The Force of Gravity(25)

“You got it,” he says between breaths.

“Kay, dinner!” my dad calls up the stairs.

“Okay!” I holler back.

I climb off Tommy and smooth my hair. He lays there smiling at me.

“Wanna stay for dinner?” I ask.

“Only if I can have you for dessert,” he says with a wide grin.



MY PARENTS ENJOY Tommy’s company as usual, putting on their perfect little act they’ve honed for the past—well, eighteen years, apparently. Tommy helps my mom with the dishes, and I suppress an eye roll—parents are so easy to please. Afterward, I walk Tommy out to his truck.

“I’m glad you came over tonight,” I tell him.

“Not as glad as I am.” He wraps his arms around me, drawing me in for a kiss.

That stupid little voice in my head tries to grab my attention, but I strangle it, kissing Tommy harder. That infuriating voice has done nothing except get me into trouble, and I refuse to listen to it anymore. I’ve been an idiot for being so devastated over Elijah—Mr. Slate. It’s mortifying that it wasn’t just a physical thing for me. It’s clear that was all it was for him, which is why he just “lost control.” I’ve been so foolish.

Tommy, on the other hand, actually cares about me. Yeah, he’s put some pressure on me lately, but is that really his fault? He’s the hottest boy in school, yet somehow hasn’t slept with the entire student body—clearly, he values intimacy in some way. Why would I want to jeopardize what we share? I have to lose my virginity sometime, right? So, why not with Tommy? We have a history together. It makes perfect sense that he’d be my first. It’s an ideal situation.

After we wish each other goodnight, I run upstairs to get ready for bed. I rush through each action, humming a random tune to keep my thoughts at bay. As I climb into bed for the night, I slip my headphones back on and turn up the volume.

That pesky little voice can kiss my ass.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN



MY BIG WAVY CURLS BOUNCE in perfection as I march up the pavement in my bright fuchsia summer dress and nude wedges. My favorite perfume permeates my sensory as I wave my wrist over my nose and give my hair a toss. When I reach the entrance of the school, I remain imperturbable as several whistles call after me. I slow my pace for a moment and glance at the cluster of boys, rewarding them with a wink before stepping inside.

With model posture, I strut down the hall and into Mr. Slate’s classroom. My books slap against my desk, piercing the silent room. I didn’t intend on that, but manage to keep my composure as I take my seat.

“What’s up with you, girl?” asks Avery from her desk.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I say, my voice cutting. She turns away, and a sly smile crosses my lips. Yeah, that was bitchy of me, but I’m not in the mood today.

Elijah—er, Mr. Slate—or Slate—whatever the hell he wants to be called—glances my way. This annoys me to the point of having to restrain myself from flipping him off in front of the entire class. My gaze locks onto him as he goes through the new chapter, but he never returns my stare. I ask several questions throughout the morning—forcing him to acknowledge me—and spring out of my seat as soon as the bell releases class.

Avery engages him as I gather up my books. “So Mr. Slate, I hear you’re going to be one of the teachers chaperoning the prom.”

My stomach flip-flops against my will.

“Yeah, I am,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck.

Seth snickers from the back of the classroom. “How’d you get stuck with that gig, Slate?”

“Well, I’m the newbie around here, so they sort of signed me up without my consent,” he says, chuckling.

I hate that he’s able to laugh with such ease. I hate that he’s just going on with his life without a care in the world.

Avery squeals. “Are you going to dance?”

I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. I can practically hear her eyelashes batting, and I want to rip them off her stupid face.

“Uh, no. You do not want to see me dance,” he replies, laughing again.

Yeah, laugh one more time, asshole, I freaking love it.

I storm out of the classroom and continue on with my life. I flirt with Tommy throughout second period and even high-five Duncan during P.E. At lunch, I keep my hand on Tommy’s thigh, and we exchange a few kisses while everyone at the table talks enthusiastically about prom. Emily pulls out a magazine, showing me pictures of dresses she likes and reminds me of our shopping trip on Friday, like I’ve already forgotten. Deep down, I think she’s worried I’ll cancel.

