouchable thing, Cort guessed. She took school seriously and lucky for him, they shared al of their honors classes.
It was safe to glance over because she’d never look at him.
Why, he didn’t know. Every other girl stared at him. Why didn’t she?
Suddenly, he was looking into those deep blue cat eyes and his breathing stopped. Before he could give her one of his studly nods, she looked back at Miss Tingey.
“You have five minutes to write your journal entries,”
Miss Tingey said. The class immediately began to scribble in their notebooks.
I have no idea how ego affects behavior, Cort thought with aggravation. He’d missed his chance to impress Rachel and was pissed. I don’t even have an ego. He drew lines. Egos are for celebrities and rich people. Sure, we have money and live in a big house but, so?
He began to write.
Why don’t the chicks we like ever like us back? Even as he wrote, he knew the question was gross exaggeration. He’d had lots of girls he liked, like him. But things were different now. He was different. He was a senior, going into his last half of the year and for the first time, he didn’t have a girlfriend because he’d had enough of arm candy. Nobody interested him.
He glanced over at Rachel Baxter. Something tingled deep in his chest. Her profile was perfect. Her flirty nose was smal and pretty, and to admire another angle of those pouty lips—any guy would be blind not to notice how chewable they looked from any perspective.
Sweat broke under his armpits, around his col ar. He shifted in his seat, gnawing on his pencil eraser. He had to get to know her, that was al there was to it. But they’d never hung in the same crowd.
His was the hot crowd. Hers was smal and elite. In fact, she had only two close friends, associate babes Ticia Levin and Jennifer Vienvu. The three of them were legendary for always being in the center of the most random group of guys; guys that ranged from band geeks to computer geniuses, to a few select jocks. Most of whom Cort had ever hung with. Now, he was jealous of that. The girls were most definitely babes, but exclusive babes that, to his knowledge, no man—not even those in their random circle, had been able to crack.
What would he find if he cracked that elusive Baxter outer shel ? He’d heard she was raucously funny, bril iantly off-beat, a total stud-woman. But he found it hard to believe, watching her primly writing in her notebook. It would be cool if she was, like she’d show only that secret part of herself to those real y close to her.
“Mr. Davies,” Miss Tingey said, startling him. “Share your thoughts with us.”
Cort sat up, nervously tapping his pencil on the desk.
His page had nothing but a grumpy complaint on it. “I need more time,” he said.
“Miss Baxter,” Miss Tingey said and Cort forgot finishing his own work. Rachel was going to speak.
She cleared her throat. “Ego is an invisible if not integral part of personality,” she began. Cort loved the sound of her voice, cream and spice. “Every person has one, whether they know it, or admit it, or not. It’s what drives us to do what we do, say what we say for social acceptance. Some people’s ego is worn on the cuff, like your basic cheerleaders or jocks. They’re too shal ow to know better. While others carry theirs deep inside.”
Cort’s face drew tight. What the hel was she talking about? He didn’t like her assessment and cleared his throat, bringing eyes to him. But not hers – she kept reading her notebook. “In fact,” she went on, “jocks and other superficial people model their egos after what they think is social y acceptable, rather than exploring who they real y are.”
Miss Tingey had that smile of satisfaction she got whenever somebody hit the intel ectual y stimulating mark.
“Very good, Rachel. Anybody agree, disagree?” Cort raised his hand because her words had hit him like an arrow. “I disagree.”
He was ready to shoot an arrow back but when those mystic-blue cat eyes slid to his, his arrow drooped. “Uh, wel , it just sounds kind of generalized, that’s al . There are exceptions.”
He couldn’t believe it, Rachel’s left eyebrow slowly lifted and her blue eyes were wickedly playful. The look shot another arrow straight to his gut. It lodged there with painful pleasure. Her lips curved into a smile.
“Of course there are exceptions,” Rachel said to him, the cream of her voice spil ing into his veins. “Though I have yet to see any.”
Was she daring him? If she was, it was freaking hot and he’d take her up on it— absolutely.
“There are some generalities about ego and behavior, for sure,” Miss Tingey said. “When attacked, an ego defends itself, feeling like its position must be justified, even if that position is inaccurate. A person whose ego does not drive them wil be secure in their motives, and not jump to defense every time something is said that threatens them. Finish up your entries.”
After class, Cort trailed a cool few feet behind Rachel. It was hard to listen to Kevin who walked with him down the crowded hal , droning on about deer, about how much hair he’d col ected from his mother’s hair brush. So Cort focused on the easy sway of Rachel’s hips, the way she occasional y flung that long, silky hair over her shoulder, fil ing the air with the smel of something sweetly tempting she washed it in.
