“Jesus,” a voice says. “Why are you screaming?”
“I’m not screaming,” I say. “I thought maybe you were having trouble hearing me.”
“Who could have trouble hearing you when you’re talking so loud? You almost blew my eardrums out.”
I take a deep breath and remember that the customer is always right. Well, except when they’re trying to cancel their lessons without twenty-four hours notice and expect to get their money back. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Can I help you? Would you like to schedule a lesson?”
“That depends,” the male voice says, his tone getting all low. “Will you be teaching it?”
“No, I’m not a teacher.”
“Then no.”
“No?”
“No. I only want a lesson from you.” The tone is flirty now. And strangely familiar.
“Who is this?” I demand. I picture Anna putting someone from school up to this. I wonder if it’s her older brother, Gregory. Gregory’s a lot older than us, but he’s money hungry. He’d definitely do it for a few bucks. Although, I don’t know why Anna would want to prank me. She’s not usually the type to—
“It’s Penn.”
My throat goes dry at the sound of his name. “Oh.” I grasp around in my brain for something else to say. Why is he calling me? “Why are you calling me?” I blurt.
“Wow,” he says. “Way to make me feel welcome.”
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just . . . How did you know I work here?”
“It’s on your Facebook page.”
“You were on my Facebook page?” It’s a weird feeling, a guy telling me he was on my Facebook page. I hope Anna untagged me from that photo she took of us at the beach last summer. I have tan marks from my sunglasses, and the gauzy cover-up I was wearing blew up in the breeze, making me look like I was pregnant.
“Yeah. So?” He sounds defensive.
“No reason.”
There’s a pause. “So can I have a lesson or what?”
“Um, I . . .” I’m confused. Is he really calling for a lesson?
“I’m kidding,” he says. “I don’t want a lesson. Like I said, unless you’re teaching it.” His voice is even more flirty and husky now, and my face burns. My heart’s beating fast, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the fact that he’s all kinds of sexy right now or because I’m starting to realize that I might be blowing it with him. How come I don’t have any witty comebacks? I should be able to do this. I should be able to converse with him.
“Sorry, I’m not a teacher.” Definitely not a witty comeback, but also definitely better than dead silence.
“And you can’t make an exception?”
“Why do you want to learn to dance anyway?”
“I don’t.”
I sigh. “Then why are you calling to get a dance lesson?”
“Because I’m looking for an excuse to see you again.”
“Oh.” My mouth goes dry.
“So can I get a private lesson?”
“It’ll cost you.”
“How much?”
“Lessons are very expensive.”
“What time do you get out of work?”
I swallow. “Eight.”
“Meet you there?”
“Okay.”
“Bye, Harper.”
“Bye, Penn.”
He hangs up.
My heart is beating so fast, it feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest. How can a guy I’ve just met have this kind of effect on me?
Penn
I wasn’t planning on seeing her again. I wasn’t even planning on calling her.
But after I left school and drove around for a while, I went home, and Braden was being all hyper, and my mom made this huge lunch and everyone was pretending like they weren’t bothered by the fact that my dad had taken off again and I was home in the middle of the day.
It was such bullshit, the way the two of them sat there, eating their dumb fried chicken (which wasn’t even real fried chicken; it was stupid Shake ’n Bake) and acting like everything was fucking A-OK. Even Braden was pretending like everything was fine, obviously forgetting that he’d called me all panicked just a few hours before. No one even asked me why I was home from school early.
And then for some reason Harper popped into my head. So I looked her up on Facebook, and before I even knew what I was doing, I called her at work.
When I walk into the dance studio at eight, there’s a young couple in the front dance room, seemingly in the middle of a lesson.
“No, Jeremy!” the girl screeches. “You need to lead me. I’m the woman! You lead me. Not the other way around.”
“I’m trying,” Jeremy says. “But it’s hard when you keep stepping on my feet.”
“This is awful,” the girl says. “We’ve been here for five hours, and it’s just not working! Who has a five-hour dance lesson? It’s insane! I’m canceling the whole first dance. In fact, maybe I’ll just cancel the whole wedding!” She marches over to a little table against the far wall and pulls her cell phone out of her purse. “I’m calling my mom!” she yells. “I’m calling her right now and telling her this dumb wedding is off.”
She looks at Jeremy, daring him to stop her. But he just crosses his arms over his chest. “Fine with me.” He shrugs. “I wanted to elope anyway.”
This infuriates her. She throws her phone down onto the ground, and it smashes into a million pieces.
“Wow,” I say, shaking my head. “I didn’t know dancing was so dramatic.”
The tall woman who’s with them, I guess their teacher, turns around and glares at me. She’s older, like my mom’s age. Her hair is pulled back into a severe bun, and her eyes bore down at me.
“Can I help you?” she asks.
“Yeah, I’m here to see Harper.”
“Harper?” She looks surprised.
“Yeah. Harper Fairbanks. She works here, right?”
“Yes, she does.” She looks me over. “Are you a friend of hers?”
Huh. I’m not sure how to answer that. “Is she here?” I ask, intentionally avoiding the question while sort of half nodding my head in what might be considered an answer.
