Eyes on Me

by Rachel Harris

  “Oh, please, you know I’ve got your back,” she chided, elbowing me with a teasing smile. “You and me, we’re like clownfish and sea anemone.” At my blank look of huh?, she explained, “We go together. But let’s be real for a minute. Ballroom dancing? Have you even seen Dancing with the Stars? That shit ain’t easy, sweetheart, and you—”

  “Have a tendency to trip on air,” I finished for her, gesturing toward today’s tee of choice. Fittingly, it was emblazoned with a bright pink flamingo and the words “Majestically Awkward,” and I’d paired it with one of Mom’s flowy pink skirts and my comfy, worn-out Converse. It was eclectic and weird and about as close to a power outfit as I got, seeing as I’d guessed I would need the extra boost today. “Tell me about it.”

  I’d told Dad as much, once the initial shock of his suggestion had worn off, but he’d waved away the very real concern as it if was nothing more than a gnat. Mom had loved musicals and dancing, and apparently once upon a time she had even mentioned it was great for relieving stress. Who knows, for her it probably did. She glided through life like a graceful swan. I stumbled through it like a newborn colt.

  We stopped in front of my locker, and I dialed the combination, my two-ton book bag falling at my feet. Despite the future chiropractic bills, I found comfort in the weight. School made sense to me. It was my happy place where two plus two equaled four, history was remembered, and scientific mysteries were explained. If only the rest of my life could’ve fallen in line so easily.

  “Unfortunately, ballroom is the lesser of two evils,” I explained over the sound of slamming metal echoing off scuffed tile. I exchanged my AP statistics book for government and surveyed the array of snacks I kept stashed inside. “It was either agree or drop something from my schedule, and you know I can’t do that. Cameron’s panting at my heels as it is, and after falling behind this week, I can’t afford any more mistakes.”

  Cameron Montgomery had been my rival since freshman year, and she was just waiting for a chance to leapfrog me into the valedictorian spot. If everything went as planned, I’d surge ahead by the end of the semester, but if I dropped a class like Dad had originally wanted, or even slacked off a smidge, it was game over. Cameron would win top spot, and I’d have nothing to show for the insane workload I’d carried for the last three years of my life.

  I needed valedictorian.

  “Don’t worry, you’ve got it in the bag,” Sydney said dutifully, calming the rising panic flooding my system, but I caught a strange, distracted twinge to her voice that set my bestie senses tingling. Ignoring the siren’s call of chocolate inside my locker, I closed my door and turned to see her anxiously shifting her weight.

  “What’s up?”

  “Nothing,” she said, or rather grumbled, and I raised my left eyebrow. After everything we’d shared, I could see through her bull as easily as she saw through mine, and I was calling manure. Syd glanced at the ground. “It’s just…I mean, you are okay, right?”

  I winced, the worry in her voice making my stomach cramp.

  She lifted her head, and her hazel eyes scanned my face. “I know you don’t want to make a big deal about what happened or anything, but Lil…puking blood is pretty extreme.”

  I leaned against the cold metal locker. If it was anyone else, I’d have placated them or ignored the question altogether, but Sydney was my ride or die. We’d been glued at the hip ever since we were toddlers, and even with my insane schedule and her constant planning of world domination, we still made it work. She already knew about my previous struggle with anxiety; she’d seen me through it before. If anyone deserved answers, it was her.

  “It sounds a lot worse than it is,” I promised, slinking farther down the metal. She walked over and slumped beside me. “I can’t eat anything fun for a couple of weeks, and I’ve got to lay off caffeine even longer, which yeah, pretty much guarantees I’ll be a grumpy cow”—Syd’s face implied that wouldn’t be different than the norm, and I playfully elbowed her in the side—“but I’m fine. The fast-paced summer sessions at the college were harder than I expected, you know that, and I guess with the new year starting and application deadlines looming, I let it all get to me. The doctor says I need to relax more, which is why Dad’s all hot for this stupid hobby idea. But seriously, what is the man thinking? Mom was the one who lived for twirling around the living room. I inherited his coordination.”

