by Cat Patrick
“Want to go up to my room?” he asks, and I can tell from his face that he’s really asking if I want to go roll around in his bed with him. I’m sure that he and Lauren had buckets of sex—maybe that’s why his version of getting acquainted tends to skew dirty. Truthfully, the fact that his parents are gone all night terrifies me: There’s no school bell to ring and tell us to stop.
That would be my job.
“How about we just watch some TV,” I say. “I can’t stay that much longer—I have to be home at ten.”
“You have to be home at ten on a Friday night?” he asks, walking over to the couch and dropping onto it, then sighing and running his hand through his short hair.
“Not usually,” I say. “But with everything that’s going on with my family …” I feel guilty for lying—Mom wouldn’t care if I stayed out until midnight—and for using Gram as an excuse to leave.
I join Joel on the couch. He flips on the TV and changes channels a few dozen times; finally he stops on a movie I don’t recognize. He grabs my hand and kisses my palm gently.
“You think this night was lame, don’t you?”
“No,” I say automatically, then, “well, maybe a little.”
“Sorry,” he says, kissing the inside of my wrist and making my whole arm tingle. “I can’t talk and draw at the same time.” He kisses the crook opposite my elbow and lingers there a minute. I feel his breath on the blond hairs on my arm: It gives me goose bumps.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” I say, willing myself to have a conversation with this guy instead of pulling him on top of me like I want to right now.
“Like what?” Another kiss on the crook, a fresh set of goose bumps over the ones that hadn’t quite gone away.
“Anything,” I say, but it comes out as a whisper. I clear my throat. “Anything. I mean, I’ve known you forever—since your Spider-Man-themed birthday party with the climbing web and comic book favors—but I don’t feel like I know you.”
“I’m no good at this stuff,” he says, using two fingers to push up the sleeve of my T-shirt so he can kiss my shoulder. I deserve a medal for remaining still after that one. “Ask me a question and I’ll answer.”
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask, turning my head so I’m facing the TV; four teenagers are riding a formidable roller coaster that I’m pretty sure is going to jump the track any minute.
“Charcoal,” he says, laughing in one quick exhale. Another shoulder kiss; I focus harder on the thrill ride on-screen.
“Do you like roller coasters?”
“Uh … no,” he says. “Not my thing. Do you?”
“I love them,” I say, raising my chin at the TV so Joel will look. The coaster in the movie is barreling through turn after turn. “That looks like the Screamer. I once rode it fourteen times in a row with my sister.” I smile at the memory. Teddy doesn’t do roller coasters, but Natalie and I both love them.
“When I was six, my cousins were a lot bigger than me and they threatened to pants me in front of the entire amusement park if I didn’t go on the roller coaster with them,” Joel says.
“Did you do it?” I ask, looking at him now, smirking.
“I did,” he says, fighting a smile. “Then I aimed in their direction when I hurled afterward.”
“Classy,” I say, laughing. Joel looks amused, like he might laugh, but he doesn’t. “Are you close to them? Your cousins?”
“Yeah.” He leans back into the couch, still holding on to my arm. Like he’s growing bored of talking, he starts tracing patterns on the inside of my forearm with his fingertips. Wanting to keep the conversation going, I ask something big.
“Do you know where your dad is?”
Joel shakes his head. “He used to live in Phoenix, but I haven’t heard from him in a while.”
“I’m sorry.” I lean on his shoulder.
“Don’t be,” he says. “He’s a total asshole. Some people shouldn’t be parents, and he’s one of those people.” We’re both quiet for a minute, me thinking of my next line of questioning since this is clearly a sore subject. But then he adds, “He used to put me in the basement.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’d drag my little baby cage thing down to the basement and leave me there,” he says, like he’s telling me how he solved a math problem. “He’d turn up his music so he couldn’t hear me crying.”
“Do you remember that?” I ask. It reminds me of how decent my own father is—how he’s called me a couple times since the funeral just to check in. I feel guilty for not giving him more of my attention.