Jeremy walks over and picks up his fiancée’s ruined phone. I look at him, barely able to contain my disgust. How can he let her treat him that way? “Have some balls, man,” I mutter, before I can stop myself.
He turns around, and for a second I think maybe he wants to deck me. But instead he just shakes his head and gives me one of those What can you do? kind of looks. Talk about being whipped. Not that I should have expected anything else. The dude’s wearing a lime-green shirt.
“Look, is Harper here or not?” I say to the teacher. “Because she told me to meet her here and—”
A door against the side wall opens, and Harper comes walking out.
“Oh,” she says when she sees me. “You’re here.”
“I’m here,” I say, looking her up and down. She’s wearing the same outfit she had on in school, but she’s taken off the white shirt, leaving her in only a tank top and a pair of jeans. I let my eyes wander up her body. Damn. Until just now, I’d never realized how curvy she is. I realize I’m about to have her, alone, in my truck. And then I wonder why I didn’t take advantage of that fact earlier. “Ready for my private lesson.” I give her a suggestive smile.
“Harper,” the woman teacher says, all stern. “Who is this young man?”
Right. I guess I shouldn’t have been so glib in front of her boss. But who really cares? It’s not like Harper can get fired because I was being a little flirty with her.
“Oh.” Harper still looks startled, the way you do when different parts of your life are colliding and you don’t really know what to do about it. “This is Penn. Penn, this is my mom.”
* * *
“I don’t think my mom liked you,” Harper says as I lead her to my truck.
“You think?” I open the door for her, and I can tell she’s impressed.
It’s not that I like being chivalrous. It’s just that I’ve learned that if you are chivalrous, you have a better chance of getting what you want. I know that sounds horrible, and it is. But old habits die hard.
“What did you say to her before I came out?” she asks when I get into the car.
“Nothing.” I turn the key in the ignition, and my truck roars to life.
She looks at me skeptically.
“I didn’t say anything to her.” God, everyone’s always so suspicious of me. “But I said something around her that might have gotten her a little annoyed.”
“Like what?”
“I told that guy in there that he should grow some balls.”
I expect her to turn up her nose and look at me in disgust, because I’m pretty sure a girl who’s afraid of the school nurse won’t appreciate me using the word “balls” in front of her mom. But instead she just starts laughing. “He should grow some balls. You know that’s their seventh lesson, and they still don’t know the steps.”
I shrug. “Is that bad?”
“It’s really bad.” She shakes her head. “But still. Now my mom’s gonna hate you.”
I shrug. “No offense, but I don’t really give a fuck what your mom thinks about me. Parents don’t usually like me.”
“Why not?”
“Really?” I raise my eyebrows.
“No.” She shakes her head and grins. “It was rhetorical.”
“Good.” I like the fact that she doesn’t care that I’m not trying to make a good impression on her mom. The last thing I want her to think is that this is a date or something. Because it’s not. Is it? I can’t figure out why I’m here exactly, why I’ve come back to see her, why I looked her up on Facebook and made a whole effort to try to find out where she was. It’s very strange. “So,” I say, “you told me you were going to give me a private lesson, but apparently that was a lie.”
“I told you I wasn’t a teacher.”
“Yeah, but aren’t you a dancer?”
“I’m a choreographer. I’m good at coming up with steps for people who already have some dance knowledge. I’m not very good at teaching beginners.”
I glance at her. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’m good at teaching beginners.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
Harper shifts again, then pulls at the sleeves of the shirt she’s put back on until they almost cover her wrists. As she moves, her tank top slides down a little in front, exposing some of her cleavage. I avert my eyes.
“Come on,” I say, shaking my head and pushing away the less-than-PG thoughts I’m having. “If you can’t teach me, then I’ll teach you.”
Harper
This is weird. I’ve never really been this close to a boy before. Well, that’s not entirely true. I mean, obviously I’ve been close to guys that I’ve danced with, and one time I was in a school play with a boy and I had to hold his hand because we were playing frolicking villagers or something.
But this is different. This is me being close to a boy who (a) is insanely hot, (b) left a note on my desk that may or may not mean he’s interested in me, and (c) is flirting with me nonstop.
So it’s a totally different story.
And okay, here’s where things get completely embarrassing. I’ve never been kissed. Never had a boyfriend, never even played spin the bottle. On the rare occasions when I’d be at a party where some make-out game was being played, I’d give some excuse about why I couldn’t participate.
One time in seventh grade I even made up a fake boyfriend who went to a different school so I could get out of playing. I’m pretty sure no one believed me, but luckily no one called me out on it. Probably because they were all too excited about the fact that they were about to be kissing.
The truth is, I was afraid no one would want to kiss me. I was scared the bottle would land on me and whoever had spun it would make a grossed-out face and then refuse.
And even though the kissing stuff excited me, eventually spin the bottle morphed into ninety seconds in heaven, where you’d have to pair off and go into someone’s, like, bathroom or rec room (because closets weren’t readily available in anyone’s basement, which is where these kinds of games were usually played) and do God knows what for a minute and a half. And that terrified me.
