“Sorry, I’m a little OCD. I’ll be fine though,” he jokes as he vainly tries to clean up the smears of old dry-erase marks. “Hmm . . . I’ll have to bring my own cleaner, apparently.” He hesitates before setting down the eraser.
He brightens the mood of the class with his light-hearted quips and genuine smile. The guys all seem to appreciate his comicality, while most of the girls just swoon. He finishes his lecture with ten minutes to spare and instructs us to start on our homework. As he settles into his desk, the class quiets down. I search in my bag for my favorite lip balm, thankful when I find it. My lips are dry and my entire body feels dehydrated. I pull off the cap and slide the bubble gum flavor along my lips, closing my eyes in sweet relief. Instinctively, I glance over at his desk and find him studying me, his eyes resting on my mouth. I pause before slowly rubbing my lips together, my heart palpitating. Our eyes meet briefly before he rises from his chair and makes his way to the back of the classroom where Seth’s hand is raised.
Heat sweeps through my face, and I shield it with my hand as I dig my elbow into the desk, trying to slow my pulse. Clearly, he was just watching the class to see if anyone needed help. Get over yourself.
The bell rings, releasing me from this disorienting first hour, and Avery is out of her seat before I even stand up. Mr. Slate walks past me and sits back down as Avery twirls her blonde hair around her finger and leans against his desk. She asks some lame question about the homework assignment, and I cringe at her sad attempt at portraying innocence. Avery and I have mutual friends, but she’s half sweet and half nails-on-a-chalkboard.
Mr. Slate leans back in his chair, and I watch their interaction through my peripheral vision while I pack up my stuff. Now that I’m standing, I’m able to take in more of his attire. His shoes can only pass as some high-class Italian loafers, and I still can’t get over his designer suit. Who is this guy? I check out his dark-brown leather messenger bag sitting next to his desk before my gaze lifts to his spectacular face. His eyes flash to mine as Avery babbles on, and my stomach flip-flops in disobedience to my brain. I drop my gaze and throw my bag over my shoulder and walk out the door . . . no longer in need of caffeine.
I rush to my locker and swap out my books before heading to second period. My hands are shaking a bit, and I feel light-headed. No coffee, no food, not enough sleep, and my math teacher just passed away—of course I’m out of sorts, I assure myself. When I walk into my English lit class, Tommy is already seated. His first class is next door, so he usually beats me here. I slide into my seat next to him and smile.
He regards me with curiosity. “Everything okay?” He probably wonders why I look so hideous.
“I slept in!” I say, running my hands over my ponytail. “I couldn’t even shower, or have my morning coffee.”
“You look fine, Kay.” He laughs. “But you really didn’t have any coffee? Because you look like you just downed about six cups.”
“Really?” My voice cracks.
Great. So whatever I’m feeling shows.
His giant water jug distracts me.
“Hey, can I have some of that?”
He hands it over and I take a greedy swig. All the athletes carry a gallon of water with them throughout the day, and today I am grateful.
Tommy’s eyes still question me as I hand him back the jug.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I had a weird morning . . . Mr. Hanson died of a heart attack over spring break.”
“Oh shit!”
“Mr. Bradford,” warns Mrs. Taylor.
“Sorry, Mrs. Taylor,” says Tommy, flashing his boy-next-door grin.
DURING LUNCH, TOMMY sits next to me as he discusses the upcoming baseball game with his best friend, Derek, and the rest of his teammates. My mind begins to wander just as Emily slams her tray down in front of me, startling the entire table.
“Did you see?” is all she says.
“Huh?”
Her eyes are wide with excitement. “Did you see our new math teacher?”
“Well, I have his class right before you, so yeah,” I say.
“Holy hell! How are we supposed to get any work done?”
Tommy and Derek’s conversation halts as they gape at us in confusion.
“What do you mean?” I ask in a lame attempt to seem oblivious.
“Mr. McHottie!” Emily squeals.
“Oh, I know,” Avery chimes in as she takes her seat nearby. She and her fellow cheerleaders always sit at the end of our table. “He is so gorgeous!”