He had to talk to her.
“So I’ve got about a zip-lock bag’s worth of hair now,”
Kevin muttered. “Al I need is about four stakes, some corn cobs, which wil be frickin’ hard to find since corn season is way over, and—”
“Gotta go dude, catch you later.” Cort positioned himself in the crowd next to Rachel. Their shoulders rubbed.
Casual y, he looked over. She was nearly as tal as he was, and he liked that. He could look straight into her eyes.
“Hey,” he said.
She quickly skimmed his face and the act heated
his skin.
“Hey.”
“Was that a chal enge back there?” he asked.
She lifted a shoulder. She had the greatest smile he’d ever seen on a girl, not too wide because her mouth was smal and delicate. But there was power behind it. “It can be.”
“You think al jocks are ego maniacs?”
“So far.”
“I’m going to prove you wrong.”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah.”
She stopped and the crowd streamed around them. He felt eyes, heard whispers but didn’t care. In fact, he relished them. Let it be known I’m now hanging with this beautiful creature.
“How are you going to do that?” Her voice oozed inside of him.
He had no idea, so he shrugged. But he’d spend the rest of the day and however long into the night he needed until he figured it out. “Just be ready.”
Something sparkled just at her chest where she held her black binder. Her nails. White-tipped and the pinkies had a diamond in each corner.
“Hey, your nails look great,” he said before he could think not to.
She looked surprised and held her hand out to look at them. “Wow, that was random. Thanks. But they need to be done again.”
He swal owed embarrassment. “They look good.” Then he glanced around. The hal was thinning, growing quiet. “Go to Miss Chachi’s. They do great nails there.”
Her face twisted in a look that made his stomach crimp.
What had he done? Buried himself before he’d gotten a chance to take a breath? He wanted to die.
“I saw that place. It’s new, isn’t it?” she asked.
He nodded, relieved she seemed to ignore the stupid way he was talking about nails. “I gotta go.” He started off, sucking in deep breaths, keeping his red face from her eyesight.
“Cort.” His name had never sounded so great. He had to turn and look at her one more time. She was smiling and it eased his insides a little. “I’m ready for that chal enge,” she said.
Cort walked through the doors of Chachi’s Nail Salon ready to do more multiple sets of practice nails. Or clean the sinks. Or sweep the floor. Or anything else he and the girls were told to do by the tiny tyrant. From the heavy mood of the place, the way the girls al huddled near the back, whispering, he knew something was up. It was Miss Chachi’s temper. He’d only heard her mouth off in Vietnamese and had no idea what she was saying. Now, she was mixing her rants with broken English. He stayed by the door in case he needed a quick exit.
She banged cabinets, clacking and stomping in red stiletto shoes. Misu broke away from the whispering huddle of the girls and slid up front.
“What’s with her?” he whispered.
“She very angry. No client in two months of being open.
Very, very bad.”
“What can we do?”
“She run ad, she flash light, open door wide. She pul client in from street.”
Cort could believe that. The woman was strong in a deceptive way, kind of like a Chihuahua.
He fol owed Misu to the safety of the back where the girls stood, some filing their nails, others biting them, as they watched and waited for Miss Chachi’s orders.
Final y, she slammed her last cabinet and looked over, her eyes honing in on Cort. He bristled. She tapped right over to him, her finger wagging.
“We need client. You need bring client in. You beauty man, you know tons of people, you say.”
“Yeah, I do, but—”
“No but,” she snapped. “I hire you because you know people. Where are people? You tel me where people are.”
He swal owed, shrugged and looked toward the big picture window at the front of the store. He recognized three girls from school peering through the windows and quickly moved past Miss Chachi.
“Hey.” He opened the door and gave the girls his best smile. Bree, Megan and Shaylee, three of the hottest girls he knew—and they knew that he knew it. They returned flirty smiles, gathering around him.
“Hey, Cort.” Bree tossed some of her long, blonde-striped hair over a tan, bare shoulder. “What are you doing here?”
He glanced back into the salon, at the nodding grin Miss Chachi was sending him. “I work here.”
The girls’ eyes widened, they exchanged glances and giggles. “I told you,” Bree said.
“She thought she saw you coming in here last week.”
Megan posed, extending one bronzed leg near Cort for his appreciation. It was the dead cold of early spring, but that didn’t stop her from wearing her plaid miniskirt and short-sleeved shirt. “I told her no way.”
Cort leaned confidently against the door. “Wel , I do.”
“You do nails?” Bree asked.
“Sure do—great ones.”
“I’m having a set.” And with that, Bree was the first to enter the salon with a flip of hair over her shoulder.
“Me too.” Shaylee was fast to fol ow.