At the end of the school day, we meet at our usual spot and hang out for a while. After parting with Emily and Derek, Tommy and I stroll hand-in-hand as he escorts me out to the front of the building. He’s late for baseball practice, but we share a long good-bye with our bodies interlocked.

“Get a damn room, you two!” shouts Jeremy, a fellow teammate, slapping Tommy on the back before running off to practice.

“Soon enough,” I say to Tommy, flashing a devilish grin at him. He smiles and quickly draws my mouth to his.

Mr. Slate brushes past us as he heads to the parking lot. “Hey Bradford, can you help me out with the equipment?”

Tommy breaks from my lips, turning to Slate. “You got the new bats?”

“Yep.” He stops and faces us, acknowledging only Tommy. “You’re going to be late.”

I shoot him a frosty glare. “He’ll be there in a minute,” I snap.

Mr. Slate’s eyes flash to mine for a split second before turning away.

Tommy eyes widen. “Wow, you really do want to fail his class, don’t you?” he says as soon as Mr. Slate’s out of earshot.

“No, but I need to kiss you good-bye, and he rudely interrupted.”

He laughs. “He would kick my ass if I talked to him like that. You’re lucky you’re so cute.”

With a nonchalant shrug, I loop my arms around his neck and press my body against his, kissing him with vigor. He wraps his arms around my waist, and I force that infuriating voice further down with each vehement kiss.

When I break away, I plaster a smile on my face. “Have fun at practice.”

“I’ll call you tonight.”

He releases his grip, and I turn around, catching a glimpse of Mr. Slate next to his Tahoe. His eyes are on us, and a pang twinges in my chest. Tommy jogs over to him, and I straighten my posture as I swagger off to my car.



EVERY MORNING, I dress to kill. I continue to ask endless questions throughout first period, unintentionally improving my grade in the process, and Tommy and I are more solid than ever—on the outside at least. My alter ego has taken up permanent residence, forcing me into autopilot. I keep myself as busy as possible, making sure I always have something to focus on. No idle time. It gets me through, and before I know it, the school week is finally over, and Emily and I are driving up to Scottsdale in search of the perfect prom dresses. This is the last weekend to settle on something, so we are determined to make it happen. To my surprise, I’m actually looking forward to it—maybe even feeling a little excited.

“So the limo is set to pick us up from Derek’s house,” Emily says as she coasts up the 101. She talks so fast, I have to try to keep up. “I’m coming over in the morning and we’ll get ready at your house—is your mom still doing our hair? Then I’ll take you to Derek’s. You told your parents that you’re staying the night with me, right? The limo will pick us up from Derek’s and take us to prom. Derek wanted to pick us up, but I want to hang out as his house, which will be way more fun. Oh! And we can leave our bags in the limo, and they’ll keep them secure while we’re at the dance. Then the driver will pick us up and take us to the hotel,” she exclaims. I’m surprised she isn’t out of breath.

“Sounds perfect,” I say, trying to match her excitement. Prom is starting to sound fun, but I’m still uneasy about what’s taking place afterward.

We arrive at Kierland Commons in the north end of town, just after four o’clock. Emily pulls into the upscale outdoor shopping mall that’s buzzing with Barbie-esque Scottsdale housewives. She parks the car, and after a quick discussion, we decide to eat after we shop. No girl wants to try on dresses with a belly full of food, and we want to enjoy our dinner. We browse a few stores and boutiques before hitting the jackpot. Emily falls in love with a lacy black strapless number that looks stunning on her. It has a built-in corset, and the skirt puffs out playfully, echoing her personality and showing off her long, gorgeous legs. It’s so her, and I insist she buy it. Still feeling unsatisfied in my own quest, I continue to shuffle through rack after rack and start to feel hopeless . . . until I see it.

Red.

I snatch it off the rack and rush into the dressing room. I slip into the silky satin and admire my reflection in the full-length mirror. It’s a beautiful, fire engine red that hugs my body as if it were custom designed for me. It’s short, but not too short. It doesn’t show as much cleavage as I expected, but the way it embraces my body makes it quite suggestive. It glorifies my tan legs, while the thin spaghetti straps almost make it look strapless—it’s immaculate.