Logan smiled, his eyes on the road.
“What?” I demanded.
“The Indian’s game. Bleachers, though. Great minds think alike, Roam.”
I warmed inside, threading my fingers through his.
The Indian’s stadium was nostalgic for me. For years, as children, Logan and I went to the games together. Until just a couple of years ago, we were lucky to benefit from the season passes that his father’s company passed out each winter. With the economy falling, most companies did away with extravagant gifts for their employees, including Mr. Rush’s. I hadn’t been to a baseball game with Logan since I was thirteen.
The bright lights turned night into day, giving the illusion of walking into another world. The evening was balmy, and the familiar smell of the hot dogs and popcorn near the gate brought a smile to my face as we walked hand in hand to our seats.
Once settled, Logan was in awe of our view. He thanked me again, and I kissed his cheek.
“You’re welcome. I want to tell you something,” I said, my pulse quickening. I was ready for this, but still, my nerves were live wires.
“Oh, yeah?” He sounded distracted as he focused on the field. I wetted my lips, taking a deep breath. He took my wringing hands out of my lap and held them tightly. “What is wrong? You’re freaking out,” he scolded.
“Never mind,” I said, breathing deeply to calm myself. “Let’s just enjoy the game.”
He gave me a doubtful smile, finally shrugging.
We stayed for the fireworks after the last inning. Cleveland beat the Yankees, so our walk back to the parking garage was filled with Logan’s excited chatter about the plays during the game, the calls the umpire made, and the error that he could not believe had happened. I listened, just happy to have spent the evening with him. By the time that we were back in his car, moving through traffic and heading toward the highway, I finally found the courage to talk to him.
“Pull over, please?” I asked. He gave me an incredulous look, gesturing to the traffic. We were trying to follow a detour for construction.
“It’s pretty crazy out there.”
“I know, please, just for a second. Just pull next to that memorial.” I pointed to the War Memorial Fountain.
He nodded in the direction that I pointed in.
“The giant naked guy on fire?”
I giggled. “Yes, that one.”
He did as I requested, ignoring the honking horns as he pulled into a no-parking zone near a row of orange construction barrels. “I’d guess we have about eight to ten minutes before we get a ticket. What’s up?”
I smiled shyly, smoothing my hair before taking his hands. “Logan, I love you.”
He smiled. “I love you too, Roam Eva Camden.”
I cringed. “Okay, good. No middle name, please.”
He chuckled.
“I, um,” I began, swallowing, my hands gripping his for support. His puzzled expression turned to worry.
“Roam. Now I’m starting to freak out. What’s wrong?”
Out with it. “I… think I’m ready. For you. For us. It’s your birthday… and your parents are away… and I think tonight is the right night.”
He raised his eyebrows, skeptical.
Now that I had said it, I heard the cliché in my words and winced. I waited, giving him time to look at the steering wheel as if it were a crystal ball. I had never asked him to tell me the truth about Abby, and if they ever took their relationship further. Now, I wondered if he was thinking of her, of them together, and of how I’d compare. Then I decided that I needed to work on my self-esteem.
I dug my fingernails into the pads of my fingers. When he turned back at me, he seemed almost… disappointed? “You want me to make love to you. Tonight,” he clarified.
I nodded before the nerves could take over.
He leaned in, his hand sliding over my bare knee. I stiffened, widening my eyes as his fingers gripped my inner thigh.
Instinctively, I backed away.
He sighed, removing his hand and offering me a loving smile. “You’re not ready for me, Roam. I refuse to be a regret in your life. We’ve talked about this, and I know you’re afraid. Just because it’s my eighteenth birthday doesn’t mean you’re suddenly ready.”
“Logan…”
“Look, let’s just go home and get some rest. We’ll talk about this when it’s not my birthday, and you don’t feel pressured. Okay?”
I nodded, humiliated.