“Yeah, a little,” Joel says about the memory, dropping my hand and wiping his palms on his jeans. “I mean he didn’t leave until I was almost five, so yeah. …”
“That’s child ab—”
“Let’s talk about something else,” Joel cuts me off, grabbing my hand again, but this time, his grip is a little harder—a little more desperate. He glances at me and I see pain in his eyes. I jump to a lighter topic.
“Which class do you hate most?”
“English,” he says automatically. He looks relieved.
“Why?”
“Too much writing.”
I laugh a little, then go on. “If you could only listen to one band for the rest of your life, what would it be?” I scoot closer to him, anticipating his answer.
“Electric Freakshow, no contest,” he says quickly. “In ninth grade I tried to teach myself how to play guitar, just so I could play their songs. I’ve been to eleven of their shows already.”
“I love them too,” I say. “But I’ve only seen them three times.”
Joel looks at me again, pain gone, gleam returned. “Let’s go together,” he says. “They’re playing a show around Thanksgiving.”
I want to point out that going to the city together means being seen in public together, but I don’t want to spoil the moment. Instead I nod in agreement.
I lean in close, inhaling Joel. He let me in a little, and there’s nothing sexier than feeling emotionally closer to a guy you think is physically perfect. It’s almost ten, but I don’t care. Just before I touch Joel’s lips with mine, I whisper, “Can’t wait.”
ELEVEN
GO
Friday at school doesn’t give me the warm and fuzzies, but it’s bearable since Miss Severity—whose name is Tricia—seems to have moved on from her unbridled hatred for me. Of course no one is lining up to be my friend, so I’m guessing she’s put out a hit on me or something. I don’t know why she won’t just leave me alone—I already have enough people who hate me.
Lunch is lonely, but I spend it texting with Chris since he’s done for the day and harassing me. TOMORROW. MY PLACE. CAGE MATCH, he writes.
I can’t help but smile. Then, self-conscious, I dart my eyes around the cafeteria even though I know no one can see his message. To be honest, my arm is still a little sore from our play fighting the other night, but I don’t want to tell him that. Instead I type:
MAYBE DINNER INSTEAD?
SURE. HOW ABOUT … CHICKEN????
I laugh, liking how he saw right through me. I’M GOING BACK TO MY STERILE LEARNING ENVIRONMENT NOW, I text. CALL ME LATER.
I HAVE A THING TONIGHT, BUT I’LL DEFINITELY CALL YOU AFTER. OKAY?
A thing? There’s a weird twist in my stomach as I type back OKAY—maybe because it’s a Friday night and Chris was very nonspecific. Then again, it’s not like he’s my boyfriend. Hell, we haven’t even kissed yet. If he wants to go do … things, he’s allowed. I swallow hard and slide my phone into the front pocket of my backpack.
I’m a little confused as I unwrap my sandwich, but then I notice someone standing at the edge of my lunch table. Oh, dear God, it’s Varsity Jacket—er, Aaron. I think. How long has he been waiting there?
“Caroline, right?” he asks, all perfect teeth and Proactiv skin. I nod, checking behind him to make sure Tricia isn’t watching in some twisted joke. When I don’t spot her at th
eir table, I relax slightly.
“Sorry,” Aaron says. “A few of the guys sent me over. They want to know if you have a boyfriend, and since I’m the only one who has a class with you …” He shoves his hands into his pockets, looking so embarrassed that I decide he’s not messing with me.
“I do,” I tell him, even though Chris is too busy doing things to be my boyfriend. “Sorry.”
“No worries. But I’m sure the girls will be happy to hear it.” He smiles, masking disappointment. I wonder if it was really “the guys” who sent him over or if he sent himself.
“See you around,” he says. With a wave that I awkwardly return, Aaron leaves to join a table of red-jacket-and-jersey-wearing jocks on the other side of the room. I watch as they talk, a few looking over, and then I exhale, thinking that whether it’s Aaron who likes me or someone else, I’m lucky that my Chris cover held up.
It’s then that I notice Tricia standing in the cafeteria doorway in her full cheerleading uniform—which somehow makes her more terrifying as she stares daggers in my direction. I realize by her expression that I’m not off the hook at all, and I look away, unable to hold her gaze.