  Sydney’s mouth twitched at the corners. “Preaching to the choir, girl. If you recall, I was the unfortunate one standing next to you in the fourth-grade play.” Her voice took on a faraway quality as she said, “Who’d have ever thought a shoe could fly that far?”

  “Ah yes, another shining example of my infamous beauty and grace. Thank you so much for reminding me.”

  “It’s what I’m here for,” she said, knocking her head against my shoulder. She looped our arms and gave a gentle tug, her long blond braid flicking me on the back.

  Near the bathrooms, Teagan Mitchell and Avery McCloud were entertaining the masses with their regularly scheduled mid-morning breakup, and we paused with the flow of traffic funneling on either side. For a second, the drama distracted me from my own impending doom.

  Once we were clear of the chaos, Sydney asked, “So, what’s the grand plan?”

  I flashed a smile. “Let Dad think I’m playing this his way and stink it up,” I replied. “Which shouldn’t be hard with the two-left-feet thing. He’ll realize the error of his ways, see what a huge waste of time and money it is, and then things will go back to normal. It’s not like he’ll be around to enforce the classes anyway. He leaves for Israel next Sunday. Two weeks this time.”

  Of course, even if I got him to back off on the dance class, that would only take care of the first half of Dad’s “alternative proposal.” I still had his moratorium on all school-related activities on Saturdays to deal with, but that was a problem for Future Lily.

  “Sounds solid.” Syd came to a stop outside marine bio, and her eyes brightened. This class was for her what English and European history were for me. The girl loved her some cuttlefish. “What about today? I mean, tomorrow you’re stinking it up in a ballroom studio, but you want to come to the game with me tonight?”

  I gasped. “And ruin my picture-perfect lack of attendance?” I shouldered my schoolbag higher and sidestepped a fresh surge of students. “Why on earth would I do a silly thing like that?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, maybe ’cause it’s fun? Or because you only live once, and you barely even do that?” I mock-scowled at the truth, and she blew me an air-kiss. “Or how about because student council is manning concessions and you love the student council president more than life?” She combined the final bit with the patented eyelash bat and innocent smile that won her an election. Unfortunately for her, I was immune.

  Obviously, if she needed help, I’d be there in a heartbeat, major pile of schoolwork be damned. But she really just wanted a wing-woman. Sydney had a huge crush on her vice president, Nick Bernhardt, but she’d die before she ever admitted it.

  “Fine,” she conceded with a huff when I failed to break. “If appealing to your sense of loyalty and student duty won’t work, how about tagging along because you’ve yet to see Stone Torres in his tight football pants? That’s a travesty of epic proportions, Lil. I mean, I get that you’re anti-establishment, but the boy is hot with a capital H. His goods deserve to be scoped at least once before you graduate, and time is a-ticking.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “I think I’ll pass.”

  I appreciated a nice ass in tight pants as much as the next girl, but I refused to worship a guy just because he could throw a football. As for the sport itself, it was pointless. Sydney was right, time was ticking. We’d only had four years, seven hundred and twenty miniscule days to pad our applications and kick academic ass before an admissions committee decided our collegiate fate. A fate that then sealed our entire future. With three of those years already gone, I couldn’t afford to waste even a second
on anything trivial, and I didn’t understand how anyone else could, either.

  Besides, there’d be plenty of football games and parties in college.

  “Whatever. You know, I could always dare you to come.” A wicked gleam entered her eyes as she let the challenge hang. I tilted my head, curious if she’d pull the trigger, but a few short seconds later, she caved. “But I won’t. I prefer to save those for the important things in life—like spotting me when I need to sit for the tiny terrors three nights in a row or making a Starbucks run when I’m fiending.”

  “Ugh. Don’t tease the invalid with talk of caffeine,” I whined. “As it is, my night’s gonna be filled with catching up on makeup work and dreaming of peanut M&M’s.”

  “At least dream candy is calorie-free,” she replied helpfully, and I flipped her off with love. “Fine, be lame and responsible. See you at lunch?”

  “I’ll be the sad redhead eating rabbit food.”

  The warning bell rang, and I took off for the stairwell, determined not to miss another second of class. Dodging classmates, I hustled up the first flight and grabbed hold of the straps on my backpack, prepared to bolt once I cleared the landing.

