The Force of Gravity(15)

I desperately want my math teacher.





CHAPTER EIGHT



TOMMY’S FINGERS INTERWINE WITH MINE as we walk into the school. He still has that same look in his eyes from last night . . . enlivened, almost expectant. He kisses me good-bye with a fervency that’s a bit too passionate for this early in the morning. Guilt drops into my stomach like a jagged stone as pangs of contrition threaten to overpower me. I try to shove the feeling aside as I continue on to class.

When I enter first period, Mr. Slate is sitting at his desk, and I make sure not to look his way as I take my seat. My nerves overwhelm me while he takes attendance, and I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. After using my boyfriend’s body to make out with him last night, it’s disconcerting to even be in the same room. I feel like it shows on my face or something.

My anxiety intensifies as he steps up to the front of the classroom and begins his lesson. I try desperately to pay attention to the board as he draws out his perfectly-lined graphs, but his enticing fingers wrapped around an innocent dry-erase marker have me distracted. It’s almost as if I know what those fingers feel like against my body. . . . I know I don’t actually know, but I’m now aware of how much I want to find out. It’s impossible to focus on sleep-inducing ellipses when all I can think about is the way he felt on top of me . . . his hands against my bare skin . . . his lips tangled with mine.

The shrill ring of the bell makes me jump, and I realize my eyes were just closed. I glance around, but no one seems to have noticed, and I pack up my stuff. Mr. Slate quickly passes back our quizzes as the class begins to disperse.

“Excellent job,” he says, handing over my quiz.

He grants me a half-smile, and the paper slips from my hand, falling to the floor. I scramble to collect it, feeling my face flush. Why is his presence so unnerving? He’s already back at his desk when I finally glance down at my grade: 89.5 percent.

“Seriously?” I say, exasperated. “You can’t round up? Aren’t we taught to do that in like second grade?”

He shakes his head, his eyes twinkling with amusement. A small smirk plays at his lips as he rises from his chair. The classroom is nearly empty, and my heart sputters as he strolls over to me. There’s barely any space between us when he stops at my desk. A hint of his tantalizing scent pulls on every fiber in my body, extending each thread until I feel my entire insides tighten.

“You got the highest score in the class,” he says in a low voice. “You need to relax, Kay.” He chuckles softly.

He’s so close I have to crane my neck to peer up at him. When our eyes lock, the humor in his face vanishes. My breath hitches as his expression shifts to the one I recognize from Friday night. It only lasts for a second before he turns away, but I caught it. Flustered, I grab my things and rush out of the empty classroom, my heart pulsating.



THE DAY PASSES without anyone giving me a hard time about the altercation at Derek’s party, and I am thankful. Other than feeling some distance from Emily, everything is going better than I expected. Tommy clings to me every chance he gets, squashing any rumors of a breakup. And although I have no doubt the details of our dispute are being discussed behind my back, I no longer care. I have bigger problems. Such as lusting after my math teacher instead of my boyfriend. I mean, why can’t I just be content with him? Everyone else wants to have sex with my boyfriend, so why wouldn’t I? But the only thing that thrills me is the thought of pretending he’s Mr. Slate—and I can’t keep doing that to Tommy. What I did was awful. And as much as I try to twist that experience into a positive one—like, maybe all I needed to do was wake up my sexuality—I know that’s not the case. What I did was wrong, but what’s even worse is . . . I woke up something else.



THE BOYS HAVE a home game late afternoon on Tuesday. I ask Emily for a ride, but she missed curfew last weekend and had her car keys taken away. Derek’s been taking her to school. It feels weird that I didn’t know that, but maybe I’m just being overly sensitive. Since we’re both without transportation, we decide to hitch rides with our boyfriends. The downside to this is that they have to arrive an hour before the game, meaning Emily and I have to endure the bleachers for longer than usual. But at least it’s a warm April evening . . . and I get to watch my favorite coach without anyone knowing.

We watch the boys warm up as the bleachers slowly begin to fill. My eyes automatically go to Mr. Slate anytime he moves. He takes a long drink from his water bottle, somehow making a simple action divinely sexy. I scan the crowd for The Blonde throughout the evening, but she never shows.