I try to act nonchalant as the girls gush about him. “They’re totally overreacting,” I say to Tommy, hoping I sound convincing.
Derek turns to Emily. “Do I need to escort you to second period now, babe? Who the hell is this guy?”
“Oh, please,” says Emily. “Like you guys didn’t talk about Ms. Guess in front of us constantly when she was new.”
A lazy grin pulls up the corners of Derek’s mouth as his eyes glaze over. “Yeah, she’s hot.”
Emily playfully punches him on the arm. I’ve been best friends with Emily since third grade when I fell off the monkey bars during recess and she ran over to help me. She even walked me to the nurse’s office and stayed with me until I stopped crying. After the nurse cleaned me up, she gave both of us purple lollipops, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. She is annoyingly beautiful, however, and popular, with gorgeous blonde hair and legs up to her neck.
I’ve known her boyfriend, Derek, since junior high, and he is one of my favorite people on the planet. He’s great-looking, a high academic achiever, and excels at every sport—so much so that he’s all set to go to USC on a football scholarship. On paper, you’d think he was a jerk. But he’s the sweetest guy I know. He’s beloved by everyone in school, and his light-brown hair, emerald-green eyes, and positive spirit, complement my best friend in a way that makes me believe they are made for each other.
Emily turns to Avery for support in the how-hot-is-Mr.-Slate meter, and I scoot closer to Tommy and squeeze his hand while I pick at my salad. He may not be concerned about me leaving in a few months, but I can’t help but feel guilty. Maybe I’m overcompensating, but I know if he was moving away for college, I’d be extra sensitive about him drooling over some hot new chick.
As I plant a kiss on his lips, Emily interrupts.
“Hey, what’s up with you? It’s finally payback for Ms. Guess. Do you seriously not find him attractive?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I guess so. For an older guy.”
“You are crazy,” Avery says. “He’s gotta be in his twenties.”
“I wouldn’t care if he was in his thirties,” Emily deadpans.
Avery giggles. “He doesn’t wear a ring.”
Derek smirks. “Girls. They look for a ring, while guys never even make it to a girl’s finger.” The guys all laugh, and I quickly change the subject.
“So, have you heard anything from USC yet?” I ask Emily.
She sighs. “Not yet.”
After Derek got his scholarship, Emily and I rushed our applications in, so we could all go together. I just got my acceptance letter last week, so I’m anxious to see if our dream will become reality.
“You’re bound to hear something soon,” I assure her.
“I know. I just hope it’s good news.”
THE LACK OF sleep and caffeine hits me hard by the end of the day. I make my way down the hallway and slump down on the wooden bench next to the gym, where the four of us always meet after school. Tommy’s late. I rest my head against the wall and close my eyes. Emily and Derek have already left and the halls are beginning to thin. Just as I’m drifting off, Tommy rushes me from the side and lifts me up over his shoulder. I scream as he twirls me around, laughing.
I squeal. “Let me go!”
He sets me back down, and I hold onto his arms for balance as I wait for the room to stop spinning. I brush my ponytail out of my face and catch Mr. Slate’s eyes as he strides past us. My stomach drops, and I watch him walk outside to the parking lot, then quickly turn my attention back to Tommy and try to smile.
“You okay?” Tommy laughs. “You look like you’re about to puke.”
“I’m good . . . y-you just caught me off guard,” I stammer.
Something has definitely caught me off guard. No lie there.
He pokes me in the ribs and gives me a quick peck on the lips. “I’m late for practice, I’ll call you later.”
I TRY TO calm my mind as I slide into my car. I don’t feel like myself today and can’t wait to get home. As I pull out of the student lot and onto the street, Mr. Slate appears in my mind. I blast the stereo in a vain attempt to drown out my thoughts. I don’t want to be thinking about him and analyzing every detail of first period. It makes me feel like a young, foolish girl, and I’m embarrassed that I can’t control the way my body reacts every time his eyes meet mine.
Once I’m home, I trudge upstairs to my bedroom and work through all of my homework—even some extra credit. I could really use a nap, but there’s a sudden need inside me to stay busy. I don’t come downstairs when either of my parents come home. Instead, I work straight through until my dad calls me down for dinner.