But Buddy and his finger fetish was golden in comparison to Terrell Feinberg’s fascination with himself. The guy was gorgeous, silky brown hair, perfect teeth, rocking bod, and he knew it, too. Terrell didn’t stop talking about himself, never asked me a single question, for an entire twenty minutes. Hooker was on guard duty again, so I had to sit and endure Terrell’s thought-provoking argument over American versus European hair care products. His vote was for the latter. I knew his last name meant “fine city” in German, but, in any language, Terrell Feinberg should’ve translated: “big head.”
Both guys backed off when I said Becks and I were a couple, but I was starting to feel put out. Why hadn’t they known about us already? When I took a good look at them, I got it: a college guy, a stoner, and a guy who couldn’t see past his own reflection.
Well played, Hooker. Well played.
In the halls, Becks walked me to each of my classes holding my hand—my hand!—but it didn’t take long to see Hooker, as predicted, wasn’t impressed. She watched us, tracked our movements like a bird of prey. Sometimes I’d see her head pop out of a classroom just to roll her eyes at me. Other times Becks and I would be passing, and she’d shake her head or sigh long and loud, making sure we heard.
I was waiting at Becks’s locker, trying to think what else I could do, when Hooker stepped out from behind the line of lockers a few doors down. I scowled as she shrugged, but her entire stance said, “I warned you, didn’t I?”
Becks sounded amused as he joined me. “What was that look about?”
“Nothing much,” I said. “Hooker just threw three guys at me in an effort to disprove our fake relationship.”
“Anyone interesting?” Becks asked.
“Very funny,” I mumbled, wracking my brain.
Remembering Hooker, I snatched up Becks’s hand. I wasn’t close enough to tell, but it looked like she scoffed. Becks had been right. It was going to take more than handholding. The challenging tilt to Hooker’s head made that perfectly clear. If Becks and I didn’t convince her by the end of today, I was out of luck. It was time to up the ante.
“Becks,” I said, turning to face him. Madness drove my mind to the one place I’d never allowed it to go, couldn’t allow it to go. “Could you come here? I think this calls for drastic measures.”
“Sure thing, Sal.” He pushed off the lockers and came to stand in front of me. “What’d you have in mind?”
Courage or stupidity, I was going for broke. That is if my fiercely beating heart could hold on just a little longer. Were there always this many people in the hall between classes? I couldn’t believe I was actually doing this.
Meeting his gaze, I forced out the words, “Ready to make it official?”
Becks grinned, and the sight of that familiar expression, the look in those eyes I’d loved forever, was enough to strengthen my resolve.
Reaching up, I gave myself no time to reconsider.
My lips were on his the next instant, meeting, feeling, rejoicing in this moment I’d never thought but always hoped would happen. I knew Becks was surprised, could feel it in the stiffness in his shoulders, the tight set to his mouth. But it didn’t matter. I was kissing Becks, my best friend, my Han Solo, my one. This was the best moment of my life. I was certain it couldn’t get any better.
But then Becks started kissing me back.
His arms wrapped around my waist, his lips guiding mine, as he went from passive passenger along for the ride to full-on conductor. I gasped as he bent me back over his arm, and felt him grin through the kiss. My toes just skimming the floor, supported almost entirely by Becks’s strength, I was happy to let him lead. Becks wasn’t just a great kisser. He was a master. Far as first kisses go, it was a showstopper.
What I’d remember most, though, wasn’t how Vice Principal Matlock blew his whistle and broke us apart, giving Becks and I both after-school detention—to be served separately, of course. It wasn’t even when Hooker came up after Becks had left, laid a hand on my shoulder, and said, “Guess you weren’t kidding. I’ll give it to you, Spitz. That kiss curled even my toes.”
Even if he still just saw me as Sal, his friend who was a great girl but not girlfriend material, the thing I’d take with me, the feeling I’d bottle up and keep in my pocket if I could, was this: Becks kissed me like he meant it.
CHAPTER 8
Hugs.
Hands.
Kisses in what I now thought of as “Becks’s spot.”
The next few days were a whirlwind. By Friday, I was just trying to keep it together. The idea that Becks had an un-official “spot” on my body was enough to make my head spin. His five o’clock shadow was back, and there was a game tonight, so Becks was flying high. But me? Every time he touched me—Lord, every time he looked at me—I felt thrown. The way he’d been looking at me lately should’ve been criminal. It was much too easy for Becks to fake how he felt. Intimate glances, soft caresses, secret smiles, if his soccer career tanked, there’d always be acting.