by Piper Lawson
I’ve seen enough to know that while technology might’ve changed in the past fifteen years, the rest hasn’t. I’m guessing these kids walk around wondering if they’re good enough. What their friends talk about behind their backs. If their world will end if they fail a test.
If the girl they can’t stop thinking about is thinking about them too.
Our conversation Friday night went from cordial to loaded in a second. I hadn’t planned it, but the disarming way she talked about love had me wishing she was there with me instead of half a city away.
Since the party, I’ve replayed that kiss in my mind. It’s slightly demented because—let’s get real—it was a stunt. It’s not like Rena blew me on the Fourth of July while I got handed a letter approving my tenure at an Ivy school.
Which suddenly has me imagining that.
I’m an evolved human being.
But this entire weekend I had to use a horrifying amount of willpower to not get off to her.
Mostly because getting off to someone who doesn’t know you’re doing it feels wrong. But also because I needed to prove that I still have control over myself.
I can get through a day without thinking about her.
I only kept the picture she sent of us kissing at the party because I haven’t had a chance to delete it.
I definitely don’t think about her ass in that dress. Or look at her profile picture and wonder what it’d be like to wrap that ponytail around my hand while I—
“Dr R?”
I’m going to hell.
I force my attention back to the room.
“Beck, I’m going to level with you.” Because this kid looks desperate for someone to tell him the truth. “This debate team wasn’t my idea. But I don’t do things halfway, and I won’t let you either. I don’t give a shit what you’re used to. Your teachers, your college professors, they may not care. I do. And I need you to do the work. It’s my job to help eliminate anything that might prevent you from doing that.
“So, I’m asking you,” I continue, watching his expression, “why are you here when you don’t want to be here either?”
He hesitates. “My parents want me to be.”
“Why?”
“The party line is that Brown admissions gets off on it. But, really, who knows? My parents are fucked. It’s like they don’t even care about each other.”
“What do you care about?”
“I want to do something with my life. I don’t care what these people think of it.” He shifts on his feet, and I wait him out while he checks his phone. I almost think he’s forgotten me until he shoves the thing back in his pocket and meets my gaze. “I want to be an actor.”
I swallow the heartburn that strikes faster than Mexican chili from the place on the corner.
People don’t actually do that, do they? I mean, I know Hollywood didn’t spring fully formed from a seashell like a daughter of Zeus, but I don’t know anyone who grew up to be an actor.
But he’s so earnest I search my brain for words other than the ones scrolling through my head. “I’m… ah… sure that’s an option.”
“No, it’s not. You’ve been here a month. You must get how this works. Every kid that walks through here’s holding a weight on his back. You want to run a company? Fine. You want to be a doctor or lawyer?” He winces. “That’s okay, but you’ve got to have a building with your name on it.”
And I thought the expectations my dad had of me were high.
I think fast. “Listen, you want to be an actor? This—debate—it can help you. Pretend you’re on a stage, in front of a camera. It’s like improv.”
He cocks his head. “Improv?”
“Exactly. Unless you’d rather show up unprepared for our first competition.”
“You don’t want to be embarrassed?”
“I don’t care about that.” I’ve made enough presentations to academic hecklers. My ego can take it. “But there’s a Back to the Future marathon that night. If you’re going to show up drunk, I’d rather you tell me now so I can skip the debate altogether and watch it.”
Beck rubs a hand over his face, sighing. “Dr. R, it’s called DVR.”
“On a teacher’s salary?” I joke, but he nods, earnest.
Monday
Rena: Going on another date tomorrow.
Wes: I appreciate your dedication to the cause.
Wes: P.S. Send me his name.
Rena: It’s a text, Wes. A post script on a text = not a thing.
Wes: I’m waiting.
Rena: Don’t get your panties in a knot.
Rena: P.S. He’s a Sagittarius. I also sent you his social security number and driver’s license.
Tuesday
Rena: OMG, my date last night was a DJ.
Wes: You do understand the intention of the app is to date one person at a time.
Rena: Tomorrow’s a veterinarian. We’re going to have so much to talk about.
Wes: ?
Rena: … because I have a pet skunk.
Wes: I’m not sure we can be friends. You might have rabies.
Rena: We kissed twice.
Wes: You could bite me.
Rena: You wish.
Wednesday
Wes: I trust the vet passed your skunk’s test.
Rena: He didn’t meet Scrunchie. That’s a two-date minimum.
Wes: We’ve been on two dates.
Rena: So when’re you going to meet him?
Wes: When I die and you pry open the lid of my coffin.
Rena: That’s dark, Strange.
Wes: I scheduled an interview with a testimonial couple Friday at five thirty.
Wes: Assuming you have time between dates.
Rena: More data = better.
Wes: You’re turning into quite the investigator.
