“I’m not supposed to do a lot of things.”
It’s such a cliché response, but he makes it work. Maybe it’s because right after he says it, he slips one of his thumbs through my belt loop and pulls me close to him. Close enough that I can see his clear blue eyes perfectly. And his not-so-perfect mouth, a little crooked, a smile that goes up farther on the left than the right, but is somehow even more alluring for that. Perfection is overrated.
I hesitate. I already cut once this week....
“Hail to the Hawks!” the kids chorus. “Hail, hail, hail to the red and blue! Hail to the conquering heroes, proud and true!”
Screw it.
“Let’s go.”
* * *
Sam lets me drive the Cutlass. Not that I really ask. I snatch the keys from him the second we hit the teacher lot and jingle them in my hand as we walk. I’m nervous and I don’t know why.
That’s a lie, I totally know why I’m nervous. Stupid Lowell and Derek and their stupid faces. Their faces are genuinely stupid, not like Sam’s—Sam’s is just stupid cute. Especially when he’s looking at me like he is now.
I buckle myself into the driver’s seat, adjust the mirrors and say, “What?”
“You know how to drive a stick?” he asks.
“Please. My dad taught me on an old-ass Camry.”
I throw the car into first, ease up on the clutch and tap on the gas. The Cutlass bucks a little and jumps forward, and we’re off.
I don’t know where we’re going. Rosie’s would be the obvious choice, but I kind of just want to drive around for a while, getting used to the feel of the car. It’s hard to relax, though, with Sam sitting next to me, playing his fingers over the seat belt, stretching it in and out. I keep thinking about his hands. It’s so distracting that I accidentally let the clutch out too much and stall the car at a stoplight.
I’m waiting for Sam to yell at me for screwing up his transmission, but he just waits for me to restart the car and says, “You’ve got it.”