Chris meets me for dinner on Saturday night at Jade Palace, a tiny Chinese restaurant off campus. We’re in a cozy corner booth, picking from a massive plate of orange chicken. I’m elated that it’s the weekend and that I made it through Friday unscathed by Miss Severity. But I’m worried about what the rest of the year will bring.
“I wish I never switched schools,” I say, glancing across the table at Chris. He’s wearing a backwards hat, which is boyish and adorable, the amber light from the candle playing off his features. I’ve been having a hard time looking at my reflection lately, so I’m makeup free, rocking jeans and a ponytail. The best I could do was put on gloss, but it’s long gone thanks to the sticky sauce.
“I’m sorry your school sucks,” Chris says, trickling some soy sauce onto the plate of steamed rice. “Anything I can do?”
I shrug. “Don’t think so. Although your fighting moves might come in handy with the way the first week went.”
“That girl still giving you a hard time?” he asks.
I nod. “Well, I did accidentally grope her boyfriend.” Chris smirks, letting it go without comment—even though he already offered several jokes earlier. “But the guy Aaron,” I say. “He’s making it worse. Yesterday he showed up at my lunch table and asked if I had a boyfriend, and of course Tricia was standing in the doorway like one of Satan’s cheerleaders, probably thinking I was hitting on him or something.”
Chris pauses midbite and lowers his chopsticks. “What’d you say?”
“Nothing. She was across the room.”
He smiles. “No, what did you say when he asked if you had a boyfriend?”
I fumble with my food, trying not to appear so guilty. “I said yes.” The silence carries on so long, I have to look up. Chris is waiting.
“Are you asking me out, Caroline?”
“No.” Then, when I see his grin, “Maybe.”
I’m burning up with embarrassment and take a shaky sip from my Diet Pepsi to avoid looking at Chris. I glance around at the other tables, but none of the customers seem even slightly interested in my humiliation. Why did I tell him that stupid story?
“Since you’re already telling all your friends,” he says nonchalantly, “I’ll be your boyfriend, Caroline.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” I mumble.
Chris reaches across the table to take my hand, carefully removing the chopsticks first. He brings my fingers to his mouth, hiding his words as he speaks, his lips brushing against my skin in soft kisses as he talks. “Let me rephrase, then,” he says quietly. “I want to be your boyfriend.”
The joking is gone, and I see in his eyes a vulnerability I don’t really understand, even though I think I feel it too. My heart thumps, and when Chris lets go of my hand, tilting his head as if unsure of my answer, I shrug.
“Yeah, okay.”
He bites back his smile. “I should probably warn you,” he says, passing me my chopsticks. “I’m going to do super-romantic shit all the time. I’ll even sing to you every night.”
“Please don’t.”
“I’m a music major,” he says. “What am I supposed to do with all this talent—take business courses?”
“Are you seriously a music major?” I ask. I should have guessed that he wouldn’t be into anything boring.
Chris nods, seeming content to talk about the finer points of what a concentration in music consists of. “I play three instruments,” he says between bites of chicken. “Piano, drums, and guitar—which is my favorite, obviously. But my course load includes classes like music appreciation. Which, above all else, makes you hate music—appreciatively. Doesn’t really matter, though. I could go on to conduct the New York Philharmonic and my parents would still think it’s a worthless degree.”
“They’re not big music fans?” I ask, leaning in, utterly riveted by this other side of him.
“They’re older,” he says. “My dad’s a doctor, retired last year. Mom’s a former guidance counselor. My folks travel a lot, though.” He pauses. “So it’s probably good I’m an only child. Less to claim at customs.”
He takes a quick sip of his drink, and I feel my smile fade. It strikes me that Chris is alone. And even though lately I’ve felt the same way, I know that I have Teddy and, God help me—even Natalie.
“Are they gone all the time?” I ask.
“Pretty much. I’m used to it, though,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I’m not sure I can remember the last holiday we spent at my house.” He smiles. “My mom likes the Bahamas. I prefer Europe, but now I just stick around school.” He exhales. “They think music is unstable and that I’m wasting my time. I guess they hoped I’d be a doctor or something. Turns out, I’m just too ridiculously talented. They’re devastated.”