Rena: Why thank you. I read a Wikipedia page entitled “Science.”
Wes: Argh… I can’t…
Rena: I’ll write up some questions for the happy couple and send them over.
Wes: Thanks. We should meet early. To get organized.
Rena: Great idea. See you Friday afternoon.
13
Rena
“Hey, squirt,” I say to my brother as I come up behind him in the cafeteria at Baden on Thursday at lunch.
“What the fuck are you wearing?” he mumbles.
“What do you care? You asked me to sign something. Here I am.”
I scan the sheet, which is a permission form for some kind of school trip. “What is this?”
“A field trip. Dad won’t agree because he doesn’t believe in missing core classes.”
“Why do you want it?”
He looks around at his friends, then lowers his voice. “Don’t you ever have something you want to be yours?”
The earnestness in his expression gets the better of me.
“Fine.”
I carefully scrawl my dad’s signature on the sheet, then hold it out to admire my handiwork. Beck snatches it out of my hand.
“You’re welcome!” I toss after him as he turns back to his friends.
I walk through the halls, taking a detour on impulse to the science wing.
A couple of guys check me out, one of them whistling.
I’m a little dressed up for Baden, my high-waisted skirt hugging my hips and my top cropped to reveal an inch or two of skin.
My heels click on the floor as I pull up by the administration office and peer in the half-open door.
Blood hums in my veins when I see him standing in the waiting area, talking to someone I’m guessing is another teacher.
He’s wearing a green shirt and tie, and I let my gaze drift to his pursed lips, his drawn eyebrows. The way his hair falls across his forehead on the right side.
The first time I saw him, I thought he was handsome.
I was wrong. Wes Robinson is fucking hot.
All week, Wes and I have been texting. And all week, I’ve been going on dates with men from his dating app. If
I’m honest, it’s been completely different spending time with someone when there are no expectations of sex or future.
I have a phone full of notes typed in cabs and on the subway, ideas for how to market the thing.
But the biggest revelation this week besides that I found something interesting about each of the men I dated?
It’s that the way I feel about Wes Robinson blows all the other guys out of the water.
He’s smart and gorgeous and has the kind of drive and integrity I thought was long gone from this world. I like teasing him and challenging him. He makes me work for his smiles, but I’ll work for them all day long because when I get one, it’s enough to cut through all the tension in my body, replace it with a sense of genuine well-being I can’t remember feeling.
Wes glances up, saying something to excuse himself, then ducks out the door to where I’m standing. “Hi. You’re the last person I expected to see here.”
Is it possible he’s changing too? Because the surprised curve of his mouth came out of nowhere. I haven’t even said anything, all I did was show up.
“Stopped by to see Beck. You’re between periods?”
“I have class in ten minutes.” He holds up a textbook.
His blue eyes are especially deep today, and I want to dive in just to see how many ripples I can create.
I hold out a hand, and he passes me the book. I flip through it to a diagram of two flies having sex. “Is this what does it for you?”
Wes raises a brow as if he’s trying to figure out what I’m up to.
“You’re a geneticist. Drosophila”—I read the Latin name off the page—“is your jam, right? It’s what you think of when you’re alone at night…”
“Who says I’m alone at night?”
My stomach drops, but I can’t think about it because we’ve got company in the hallway.
A group of teenagers in uniforms pass, a couple of them murmuring hellos to Wes. He nods before turning back to me, sticking his hands in his pockets.
“I stop short of deriving physical pleasure from that,” Wes goes on, nodding to the book.
I don’t miss the girl checking him out, whispering to her friend, but he does. I shouldn’t care that a girl whose boobs haven’t come in is checking out a man that’s not even mine.
But what can I say. Things have been crazy lately.
“Then what does get you off?” I hadn’t planned on flirting with him, but I can’t resist.
His nostrils flare. “Tell me why you’re so interested.”
I cock my head, pretending to consider. “Well, Kendall got this book on oral sex. It’s pretty much a science, don’t you think?” He doesn’t protest, which in itself is testament to the fact I’ve thrown him. “It’s about experimenting. Reaching an understanding. Finding out how the other person works, what makes them tick, what makes them… explode.”
He turns to start down the hallway, and I fall into step next to him. “You really want to know what gets me off? Achievement. Working harder every day until you get the things that matter to you because you deserve them. Not taking shortcuts.”
That shouldn’t be sexy.
It totally is.
It feels as if I’ve been beaten at my own game by one hot, oblivious geneticist.
Whatever reaction I thought he had to my question, I clearly misjudged it. He’s just being Wes. Staying in his lane, even as I try to drag him out of it with my teeth.
God, he’s got me so scrambled I can’t even get metaphors right.
I swallow. “So, listen. I have lots of ideas to sell the app. Ben’s going to blow his load.”