By the ninth inning, I’m exhausted. I didn’t sleep well last night. My parents were fighting until the early morning again. It’s getting worse.

“Baseball games are too long,” I say to Emily with my elbows propped up on my knees, my head resting in my hands.

“We’re here to support the boys, Kay.” Her tone tempts me to confront her, but then she smirks. “And appreciate how good their butts look in those uniforms.” She watches Derek with admiration.

My eyes wander to Mr. Slate’s uniform pants. “Yeah,” I breathe, watching him walk up and down the third base line. “They do look good.”

She smiles at me and I sit up straight, hoping she didn’t notice where my gaze just was. I adjust my position and pull on my short denim skirt. Sitting on a metal bench for an entire baseball game is painful.

Literally and figuratively.

Emily breaks me out of my near-slumber when she jumps up cheering. I slowly rise and clap my hands. Apparently, we’ve just won.

Emily catches me in a yawn. “Why are you so tired?” she says, aggravated.

“Sorry, I haven’t been sleeping very well.”

That much is true. Between my parents fighting and my need for some Slate, it’s hard to get a full night’s sleep.

“Come on,” she says, leading me down the bleachers. I hop down onto the grass after her, and Tommy lifts me into a giant hug, locking his lips onto mine.

“Not in uniform, Bradford!” Coach Miller bellows.

Tommy laughs. “I’ll meet you by the truck.”

He jogs off to the locker room, and I follow Emily toward the parking lot as she jingles Derek’s keys.

“Wanna sit in the Beemer while we wait for them?” she asks.

Something pulls at me, and I glance over my shoulder, catching Mr. Slate’s eyes on mine.

I thrust my gaze forward, suddenly rattled. “Uh, yeah okay,” I say, rushing my hand through my hair.

She gives me a sideways glance. “You okay?”

“Yup,” I say, trying to appear at ease. My body feels like it’s on fire—is this how Tommy feels when he’s next to me? I feel like I should go apologize to the poor guy right now and let him have his way with me. How can he stand it?

Emily and I walk in silence until we reach the front of the school.

“You and Tommy seem to be doing better,” she says. Her voice seems careful.

“Yeah, I guess,” I reply.

“You guess?”

“I mean, yeah. Things are . . . fine.”

“You guys seem so happy. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I told you, I’m just tired.”

She stops and turns to me, searching my eyes for answers like I’m in an interrogation room. “That’s not it, Kay. Why are you so closed off?”

Wait. What?

“I’m closed off?” My buried vexation quickly rises to the surface. “You barely talked to me about the fight on Friday and once you heard my side of the story, I didn’t hear from you all weekend.”

“What did you want me to do? You guys had a fight. Tommy was wrong, but he was just reacting to the way you’ve been treating him. I tried to talk to you about it earlier that day, remember? I warned you.”

“I went to the party to apologize,” I say, feeling defensive.

“That’s not what Jeff said.”

“Jeff? I was the only sober one there; why would you believe anything other than what I tell you? You’re my best friend—”

“We’re all friends, Kaley,” she spits out.

My simmering frustration quickly boils into anger. “So you’re as close with Jeff and Tommy as you are with me?”

She sighs impatiently. “Of course not.”

“Well that’s what you made it sound like.” The volume of my voice is starting to rise, and I try to pull it back. “I just don’t understand you guys.”

“Who?”

“You!” My voice rises again. “Tommy! All of you guys! I just got really crappy news about college. Which, by the way, you don’t even seem to care about. I figured you guys would understand if I was a little depressed about it. Instead, you’re mad at me.”

Okay, so maybe college isn’t my biggest concern right now, but it’s my last ditch effort to validate my behavior.

“I can’t believe you would say that to me,” she says, her eyes wounded. “Of course I care!” People glance our way as they pass and she lowers her voice. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well you have a funny way of showing it,” I say. “According to you and Tommy, I’m apparently not allowed to have a bad day—or a bad week! You’re only satisfied when I’m your little happy-go-lucky robot friend who will drive all your drunken asses home.”