“Looks and talent?” I say, trying to make him smile again. “I must be the luckiest girlfriend alive.”
Chris’s eyes meet mine, narrowing slightly as he looks me over. After a second he laughs to himself and tosses his napkin on the table. “Smart-ass. You know it makes me completely crazy for you, right?”
“Hey, whatever works.”
A lady with short black hair and a bright blue embroidered shirt comes by to drop off the check with a couple of fortune cookies before heading off to the other tables.
“So what are your Halloween plans for next week?” Chris asks me as he throws some cash down on the table. “I could be persuaded to wear a couple’s costume and win some contests if you’re game.”
“Uh, thanks, but I’d rather not be the rear of your jackass costume. Besides, I have to go hang with my friend Simone. We do a lame haunted house thing—it’s tradition.”
“Can I come?” Chris asks quietly, sliding a cookie in my direction. I take it, scrunching my forehead as I think it over. I’m unsettled and suddenly shy about him meeting my friends—and he’s right (again). It’s a hell of a thrill.
“Well, you did ask to be my boyfriend, so I guess that’s one of the perks,” I say.
“One of many, I hope,” Chris says with a laugh. He climbs out of the booth, grabbing my coat to help me put it on. In the second that we’re standing there, close and tangled in outerwear, I wonder why he hasn’t tried to kiss me yet. Hell, I’m starting to wonder if he ever will.
When we get out the front door, heading toward my car, Chris pauses to button the top of my coat. “It’s cold,” he says in a quiet voice. The gesture is sweet, intimate. I smile and take him by the pockets of his hoodie to keep him close. And then he leans in to kiss me.
His lips are maddeningly gentle, barely brushing mine as his hand glides down my neck, sending chills over my entire body. I get up on my tiptoes, but just as I drape my arms over his shoulders, I feel his phone vibrate in his pocket.
“Not answering it,” he murmurs into the kiss. I laugh and pull back. The phone contin
ues to vibrate, and eventually he groans and pulls it out of his pocket.
“Yeah?” he asks into the receiver. Chris turns slightly, and my arms fall from around him. He angles his body away as he talks quietly into the phone, and I feel like I’m intruding on his conversation. I take a few steps in the direction of my car, giving him space, but Chris furrows his brow, pointing at me. “Wait,” he says. Then into the phone, “No, Maria, not you.”
My stomach sinks. Maria? The same Maria he was going to see that night I gave him my number? I don’t ask. I swallow hard, wondering if I should just walk myself to my car. Chris begins to realize that I’m uncomfortable.
“I don’t think so,” he says for his part of the telephone conversation, but I’m ready to go home. I start to walk past him, but Chris catches the bottom of my coat, and I turn and force a smile.
“We’ll talk later,” I say, my voice higher pitched than usual. Chris shakes his head, telling me to wait, but I’m already moving down the sidewalk. I don’t want him to explain. And I don’t want to have to listen.
As I cross the parking lot, my phone buzzes. Reluctantly I check the message. I ONLY HAVE EYES FOR CAROLINE.
I pause, biting on my thumbnail as I read it three more times. YOU SURE? I write back, surprised that I’d even ask. What if he says no? How would I react to that?
POSITIVE. SHE’S THE SEXY ROBIN TO MY BATMAN.
I laugh, the tension in my shoulders relaxing. I was overreacting. I was running. I’ll have to learn to stop doing that. OMG, I write back. WE’RE NOT DRESSING AS BATMAN AND ROBIN FOR HALLOWEEN.
WE’LL SEE.
TWELVE
STAY
Back at school, I start to wonder if I’m crazy and I’ve conjured up a fake relationship between me and Joel—that’s how much he seems to have forgotten our Friday … whatever it was. For three days, I try to mind control him into dropping me a note to meet him in the auditorium or merely looking at me over his shoulder in English and acknowledging that I exist. But I get an F in telekinesis—it doesn’t work. My humiliation grows and by Wednesday, I’m feeling desperate and sickened at myself for letting a guy get under my skin.
