Resentment(11)

“Are you cold?” Dean is suddenly behind me.

“A little.”

“Here.” He puts his letterman jacket on my shoulders, and the group of cheerleaders that’s across from us, immediately throws mean looks my way.

“Careful,” I say, turning around. “I wouldn’t want to make your fan-club too upset.”

He looks over to the group and then back at me, smiling. “Aren’t you a part of my fan-club, too? Is this making you upset?”

I blush. “No, that’s...That’s not what I mean. You know, athletes date cheerleaders, outcasts date outcasts and—” I don’t get a chance to finish that sentence because his lips are suddenly on mine and he’s kissing me. He slips an arm around my waist and pulls me as close as possible.

I lose all sense of where I am, and he gently bites my lip before pulling away.

“I’ll date whoever I want,” he whispers. “And if I haven’t made this clear enough over the past few weeks, I want to date you.”

I’m speechless. It takes me a minute to form coherent thoughts again. All I can think about are how his lips felt way better than I could’ve ever imagined, how I really wish he would do that again.

As if he can tell that I’ll be useless for the next few minutes, he takes the opportunity to kiss me again—slightly longer this time, and then he opens the passenger door of his car.

I get inside and stare straight ahead, not saying a single word as he pulls out of the parking lot and onto the street.

We don’t say anything to each other as he drives, but at every red light I can feel him looking over at me. And I’m pretty sure I hear him say the word “beautiful” at one of the stops, but I ignore it.

When he pulls up to my house, he opens my door and walks me up my front steps.

“What are you doing tomorrow morning?” he asks.

“Going to school.” My logic has finally decided to return. “Aren’t you?”

“I am,” he says, looking as if he’s going to kiss me yet again, but he holds back. “I’ll pick you up.”

“How about asking me if I want you to pick me up? You know, so I can make the decision for myself?” I start to unbutton his letterman jacket so I can give it back, but he grabs my hand and holds it still.

“Keep it,” he says, smiling. “I’ll get it back tomorrow. You know, when you want me to pick you up. Goodnight, Mia.

I manage to get the word “Goodnight” out and then I rush inside once more, feeling my heart beat a brand new rhythm it’s never felt before.

After that night, a sort of new routine develops between Dean and me. On the afternoons that he doesn’t have football practice, we’re in the library working on our research papers or studying for an exam. On the afternoons that he does, he meets me afterwards at the café I frequent and we talk about nothing for hours at a time.

He always insists on driving me home after we hang out together, and he always picks me up for school in the morning.

I’ve stopped objecting altogether. It’s easier to just go along.





Chapter 4


MIA

It’s Saturday morning and I’m in a café across town, spending my day looking over my application for Western Peak College. It’s a small, private art school in Portland, and I haven’t bothered to tell my mom that I’m applying. She still thinks I’m dead set on going to Harvard.

She also thinks that I’ve “finally come to my senses” and has thoroughly embarrassed me every afternoon that Dean has brought me home. She’s waved at him from the windows as if she’s a good mother, and then she’s sat me down in the living room, asking for details like we’re some type of giddy girlfriends. Like I would ever tell her anything real.

“Now that you’re dating him, maybe you can finally feel comfortable running for homecoming queen?” she said to me this morning. “When I won two years in a row, it changed my life. I think it will change yours, too. It’ll probably help with your low self-esteem as well.”

I can still remember wanting to slam the door in her face, but I kept my calm. Until she uttered her closing remarks: “You could potentially have ‘Daddy issues’ since me and your father have been separated for so long¸ so let me know whenever you want to discuss sex with Dean. That way, I can tell you about the repercussions and get you an appointment with an associate at my office.”

I can no longer even ‘pretend’ to smile when she talks.

Why is it that all the supposed great psychiatrists are the ones who have the most fucked up way of thinking?

Shaking the thought of her away, I re-read the introduction of my essay over and over, wondering if the opening line “If you’re reading this, you’re seconds away from meeting one of the most passionate artists you’ll ever meet” is too strong. As I scratch out a few of the words, I feel the familiar buzz of my phone in my pocket.