by Julie Cross
I don’t turn around to see their reaction, but I do hear several groans. She faces forward again and elbows me in the side. “What are you doing all the way up here, Asthma Boy? I figured you’d be huffing and puffing in the back with the smokers.”
I shake my head. “Don’t know. I just phased out for a while, and then here I was.”
“Same thing goes for me. I zone out, and it turns out I’m in the zone, you know?” She flashes me a grin. “This last mile is a bear. Sure you don’t want to slow down?”
My chest is a little bit tight, but my fingernails are still pink and not blue. I take another hit of my inhaler. “I’m going all out. Even if I pass out.”
Without further words, Haley and I both lengthen our strides, her shorter legs taking nearly twice as many steps as mine. The rolling hills a mile from the school, ice rink, and the main strip appear before us, and my legs flex in response, my muscles already burning.
“Bakowski told me I could sit this out,” I explain to Haley, my breathing much more labored now.
“And…? You didn’t want to?”
“He never lets anyone sit out. He doesn’t put me in the same category as the other players.”
“And you need to be,” Haley finishes, understanding.
“Yeah, I need to be.” All people are not created equal. I understand this philosophical concept just fine. But I can’t help the fact that all I’ve ever wanted was to be considered equal among my peers.
The amusement drops from Haley’s face, and she’s all business now. “Relax your arms. And keep your head up. It increases oxygen circulation.”
I almost crack a joke, but the intensity of the workout is too high for that. I do as I’m told, and both of us pick up our pace once again. The push uphill is grueling, so much that neither of us can speak a word. Haley’s cheeks are flushed, sweat pouring down her body. I’m sure I’m just as red.
We’re pumping our legs downhill, the busy strip of main street with the Sparkplug, the ice rink, and O’Connor’s Tavern now in our line of sight.
“A quarter mile left,” Haley says.
“Got it.” I wave a hand, my chest too tight to say any more words. One quarter mile. That’s all. We pass the shops and turn in to the high school, making our way behind. My elbow is literally rubbing Haley’s. I kick it up a notch, and she does the same. Damn it, Haley. Slow down.
I suck in as much air as my lungs will allow and push harder, my longer legs taking the unfair advantage and running—literally—with it. Leaning against a bench on the side of the track are Coach Bakowski, Coach Ty, and Mrs. Levitt, the cheerleading sponsor.
“Uh oh…” I hear Bakowski say. “Looks like we’re gonna be back tonight.”
My feet move quicker, eyes focused on the finish line, and a few seconds later, I can’t see Haley from the corner of my eye anymore. I cross through the end marker. My chest feels like a truck is sitting on top of it. Haley’s white tennis shoes show up beside me, her own breathing heavy and ragged.
“Put your hands on your head,” she says, huffing out the words. “It helps with—”
I nod, cutting her off. I already know this. I take another puff from my inhaler and then walk in a circle with my hands over my head.
“Jesus.” Haley bends over, hands on her knees. “I should have eaten something before that run. I don’t usually push that hard.”
I spin around, expecting to see my teammates and the rest of the cheerleaders behind us, but the track is still empty; only the coaches are there, off to the side.
“What happened?” I say to Haley. “Did we make a wrong turn or something?”
She stands back up and moves beside me. “I made the route, remember?”
I clasp my hands behind my head. “But where is everyone?”
“Back there.” Haley smiles and points down the main road. “Way, way back there.”
I stare at her. “Wow…”
Bakowski is watching us. He doesn’t say anything from where he’s standing, but he looks at me for a very long time, his eyes narrowed like he’s thinking hard. Then he shakes his head and jots something down on a clipboard.
“Did you see that?” I ask Haley.
“I saw it.” Haley is looking at me like a proud parent now, but then her grin fades. “Tate would have beaten both of us if he’d had shoes on.”
“Jake, too,” I agree. But they didn’t have shoes, and they didn’t beat us. I’m just gonna let myself enjoy that. Olympic gold medals are won under similar circumstances—the leader falls, and the underdog takes advantage.