So you can see why I might be a little on edge, especially with all that talk about teaching beginners. Does Penn think I’m inexperienced? Is it that obvious?
We stay quiet as he drives, but it’s different than it was earlier. Before, I was nervous that Penn might be psycho. Now I’m just nervous.
Finally Penn pulls up in front of the Westville Sports Complex. It’s a huge building with one of those white dome ceilings that look like a bubble.
I just stare. “What are we doing here?”
“I told you,” he says. “I’m going to teach you.”
He hops out of the car and then comes around and opens the door for me. I like that he’s being sweet, even though I’m trying not to like it. It probably doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t mean that he likes me.
He probably does things like that for everyone, just to be nice. I need to be careful about reading too much into things. It’s just that this thing with Penn is making my head spin. Yesterday I didn’t even know him, and now in the span of less than twelve hours, we’ve hung out twice. If you can call what we did earlier hanging out. Not to mention that he stalked my Facebook page. Why was he stalking my Facebook page? That has to mean he likes me a little, right?
He starts walking toward the door, and I run to catch up with him. The air is hot and muggy, and I can tell my hair is about to turn into a poufy mess. I tug it back into a ponytail.
“Is this . . . I mean, we’re not going to be running or anything, are we?” I’m in okay shape because of all the dancing I do, but I’m a horrible runner. I’m not fast at all. When we run the mile at school, I’m always one of the last ones to finish.
Penn holds the door open, and I step inside and am immediately greeted by the cold air of the air-conditioned building. “Why?” he asks, giving me a sexy little grin. “You planning on trying to run away from me?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I just want to know what kind of footwear I’m going to need.” I gesture down to my feet, which are encased in my brown strappy sandals. Thank God I gave myself a pedicure last night. My toenails are painted a soft pink color, perfect for early summer.
“Oh.” Penn seems dismayed. “Yeah, we’re definitely going to have to do something about those.”
“What?” I ask. But he’s already moving through the doors. “What am I going to have to wear?” I have a thing with shoes. I don’t like wearing shoes that other people have worn. Like if I go bowling or something, I get totally freaked out. That’s how you end up with a foot fungus.
“Relax,” Penn says. “You can wear those if you really want to.”
“I am relaxed.”
“Really?” He shakes his head like I’m a hopeless case.
Once we’re inside, I realize that we’re in the part of the sports complex that’s a ballpark. Like, an indoor ballpark. There’s a big baseball diamond in the middle, and there are guys on the field, swinging bats, playing catch, and stretching. Bleachers line the walls, and there’s even tall stadium lights shining down onto the field.
“Baseball?” I ask. “I don’t know how to play baseball. Is that what you’re going to teach me? Because I’m not that coordinated. I mean, I am with some stuff, obviously, since I’m a choreographer. But with hand-eye coordination, you know, I’m not that good.” I realize that I’m babbling, and I twist my hands and try to calm down.
Penn closes his eyes, like it pains him that I’m asking questions. “No, Harper,” he says. “I’m not going to teach you how to play baseball. Playing baseball is not something I can teach you in just a couple of hours. But I can try to teach you how to hit.”
Hit? Like bat baseballs? What is he talking about? I just told him
I have horrible hand-eye coordination.
Penn steps up to the front desk before I can figure out how I’m going to get out of this whole thing. The guy who’s working the desk is wearing a red polo shirt. He looks like an athlete—tall, tan skin, a little older than us, probably in college.
“Hey, Ian,” Penn says as he pulls out his wallet. “You home for break?”
“Yup.” Ian sighs. “Only working here a couple of days though. Then I’m headed down to Florida for a tournament.” He mimes pitching a ball. “It never stops, you know?”
“I hear ya.” But Penn’s voice doesn’t sound all that friendly.
“I heard you’ve been trying to get in with Dr. Marzetti,” Ian says.
“I haven’t really decided yet,” Penn says. He’s holding his debit card, and he taps it against the counter impatiently.
“Really?” Ian persists. “Because that’s what I heard from Coach.”
“Yeah, well, like I said, I haven’t decided yet.”
Wow. This whole thing is getting kind of intense. And the guy behind the counter must realize it, because he turns his attention to me. He slides his eyes up me the way that boys do when they’re checking you out. He grins at Penn, and I can’t tell exactly what his grin means. It’s very . . . sort of smarmy. Like maybe he thinks that Penn is going to have sex with me? Or it could be one of those grins, like, Oh, Penn strikes again. I wonder how many other girls Penn has brought here, and I decide it’s probably a lot.
I’ve seen him in the halls at school, girls trailing after him. Of course, most of the times I can remember that happening were when Penn was still on the baseball team.
“You ready?” Penn asks me.
“Oh. Yeah.”
I follow him across the field to the back of the building and through some double doors marked BATTING CAGES. Back here there’s no one around and everything’s quiet.
“Wow,” I say. “How come no one’s practicing?”
“Because none of them think they need to,” Penn says. He walks over to one of the racks against the wall and picks up a helmet. “Here,” he says, handing it to me.
I look at it. “What’s this for?”