  With two stairs left to go, the path before me opened, and I surged ahead, already drafting my plan for tonight’s study session. Visions of notecards and pink highlighters danced in my head…only to be thrown aside by the crushing reality of looming humiliation.

  The toe of my right sneaker, followed quickly by my left, caught in the thin polyester lining of my flowy skirt. My body pitched forward, and I flung out my arms, accidentally cold-cocking a guy from my English class. Apologizing on autopilot, I let my blurry vision turn to the scuffed floor that was rushing to meet me, and as the concerning sensation of cool air hit my bare thighs, my tangled feet yanking my skirt impossibly lower, one lone thought crossed my mind: This is how I die.

  A half second before my face hit the ground, two firm hands wrapped around my arms. “Whoa there. You okay?”

  The world, much like my equilibrium, settled around me in waves.

  First came sound in the chilling rrriiiiippppp of my mom’s favorite skirt.

  On its heels, the dawning horror that the world at large was currently perusing my sassy undies—the ones that say, If you can read this, you are standing too close, ironically enough—along with my inability to fix the near al fresco situation, thanks to the protective grip encircling my arms.

  Next welled gratitude for the owner of those hands, the guy who’d saved me from a fate worse than ballroom dancing…namely, breaking my face on filthy, unforgiving tile.

  Followed, finally, by a growing awareness of my hero himself.

  Warm breath skimmed across the shell of my ear. A hint of Ivory soap mixed with wintergreen floated through my head. The deep register of his voice clicked, the last puzzle piece falling into place, and the fine hairs at the back of my neck prickled to life.

  To be honest, I might’ve preferred eating tile.

  Let me be perfectly clear. I stood by my conviction that my classmates’ mindless worship of the football team was pathetic, and I’d have rather seen that enthusiasm shown toward the debate team or National Honor Society. But I wasn’t a total social moron. I didn’t eat lunch with a crowd of people, go to parties, or attend any sporting events, but I’d have had to live on the poor downgraded planet of Pluto not to recognize the smooth, rich voice that had whispered across my ear.

  However, that didn’t mean I had to acknowledge it. At least not yet.

  Instead, I went with denial, choosing to keep my eyes firmly shut as my stomach churned and I unhooked my feet. The grip on my arms tentatively relaxed, and while I yanked my skirt back into place, clutching the gaping fabric to cover the taunting words, the squeak of rubber soles and hushed whispers hinted at movement. Hopefully away from me and not closer to gawk.

  “You okay?” he repeated.

  Everything inside me tightened. It was time to face the music.

  “Mm-hmm,” I muttered, hanging my head in defeat. “Just peachy.”

  Slowly, begrudgingly, I opened my eyes to a beat-up pair of Nikes. Fairly innocuous as shoes went. Feeling brave, I drew my gaze farther north, taking in strong legs encased in denim, followed by a plain white tee that hinted at definition. Over that hung an open, long-sleeve blue button-down rolled up on thick golden forearms. My belly dipped. Moving faster now, wanting to get it over with in one big gulp, I glided across broad shoulders, a square jaw, and twin indentions for dimples (my personal kryptonite), then landed on a pair of dark eyes so rich and warm they were almost black, framed in inky lashes.

  Ágoston “Stone” Torres. The wearer of tight football pants, Brighton High’s all-star quarterback, the most popular guy in school, and now, my quick-thinking stairwell rescuer.

  Of course.

  “That could’ve been a nasty fall.” Concern mixed with slight amusement in his eyes, and as the smooth tone of his voice rolled over me, I willed myself to speak.

  I’d love to say I was the type of girl who could pull off a classic line and set the world to rights, but I was better suited for paper-and-pen situations. The kind where I could take my time searching for the perfect words—and then hide behind them. But if I couldn’t be witty, I might as well go with its lesser-known cousin: awkward humor.

  “That’s what I get for trying to walk and think at the same time.”

