The teacher walked between us, her skirt swishing against her panty hose. “Now, this assignment,” she said, “will require you to share a bit about yourselves with each other, so you’ll need to schedule time after school to work together and be sure to take good notes.”
Time after school together with … with him? The fist curled itself around my insides and yanked.
Mrs. Walker fixed her gaze on my face, like she could see inside my head. “Pretend you’re writing a novel about the other person. Ask yourself what about their life you would put into the story and also, what you would change.”
She moved back toward the front of the class. Lisa Maiton threw a wad of paper at her butt, and snickers broke out.
“Once you’ve compiled all the information,” Mrs. Walker said, oblivious, “write one to two pages, double-spaced. It’s due next Monday. That gives you the weekend to finish. This assignment will teach us about writing and some about our fellow students as well.”
The class began chattering as she turned away, everyone figuring out how and when to spend time with their partner, yet I sat there my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth, my palms sweating.
Write about Timothy Cooper. Share my life with Timothy Cooper. I didn’t know which was worse. Or better.
“So … when you want to get together?” he asked.
Monday, today was Monday. I gathered my thoughts. And this was the second week in March of 2010. And my name was Taylor Marie Lawton. And–
“Taylor?”
I smacked my lips. I could use a glass of water. “Y-yes. Taylor,” I said.
He chuckled and shook his head. “You’re a funny one.”
A funny one what? Girl? Human being?
He opened his book bag and removed his cell phone, poising his finger over the digital keypad. “What’s your number?”
My number. Give my number to Timothy Cooper. Dear God. I wiped my hands on my blue jeans. This wasn’t happening to me. I rattled off my number.
His thumb flicked across the keys. “Here, I’ll send you a text, then you’ll have mine.”
My phone buzzed in my purse, and I bent to remove it. But I immediately faced a huge problem. My shirt.
See, each day my primary consideration was what to wear for the big moment Timothy Cooper finally spoke to me. Okay, that was silly, but to me it was important. Yet this particular day, standing in my bedroom, looking at the mound of laundry I’d forgotten to do, I decided to wear the last thing in my closet I’d ever want him to see me in.
The shirt from Grandma.
I loved Grandma, but she had no idea what size I wore or what style was in. And that, I think, is par for the course in being a grandma. Therefore, this shirt was (a) too big and (b) inclined to gap open.
I hesitated, my phone buzzing incessantly inches away, and considered my options. I could be quick. Maybe with my hair fallen over me, he wouldn’t notice. Or I could hold the shirt to my chest with one hand, but that would make me look either inept or vain.
“You going to get that?” he asked.
I glanced up to see him grinning from ear to ear. Apparently, something about this situation was funny. I only hoped it wasn’t my shirt.
“How about you look away?” I said.
At this, his grin spread wider, and for some reason, that made me kind of mad.
“What if I don’t?” he asked.
I sat up straighter. My phone had stopped buzzing. “Well, that’s your choice, but I don’t think we know each other well enough for you to see all there is of me.”
He gave a snort and reclined in his desk, his arm thrown over the seat back. “What if I don’t want to see all there is to see of you?”
And I don’t know what came over me. This was, after all, Timothy Cooper, my dream guy, but sure as the world, I said the first thing that came to my head.
“Oh please,” I rolled my eyes, “You’re male.”
He burst out laughing.
Fortunately, this was the diversion I needed, so retrieving my purse from its spot in the floor, I wielded my phone before him as evidence of my success, more than a little relieved. The bell rang then, and we snatched our books and rushed out into the hall. But he pulled me to a stop before I could escape, and I swear my arm burned right where his fingers were.
“You never said when.”
When. When would we spend time together trading life stories? When would I have the pleasure of looking into his blue eyes for a few hours of my time?
“Well, when then?” I asked.
He hooked his thumbs in his pockets, his book tucked beneath his arm. “You wanna go out?”
Out? On a date? I blinked back my surprise and swallowed heavily. “Whatever’s good for you.”
“How about Wednesday? I can pick you up for church. Then after, we can get a burger.” He waited, his blue eyes growing even bluer the longer I stared at them.
“Wednesday’s good,” I said.
“Text me your address.”
I nodded and made to turn, but his last words pulled me short.
“Maybe don’t wear that shirt.”
***
“Tim!”
Tim glanced over the heads milling in the hallway to see his best friend, Eric, pushing his way forward and so missed the girl, Taylor, slipping away. He spent a few moments watching her bottom sway before meeting his friend’s gaze.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Eric jerked his head in the direction of Timothy’s former attention. “What are you talking to her for?” he asked.
“Project.”
“Class or personal?”
Tim smiled out of one side of his mouth. That was up for serious debate. “Class.” For now.
“MmmMmm,” Eric grunted as the last vision of her turned the corner. “I’m betting five bucks you make it personal.”
Tim laughed and headed for the exit. Eric never had five cents, much less five bucks.
“Hey, man, can you give me a ride home? My mom took my keys … again.” Eric spun in a circle to avoid colliding with the water fountain.
Tim raised his eyebrows. “What for this time?” Eric was forever getting in trouble, and his mom always took his keys, though this didn’t seem to stop him from messing up the next time.
“Grades. I failed my Science test.”
Science. Figures. Eric hated science.
“I should make you walk,” Tim said. The clatter of the front doors preceded the rush of afternoon heat in his face. He pulled his t-shirt from his already moist skin.
“You should, but you won’t.”
Tim dug his keys from his pocket and unlocked his car. No, he wouldn’t. Not that Eric ever paid for gas. Not that he lived on the way home.
The purr of the engine brought serious satisfaction to a deep place in Tim’s soul. Running his hands around the steering wheel, he inhaled the scent of warm leather and automobile protectant. This car was special. A 1970 Chevy Chevelle SS big block. As if that didn’t make it unique enough, his father gave him this car before shipping out for Afghanistan on his second tour, and that made it more than the classic it already was. It was a part of his dad, who he rarely got to see.
The thunk of the passenger-side door brought him awake.
“So tell me what’s this project that has you all tied up with Southern?” Eric laid an arm on the ledge of the open window.
“Southern?” Tim frowned as an elderly lady in a battered Corolla cut in front of him. Her head barely cleared the dashboard.
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve always called her. She’s got that sexy accent which pulls you in.”
Tim braked as the elderly lady made a sharp right-hand turn. Senior drivers.
“And she’s all round and curvy,” Eric continued, “about like this car.”
Tim glanced at him. “You’re comparing her to my car?”
“Yep. One’s sweet the other is sweeter. But you haven’t answered my question.”
The light cha
nged from yellow to red, and Tim brought the car to a stop. “We’re supposed to write a paper on each other. Something about what we would change about the other person and what we wouldn’t.”
“I’d change her into something skimpy.” The smirk on Eric’s face stretched from ear to ear.
Tim laughed. “If you felt like that, then why haven’t you asked her out?”
Eric’s smile faded. “Are you kidding? She won’t give me the time of day. Now, you on the other hand …”
No sooner had the words left Eric’s mouth, than Tim spotted her. Only something was wrong. She was limping. “Check it out,” he said, nodding her direction. He pulled his car over to the curb and leaned across Eric’s bulky form toward the opposite window.
“Taylor? You okay?” he called.
And she turned around. Her face was white as a sheet, and her shirt was ripped down the left-hand side.
I Kissed The Boy Next Door Page 9