I step behind Haley and wrap my arms around her shoulders, half leaning on her for support. “I owe you breakfast, okay?”
The lack of oxygen must be getting to me, because next thing I know, right before anyone else rounds the corner heading toward the track, I plant a quick kiss on Haley’s temple. Then I release her and step back before anyone sees us together.
Haley’s gaze drops to the ground, but I can see her smiling. “Water?”
“Yeah, water.” I nod.
And we both head for the drinking fountain near the bleachers, keeping a healthy distance between us.
Chapter Twenty-Six
–Haley–
“Haley!” Fletch says in a way than indicates he’s done this several times already.
I flop onto my back on my bedroom floor. “What?”
“The conclusion?” Fletch sighs. “What do you think of it?”
I make eye contact, giving the appearance of listening, but the paragraph he reads to me from his laptop turns into nothing but mushy sounds. My fake-listening doesn’t fool my Civics partner.
He sighs again and then snaps his laptop shut. “Let’s finish this later.”
“Wait!” I cross the room and grab his computer. “I’ll look at it. That’ll be easier.”
“Will you promise to stop tapping your pen?”
I let the pen in my hand fall to the ground. “Sorry. I didn’t know I was tapping.”
“Clearly I’m the most boring person on the planet.” Fletch fights a grin. “I’ve been saying things for thirty minutes, and none of it has stuck.”
Welcome to my world. And he’s not boring. He’s kind of stuck in my head, just not this Fletcher who’s reading me boring Civics Constitution project conclusions. The other Fletcher who promised to do anything I wanted in his room. Alone. Does he say that to all the girls? So yeah, I’m pretty distracted this afternoon. Probably from the knowledge that Fletch has his very first private-instruction victim (I mean customer) tonight. I get why this is bothering me, but I don’t get why logically thinking it through isn’t helping me not hate that he’s doing this lesson. He isn’t my boyfriend. He doesn’t owe me explanations for everything. And dancing is his job.
I open the laptop, and the bright Word document flashes in front of me. I read it through twice, but still nothing sticks. I glance at Fletch and grin. “It’s great.”
“So, you liked my reference to Barbie’s disproportionate figure?”
“What?” My eyes snap back to the screen, and I quickly reread the paragraph. “Where is Barbie—”
“Kidding,” he says. “I was just testing you.”
I close the laptop and shove it back at him—a little harder than I should. Fletch grunts from the force and looks around for space on my messy desk to place it. He finally decides to tuck the computer away in his backpack.
“Maybe you could concentrate better if your bedroom wasn’t attempting a shot at Hoarders fame,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “My bedroom looks like the bedroom of a teenager. Your room, on the other hand, is freakishly clean.”
Fletch eyes the five-foot-high pile of magazines in the corner. “That is not normal.”
I rest my hands on my hips. “Well, what do all those other girls you hook up with have in their bedrooms? Steel countertops and see-through drawers?”
He shrugs, his eyes on his cell phone. “I haven’t really gone in any
girls’ rooms before.”
See? He can’t insult me without anything to compare to. But wait… “Never? Do you hook up at your house, then?”
Fletch looks like he’d rather discuss the economy or tax forms. “I don’t bring girls to my bedroom, either.”
“Your dad wouldn’t like it?”
“Hard to say,” he admits. “He wouldn’t forbid me or anything, but I’d be subjected to interrogation after, and I’d rather not be.”
But he invited me to his room. What does that mean?
Stop analyzing every little thing!
I shove the throw rug over with my big toe, exposing the wood floors so I can practice turns. I’ve done this so much that I’ve actually caused the wood to discolor, hence the need for a throw rug. “So not at your place or her place…but you’ve had sex, right? Or are you one of those ‘everything but’ people?”
“Why does it feel like I’m walking into a trap?” Fletch is straddling my desk chair, sitting backward in it. He lays his arms over the back and rests his chin there, watching me.