  Stone’s firm mouth twitched at the corners, his eyes sweeping over me, and then, holy hell, the famous grin broke free. My already-elevated heart rate skyrocketed, and my breath legit stuttered in my chest. Butterflies eloped, girls’ hearts twittered, and unicorns sneezed rainbows over smiles like his. I’d seen it from a distance over the years but never once been on the receiving end. Let me tell you, it was every bit as magical as advertised.

  Heat flooded my cheeks, no doubt matching the color of my hair, and I motioned toward the stairs—which would henceforth be known as the steps of doom. “Uh, so, yeah. Thanks for that. Obviously, I never quite got a handle on those gross motor skills. With luck, I hope to master stairway mechanics before graduation.”

  I plastered a hopeful smile on my face, eyebrows lifted sky-high, and Stone ran a hand through his spiky black hair, his own grin widening in degrees until a heart-stopping smile even more lethal than the last took its place. Wow. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”

  A muted laugh erupted from my right, and looking around, I realized the rest of the stairwell had cleared out despite my embarrassing panty show. Only one other person remained. Chase Winters, aka Chasing Trouble, Brighton’s wide receiver.

  This day kept getting better.

  Chase extended two fingers in a half wave, his green eyes glowing with mirth, and I took that as my cue to skedaddle. As it was, we were late for class, and since my ass was hanging out for all to see, I had to double back to my locker for my old gym shorts. Plus, conversing with hot guys clearly wasn’t one of my strengths. It probably ranked right up there with dancing.

  Willing my tingling legs to move, I gave them each a stilted nod, got head bobs in return, and then pivoted on my heel, being sure to lift my ripped hem this time to avoid a repeat performance.

  Note to self: Tomorrow, do not wear a skirt. I could only imagine the carnage.

  I quickened my steps, eager to forget the last few minutes ever happened, and heard Chase’s amused voice trail behind me. “Bro, I wanna be you when I grow up.”

  Chapter Two

  Stone

  Ilusiòn was dead. The last time I could remember the studio being this empty was right after it opened, thirteen years ago, and even then, it’d been midweek.

  Normally, Saturdays were chaotic, with the bell on the door tinkling every two seconds. People came and went, and a mismatch of music played over the speakers as students rehearsed their various steps, all sharing the same crowded dance floor. Between solo lessons, group classes, and people scoping out the competition under the guise of practic
e, Ma’s dance studio was always hopping.

  Today the silence was deafening. It echoed off the gleaming hardwood floors and reflected from the spotless mirrors. Part of me appreciated the quiet after a long night of celebrating our win, but the larger part, the protective part that refused to let anything else bad happen to my family, was wigged the hell out. It made my paranoid assumptions real.

  “I got my tile job back.”

  My out-of-the-blue announcement fell like an anvil. Ma’s head jerked up, and my twin sister looked at me like I’d lost my damn mind. Who knows, maybe I had, but I needed to do something. Granted, I could’ve waited until tonight to bring it up, or at least until they’d stopped talking about a member’s program, but Ma hadn’t stopped moving since I’d gotten there. Almost like if she kept busy enough she wouldn’t notice the lack of students filling the space.

  Also, I sucked at patience.

  “No, you did not,” Ma replied, her tone and expression implying the conversation was over when it was far from it. Chase, who’d been hanging out at the studio for years to avoid his own family drama, coughed to hide his laugh, but when he caught my glare, he went back to spinning aimlessly in the roller chair. I walked to where my mom and sister stood on the other side of the desk.

  “Actually, Ma, I did. Mr. Hunt was at the game last night. He congratulated me on the win, and it might’ve come up that I don’t have practice on Wednesdays or Saturdays. Turns out, they haven’t filled my position from the summer, and he asked if I was interested in coming back.” I flashed her an easy smile, the one that always got me out of trouble, and for some reason got a quick flash of the redhead on the stairs yesterday. Remembering her reaction to my usual grin made it turn more genuine. “It’s perfect.”

  The narrowing of my mother’s eyes said it was the opposite, but I failed to see the problem. Although my parents hadn’t come right out and said money was tight, I wasn’t an idiot. We’d been eating a lot more soups or rice and beans lately, and I’d heard the hushed conversations my parents had late at night. Something was going on, and the quiet studio today proved it.