Wes shakes his head. “Great, but… can we stop with the sexual metaphors?”
“What’s wrong?” For a second I’m so lost in his expression the book slips from my hands. “Whoops.”
He starts to reach for it, but I beat him, bending down to grab it. My skirt’s riding up, but I don’t really care.
At least until I straighten, my gaze locking with Wes’s.
His pupils are huge and black. His jaw tics.
I’m used to guys announcing what they want with their words, their bodies. But with Wes, it’s under wraps.
I’m clocking every microsecond of breath, every millimeter of movement. If I don’t tune in to him, I’ll miss every beautiful thing he’s giving me.
Because under the surface, if I calibrate just right, I can see it…
He’s practically shouting.
It’s not like I want him to fuck me.
Except I do want him to fuck me. More than I can remember wanting anyone to.
But more than that, I want him to know me.
Now there’s a tug-of-war inside me. The buzzing that never quite leaves has somehow dialed up when all I wanted was to dull it for a while.
I clear my throat, holding out the text. “My bad.”
“I think it will survive,” he says, unclenching a fist long enough to take the book and tuck it under his arm.
A throat clearing has me looking up.
“Josephine.”
I whirl to see the last face I want to see emerging from the office down the hall. “Dad. What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Favor for Beck.”
“Your mother is planning dinner this weekend. You should come.”
I can feel Wes’s gaze on me, and my father. Flicking between us, in confusion, then disbelief, then realization.
Wes isn’t stupid. He knows the guy who hired him is my dad. But, shit. This is not how I wanted him to find out.
All I want is to grab him and explain, especially when he nods to my father. “Terry. Excuse me.”
Wes starts down the hall.
It’s another minute before I can get out of the conversation with my father and run after Wes.
The bell rings, and I round the corner to the science wing, sticking my head in doorways as teenagers flood the halls.
I know it’s bad. Even though it was a tiny omission, I had every chance to admit the connection when we talked at the club. Or since.
I find his classroom, edge my face into the doorway despite the stream of bodies flowing past me into the room.
“Wes,” I call, but he doesn’t hear me. He’s already writing something on the whiteboard.
I try texting him to ask if we can talk later.
His phone buzzes on his desk. Wes glances at it, then looks up at me in the doorway. The coolness in his gaze nearly covers up the judgment and betrayal.
Nearly.
They gut me even before Wes drops the phone in the desk drawer and shuts the drawer with a finality that hurts my heart.
14
Wes
“Four months into your relationship, how do you feel about the experience of meeting this way?”
I read the question off the page, and the couple in front of me exchanges a look. The woman smiles, leaning into the guy.
“Great. Some people have an issue with dating online, but I’m fine with it. I never expected to find someone as a result of some DNA prediction. But it’s amazing and kind of cool.”
Kind of cool. It shouldn’t offend me—hell, it’s nearly an admission of “science is awesome,” which is the one tattoo I’d consider getting.
Today, it offends me.
I force my attention back to the email message on my phone screen. “Describe your relationship in”—I frown at the font—“three words.”
The woman looks at her boyfriend. “You first,” she says with a nudge.
“Um. Great. Happy. Optimistic?” he ventures.
She laughs. “I would say it’s unexpected. And satisfying. And hopeful. And I’m a psych grad, so I get that part of it’s in my head. Like, self-fulfilling prophecy. We’re more likely to work out our problems because we believe we’re compatible. But you could make that case for anything. People from the same town, the same school…”
God, they even look alike. I’ve heard about co
uples looking like each other, or like their pets, but never gave it much thought. They have the same dark hair. And eyes and—
“Everything okay?” she asks me.
I glance toward the door. “I thought my friend—colleague—was coming.”
The couple smiles at each other, and I go back to the list of questions Rena sent me this morning.
“Tell me the best thing about your relationship.”
“Respect. And honesty,” she says, and he nods.
Respect and honesty, I think.
Sounds nice.
I set my pen down and my phone. “That’s all I need. Thanks for your time.”
They leave hand in hand. They’re happy. Too happy.
Who’s that happy in a relationship? Maybe they don’t really know each other.
Maybe I’m being a prick because Rena said she’d show and didn’t.
Tuesday, I nearly got knocked out by Jake because I had the focus of a toddler before he’s learned object permanence.
After, I’d iced my cheek while leaving another message with the dean at UW about my position.
Wednesday evening was parent-teacher meetings after debate, and I spent the time getting jerked around by parents.
Thursday, Rena showed up at school looking like something out of a comic book.
When she dropped that text and flashed me miles of leg plus a hint of the curve of her ass, every logical thought evaporated.
I wanted to press her up against the lockers and do something that would get me fired.
(It might be worth it. If I ever come to this girl, it’s going to be like a dam exploding.)