He sensed my embarrassment and gathered me into his arms. I pressed my face against his shoulder. “You are so lucky that it’s me in this car, your best friend in the world, not some other guy. If I didn’t love you as much as I do, I’d drive ninety-five miles an hour to get to my house right now. I’d never let someone pressure you into something you’re not ready for. Not even me. Not even on my birthday.” He kissed my cheek, and then my lips. “But I’m sure the naked guy on fire is pretty disappointed with my chivalry.”
I gasped a tearful laugh, returning his kiss. “Thank you for that,” I whispered.
He shifted into drive, signaling to move into the street. “I’ll never hurt you Roam. And I’ll never let anyone else hurt you. I promise you.”
I nodded, resting my head against his shoulder as he drove.
“I believe you.”
Chapter Two
“Ro!” Alison May squealed with delight, slapping her flat palm against my open locker dramatically. “OMG. Please tell me you have AP World History.”
“I have AP World History,” I mused, entertained as always by Ally. Logan, Ally-May (as I had called her since I learned to talk), her brother Jason and I had been best friends and neighbors since we were babies. Throughout high school she drifted away to other crowds, and Logan and I grew closer.
As much as I loved Ally-May, we had little in common anymore. When Jason left for college the year before, she’d complained that she felt like the third wheel with Logan and me. As much as Logan and I politely protested, we felt the same way.
I adjusted my book and binder in my arms, careful not to let the two new mechanical pencils roll to the floor. She had applied the perfect amount of makeup to her smooth, caramel skin, leaving me to feel inadequate with only a little eye shadow and mascara. I had always envied her curls, and it wasn’t until my mother explained to me in third grade that Ally-May was genetically blessed with her dark ringlets, and no curling iron or hairspray could give me her African-American heritage.
“The teacher. The teacher. He’s new and he is so hot. OMG!”
“Ally-May, you do know that ‘OMG’ is not a word, right?” I glanced at my iPhone.
Text from Logan.
Rush: You look cute in argyle. ILY.
That morning, he had told me that he liked my ‘weird, plaid’ shirt. I’d informed him that the print was called argyle.
“What period is your history class?”
“First. Right now,” I replied.
“Okay, right after class please, please, please meet me at my locker. You have to tell me everything about him!”
“I’ll try, but I have to meet Logan. See you later.” I smiled as she caught sight of another friend and rushed away with a quick wave.
Oh, a hot teacher. I had made it through almost my entire high school career without dealing with such a thing. Smirking, I texted Logan back quickly.
Me: Silly. ILY2.
We hadn’t discussed our talk in the car the night before, and I was relieved. As Logan had suggested, after a full night’s sleep and without the dramatic element of my boyfriend’s eighteenth birthday looming over my head, I saw clearly that I was making a foolish, emotional decision.
I should have discussed this with Morgan. Morgan was the closest that I had to a mother, and apparently, I couldn’t trust my own feelings.
I swear to God, every time I kiss Logan, I lose a batch of brain cells.
I found my class easily, but there was no sign of a teacher in the front of the classro
om. I glanced around, searching for an adult-looking person, but found only the same group of kids I’d spend most of the day with. I affectionately referred to us all as “smart seniors.” Ally-May called us “nice nerds.”
The bell rang. I chose a seat front and center, as usual. Hot teacher or no hot teacher, I wanted to do well in the class. As a potential history major at Princeton or Yale, I needed the class on my transcript right next to an A. I was excited to see that the books were brand new, the latest edition. Anxious, I opened to the first chapter and began reading The First Civilizations.
“Welcome to Senior AP World History. My name is Mr. Perry, and I’ll be your teacher for exactly one hundred and eighty-two days.”
His voice startled me. I raised my eyes quickly to the door.
He spoke into the air facing the thermostat on the wall. “I like it to be about sixty-eight degrees in here, so please dress appropriately.” Satisfied with the adjustment, he turned around to face the class.