“You’re a great big mystery to me.” I successfully pull off a double turn and put myself in position to try again. “And I’m curious now about how everyone else goes about their sex life. I’m not a virgin, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t,” he says. “Keep your shoulders down on those turns.”
I stick my tongue out at him but drop my shoulders anyway. “Tate and I had sex, and then Jake and I—”
“Haley,” Fletch says, raising a hand to stop me. “You really don’t need to tell me this stuff. And I kind of assumed you and Tate had…you guys were together for what? A year?”
“A year and a half.” I spin to a stop and face him. “But that doesn’t mean we had sex. Kayla and Kyle Stewart have been together for two years, and they haven’t done it.”
Fletch stands up, and just as I’m mid-turn, he grasps my shoulders and holds me in place. Relief washes over his face. “Can you just stand still for a second, please? I’m getting nauseated watching you bounce around.”
I break out of his grip and plop down on my bed. “I’m sorry. I suck at being anyone’s partner when it comes to school stuff. I’m kind of an idiot, in case you haven’t noticed.”
Fletch returns to sitting in the chair and looks me over. “Have you ever considered—don’t take this the wrong way or anything—but you seem like one of those ADD people.”
“One of those ADD people?” I repeat like he’s just told me I’m ugly or have three boobs. “What does that even mean?”
“Maybe more like ADHD.” Fletch runs a hand through his hair. “I had an ADHD kid in my homeschool group. He couldn’t get any of the assignments completed, but he made these amazing castles out of toothpicks…”
“Toothpick castles? That sounds like it’s got savant written all over it. Now I’m an unfocused genius?” And yeah, my defenses are all flying up at once. I don’t like hearing anything that I can’t change. If I do poorly, I can work harder, study more. If my brain is wired to be this way for all eternity, well, I may not be able to do anything about it.
“He wasn’t a savant or whatever,” Fletcher argues. “Eventually his mom put him on medication, and he was like, the best one in the group. I think he’s going to med school now or something.”
I close my eyes and groan. “So, you think I need Ritalin?”
“There are plenty of other medications besides Ritalin,” he says.
I bury my face in a pillow. It’s Friday of week three of summer school. Only two weeks to go. Jamie has a C-, maybe a D+, either way, he’s passing. I’m passing. I have a B-, actually. Not an A. But whatever. Kill me now. I can’t take any more of this. “Can we please be done studying?”
“Haley?”
“Yes, Fletch. The answer you should give me is yes. ’Cause I’m seriously studied out, and I’m driving you crazy. I promised to never drive any more guys crazy, so it’s best if we end this session right now.”
“I’m going to answer your question from earlier,” he says, surprising me enough to get me to lift my head. “The one where you asked me if, when, and where I’ve had sex…”
I scrunch up my nose. “God, did I really ask that? I’m sorry.”
“I don’t mind answering.” He shoves his glasses back to the bridge of his nose, indicating that he might actually mind. “It just felt like a leading question, or like there was something else you wanted to ask me, but you’re avoiding it for whatever reason.”
Jesus. Add mind reading to the list of Fletcher Scott skills. I put my face back in the pillow. I’m braver like this. “I really want to know if you’re gonna have sex in the practice room during your private lesson today.”
He’s so silent, I get all nervous and squirmy. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that… Well, there might be, actually. Since she’s paying you, that could be a form of prostitution—” I shoot upright, my eyes wide. “Okay, I did not just say that.”
Fletcher’s mouth twitches, the right corner slowly rising. “You’re right. Civics study session is over. How about I give you an example of what might occur during a private dance lesson?”
My eyebrows lift up. “Two girls in one day. Sure you have the stamina for that?”
“First…” Fletch stands and then pulls me to my feet. “I would establish a no-talking rule.”
“What about moaning and other nonword sounds of pleasure?”
“In a real lesson, definitely not. But for you? Negotiable.” Fletch smirks.
“So, I’ve earned special treatment?”
“Maybe a little.” He gets back to business. “Next, we need to find a more suitable space because this room is…not acceptable.”