Cort grinned, and trailed the girls in.
Miss Chachi scurried up, al sunny smiles as Misu, Tiaki, Abby and Jasmine quickly filed to their respective tables and sat.
“Welcome, welcome to my nail salon.” Miss Chachi extended her arm in invitation. “You are here for nails or massage or manicure or pedicure or —”
“Yeah.” Bree nodded, looking around. “We want Cort to do our nails.”
“Very good.” Miss Chachi put her hand on Bree’s arm and gently escorted her to Cort’s table in the back. She sat her down in a chair with a pleasant shove.
“He do good nail for you. Cort!” She clapped her hands and Cort was there, sitting across from Bree, his face blushing red.
Miss Chachi fluttered over to the other girls. “You want nail too?” They nodded, shifting awkwardly. “Tiaki or Misu can give nice nail.”
“We’l wait for Cort,” Shaylee said.
Miss Chachi took them both by the elbows and led them to the big, fat pedicure chairs. “You sit. Have free pedicure while you wait. Jasmine and Abby do good pedicure for you, you see.” She assisted the delighted girls by setting aside their handbags and shoes, then helped them situate in the large, comfy chairs.
Jasmine and Abby were ready to begin before she clapped for them. They turned on the swirling warm water and gestured with their hands for Shaylee and Megan to lower their feet into the tubs.
Shaylee giggled. “Cool.”
“I’ve never had a pedicure,” Megan gushed.
Miss Chachi took one look at her feet and nodded, muttering something in Vietnamese that both Jasmine and Abby agreed to.
Bree sat forward with a flirtatious smile, both of her hands extended to Cort. “So, when did you start doing nails?”
Cort’s hands were trembling. His first client— scary—
but he could do it. She was only Bree, and they were friends after al . He took her hands in his. They were cool to the touch. “You cold?” he asked.
Her smile broadened. “Not anymore.”
He tried to keep an air of professionalism. She wiggled her fingers, rubbing them over his.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she said.
“About two weeks now.” He started sanding.
“So, how’s it going?”
He wasn’t about to tel her how dead the place had been.
“Great. Busy.”
Bree glanced around at the empty tables. “Yeah?”
“Tel me if I’m too rough,” he said, running the sander over her pinkie.
Because he was concentrating on her fingers, he missed the way she grinned and shot a look over at her friends.
“Did you see the way Carmen was dressed today?” Bree asked both girls, now having their feet scraped.
“Hideous,” Shaylee said.
Bree whipped out a laugh. “Those scarves tied everywhere were just too strange. She looked like a retarded gypsy.”
Megan nodded, watching Jasmine rub the scraper over her heel. “Like some gay fairy or something.”
&
nbsp; “I heard she asked Kyle to the dance this weekend.”
“Nu-huh.”
“Yeah. Can you see them together? Fairy freaks.”
“She thinks she’s so hot.”
“When she’s real y just a loser.”
“But then so is he.”
“Total y.”
The girls laughed and continued their gossiping.
Cort was shocked. He kept his head lowered, his eyes on Bree’s hands and nails, but his ears were sponges, soaking up everything. He’d heard his sister talk about boys, life, and the angst of being a teenage girl, but it was nothing like this.
He thought he knew these girls; he’d even hung with them on occasion. But he’d never heard anything more than flirty syrup from their mouths. This was black tar. Did al girls talk so viciously about their friends? What did they say when they talked about people they hated?
They didn’t keep any of it quiet, he noticed. They laughed—loud, as if they were at a footbal game. Not that it mattered, the salon was empty.
“Ty’s such a loser.” Bree flung some hair over her shoulder. “I swear, the guy is so dense, he thinks I’d actual y go with him after he’s ignored me for three days.”
“So you’re not going with him to the dance?”
“I’d go.” Bree lifted a shoulder. “But he’s been so lame lately, and he’s so careless, I’m just going to let him suffer it out.”
Bree was dating one of the guys on the footbal team, Ty Morgan. As Cort began forming the first pink acrylic nail, he glanced at Bree. He used to think she was pretty cute but this was starting to bug him, the way she talked about people, his buddies.
“You talking about Ty?” To keep from being too nosey, he kept his eyes on her nail.
“Yeah. He’s been a real jerk lately. It’s been, like, three days since he’s cal ed me.”
Cort often let that many days go by between communications of any form with a girl. Had he been wrong al this time? He stopped forming the last nail on Bree’s hand and looked at her. “Maybe he’s busy.”
“So,” she said. “We’re, like, going out. That means texting if nothing else.” With her free hand, she dug into her purse, pul ed out her silver phone and pressed a few buttons. “See?