Blood rushed in my ears. I moved quickly to smooth my hair, in the process sliding my new book just close enough to the edge of the desk for it to teeter. I slapped both the desk and the book in an ungainly attempt to save it from the plunge.
It crashed to the floor at my feet.
My fellow smart seniors gawked at me, amused. Flushing, I felt as though Mr. Perry had cranked the thermostat to ninety degrees.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, grabbing my book and trying to smooth out the ugly, dog-eared pages that had been victims of the fall.
“Miss Camden, are you okay?” he asked, thankfully having the decency to look concerned. He bent to gather my pencils that had rolled to the tiled floor.
“I’m fine,” I breathed, giving up on my book. “Thank you.”
I lifted my eyes to his and met the darkest blue eyes I’d ever seen.
He was incredibly tall and broad shouldered. Just kneeling he was as tall as I was, sitting. His white dress shirt was rolled casually at his wrists, paired with khakis and brown, leather loafers. His sandy, blond hair was just long enough to reveal a slight curl. Tanned skin told the story of time in the sunshine, not narcissism and a tanning bed. His five-o’clock shadow was nine hours early.
Hot did not describe Mr. Perry.
I was captivated.
“Fine?” he repeated, smirking.
“I… yes,” I whispered. Beat! I ordered my heart, panicking for the seconds that it failed to function.
“Great. Okay. As I was saying, welcome to AP World History. I respect you; you respect me. For example, when Miss Camden here dropped her book, I did not laugh and ignore her, I asked if she was okay and helped her pick up her pencils. You have known Miss Camden since elementary school; I have known her for five minutes. I showed her respect. Try it.”
Chastised, the class murmured and looked directly at me.
I melted into a pool of mortification.
“If you are staring at your crotch and smiling, I know that you are texting, which is unacceptable in my classroom.” He looked directly at Michelle Crane, who was bent over in her seat, most likely text-blasting her contacts that Roam Camden had a convulsion over Mr. History. When she finally realized the class was looking at her, she quickly tucked her phone into her backpack, squirming in her seat. “Thank you, Miss Crane.”
Does he already know everyone’s names and faces? How is that possible? Some emotion struggled to surface inside me.
Did I feel bad for Michelle? Was I irritated that Mr. Perry said crotch, a word which, I thought, was highly inappropriate for a teacher to say to his students?
“Ringing phones are mine. Texts get read out loud. You should have no expectations of privacy on school grounds. That’s my first and only warning.” He paced while he spoke, and I made a mental note to choose a seat against the back wall tomorrow.
He smiled suddenly, his teeth flawlessly straight and white. I widened my eyes, my pulse quickening.
What is wrong with me?
“I rarely offer extra credit, so please do the work on time and right the first time.” He stopped pacing at the far corner of the whiteboard, easing into a rolling, leather chair at his desk. “And last but not least… this is history class. Timelines. Events. Dates. Don’t bore me with your opinions, and I won’t bore you with mine. Just facts.”
My hormones began to simmer as that elusive emotion tried again to surface. Why was I irritated?
He’s arrogant.
Of course he is.
Anyone who looks that good can be as arrogant as he wants to be.
I raised my hand, adrenaline sending a fresh stain of red to my cheeks. He looked surprised but smiled politely. “Yes, Miss Camden?”
He knows my name already? I stiffened. “Just to be clear, are you opposed to us voicing our opinions on history, or forming them altogether?”
Someone snorted in the back, and a few snickers followed. Mostly, I was being gaped at, I could feel it.
Mr. Perry tilted his head to the side slightly, as if considering my question. I held my breath. Those ocean-blue eyes met mine assertively, but I kept my gaze locked with his. “Miss Camden, I’m sure you’ll have more than a few opinions once we get started. I’d love to hear each and every one of them. But please, make an appointment with me offline. I will not let one student monopolize another student’s time.”
If it was possible to pale and flush at the same time, I did. I had never been chastised before, especially not in school… in front of an entire classroom.