I glance around. It would be hard to fit two sets of feet in my turning spot. “Basement?”
He shrugs, and I lead him out—Fletch flips the light switch off and closes my door. Tomorrow we’re going to have a chat about his neurotic behaviors. Maybe I’ll even google some medication suggestions for him.
My basement has low ceilings, but it’s pretty clean and empty for the most part. We’ve got a giant flat-screen and a sectional sofa, but that’s it. Lots of empty carpet space. Unlike my bedroom.
“Okay, Yoda, what are you gonna teach me today?” Personally, I wouldn’t mind stretching out across the couch while Fletch strips off his shirt and dances in front of me, but would that really be a lesson?
“What are you in the mood to learn?” He steps back from me, assessing me head-to-toe like I’m going to need a costume change depending on what I pick. “Something fast and complicated, or maybe slow and sexy…?”
“How about somewhere in the middle of those?”
He nods. “Okay, cha-cha, then.”
Fletch jumps right into a basic explanation of this style of dance, but unlike with the Civics project, he keeps the words to a minimum and uses mostly demonstration and hands-on assistance. And honestly, I figured he was doing this little “dance lesson” as a method of flirting or pressing my buttons, and I’m almost disappointed that he’s actually teaching. But then I get into the challenge, and watching him move with such ease—it’s something completely other for me—and eventually the goal of moving together wins my attention.
He has music on his phone that we play at a low volume due to lack of speakers, but it helps to hear the beat along with moving to it. After I’ve got several eight counts mastered and even a turn, Fletch says, “Want to add a trick?”
Based on the way his face lights up, I can tell he likes the tricks. So do I. He grabs his phone and shows me a video of him and Angel, pausing it in the middle. I watch the move carefully—it involves Angel turning upside down and Fletch keeping her head from crashing into the ground. He replays it a few times and then waits for me to say something.
“So, it’s like a cartwheel, but I use your legs as the floor?”
“Exactly,” he says, surprised.
I shrug. “Cool. Let’s try i
t.”
He places me in a spot where I can’t kick the TV or the sofa, then he slides a couple of feet to the side. “The most important thing is to go all-out. Really kick into it, and I’ll do the rest, okay?”
“Okay, Yoda.” I replay the video in my head, and then I kick into the cartwheel, reaching for Fletcher’s legs and pressing my hands against his thighs. I’m standing upright on the other side of him seconds later.
“Not bad, Stevenson,” he says, flashing me his biggest grin. “It took Angel two rehearsals to learn that one.”
“Really?” That’s hard to believe considering how amazing of a dancer she is and the fact that I thought it was pretty simple. Unlike the cha-cha steps.
Fletch shrugs. “She’s a tad bit too tall for me. It works out fine, but that does a number on her confidence. Ricky doesn’t care, though. She says our chemistry makes up for it and then some.”
He’s back on his phone again, searching for more tricks. But I’m still sitting on this chemistry thing. “What does her fiancé think about all that chemistry you guys have? Or are they like, open or something?”
Fletch glances up at me, likes he’s checking to see if I’m serious. “I already told you that it’s not like that with Angel and me. Chemistry, like actors have. It’s not actual chemistry.”
“I think I get it.” I begin going through the steps Fletcher taught me on my own. “To you—all the long looks, the caressing, the hip grinding—it’s all just work. And for people like me, who make a social experience out of it, it’s one long, hot foreplay session.”
“Maybe,” he says, tossing his phone onto the sofa. “Maybe a woman I dance with gets all riled up, and then she goes home and screws the hell out of her husband. Nothing wrong with that, right?”
“I don’t know.” To me, it’s a gray area. “If I were the husband whose wife needed to be turned on by someone else in order to feel like having sex with me…” But Fletch isn’t the husband or the married woman, so he doesn’t really need to hear my opinions on this gray area.
“I see what the problem is now.” He steps into my dance space, getting his arms around me, moving through the steps with me. “You’re looking at it the wrong way. Me leading someone around the dance floor isn’t about me and how I’m affecting them.”