“Okay,” I managed, barely a whisper.
He smiled suddenly, so disarming. “As I said, I am restricted to only one hundred and eighty-two days… and something tells me you’ll need a little more time.”
He’d lightened the mood of the class in just one sentence, and I took a deep breath, returning his smile and deciding to be mature.
“I feel like you know me very well,” I conceded.
He laughed a husky, baritone laugh that made two girls to my right audibly swoon.
“Well, I make it a point to know who I’m teaching,” he agreed, crossing his arms over his broad chest. I looked around, finding that even the guys in the room were forming a jocular bond with him.
How can he be so superior, yet so damn charming?
“Let’s go around the room and introduce ourselves. This is the kind of thing you’ll need to get used to for college next year. We’ll try a thirty second elevator speech. Who are you, where have you come from, where are you going, and why? The concept is this; you meet a potential contact or employer in an elevator, you need a speech and a business card. You’ll need to make connections to be successful in this world. I’ll begin.”
He owned the floor.
I couldn’t have looked away if I had tried.
“My name is West Perry. I have a PhD in World History from Harvard University. I’ve taught at several universities in both England and the US. I enjoy traveling, reading, and music. I look forward to an…” he looked directly at me, grinning. “…insightful year with all of you.”
A PhD… from Harvard?
“Mr. Perry?” Brandon Trusink called, chucking, “why are you teaching at a random public school with a PhD? I mean, lucky us, but… huh?” He looked around, and the class laughed in collective agreement.
“I have my reasons,” Mr. Perry said quietly. Whoa… privacy zone, I gathered. Brandon took the hint and nodded. “Roam, since you’re right up front, you can go next.”
Instant red. Stop flushing!
I was careful to keep my hands folded, avoiding creating another scene with my textbook. My lips went dry, so I wetted them quickly and cleared my throat. “My name is Roam Camden. I plan to attend Yale and major in history. I enjoy reading…” I paused, suddenly mortified that Mr. Perry and I sounded like a Match.com commercial. “And… swimming… watching movies… and spending time with my boyfriend.”
He raised his eyebrows, clearly interested. “Good luck to you, Roam.” He looked at me intently. A
fter a moment, he leaned forward. “Do you mind if I ask you where your name came from?”
Thrown, I widened my eyes. I looked around at the other students who were obviously enjoying my discomfort. “My… name?”
“Roam. Spelled like ‘to travel.’”
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, annoyed that he would have the gall to ask me such a personal question in front of the entire class. Biting the inside of my cheek, I gripped my textbook. “The B52’s song, “Roam.” My mom was a fan.”
He smiled broadly, as if I had given him some philosophical answer that he’d been searching for his whole life. “I see. Great song.”
“Yes,” I agreed as my face burned, looking expectantly at the boy to my left. He introduced himself as James Linton the Third. Halfway through his dissertation on the importance of history in culture, I glanced sideways at Mr. Perry.
His eyes were still on me.
I looked down immediately, trying to focus on listening to the other students. Something about him was disconcerting, something other than his incredibly good looks. Anxiety flooded me as I stole another glance at him. This time, he was nodding and listening to James, absently running his palm up and down his right, inner forearm.
I finally realized what I was feeling.
Pinprick chills began in my scalp, crawling on hands and knees down my neck and scurrying over my body.
I was afraid.
Chapter Three
My hair is spread out under my cheek on the mattress. A strange, sweet smell permeates my nose. I wake up slowly, my subconscious dragging as if jogging in water. First, I see my hair. It is blond, and it’s not a trick of the eerie light creeping in the torn shade through the window ahead of me. Why is my hair blond? I splay my hand over my hair, touching the rough mattress. Where are my sheets?
I am still, my eyes darting around the room. I think that it is a motel room. A strange mirror is on the wall by the bed, directly in front of me. The surface of the mirror is liquefied, but I can still see myself clearly.
Roam (Roam Series, Book One) Page 2
