Filthy Foreign Exchange

by Angela Graham

  “‘And your better is best,’” she finishes for me, laughing. “Yes, I’m aware. You know Tim Duncan said it first, though, right?”

  “I’ve never met Tim Duncan, so he didn’t say it to me first—my father did. Which is why I’m going to practice. Do you mind if I skip breakfast? I’ll make it in for lunch.”

  “That’ll be fine, dear. And Echo?”

  I stop, her serious tone compelling me to turn around and pay close attention.

  “It’s still fun for you, right?”

  I scrunch my face. “Of course. Why would you ask that?”

  “‘Cause I’m your mom.” She smiles and returns to her paper. “I’ll see you at lunch.”

  ~~~~~

  I’m a sweaty mess walking up the front porch to join my family for lunch when I’m greeted by Kingston, who’s far from sweaty or a mess. No, he looks gorgeous, as he always does; it’d be silly stubbornness to try and deny it. He’s dressed in jeans, the black combat boots that nearly killed me the night of our first meeting, and a black T-shirt I suspect was made specifically to fit his taut torso. His dark hair is perfectly unkempt, and the sunlight reflects off a spattering of green flecks I’ve never noticed in his gray eyes before now.

  I’m not blind, nor too proud to admit he’s not hard to look at.

  “Good afternoon, Love.” He grins, leaning a shoulder against the house while crossing one ankle over the other. “Practice go well?”

  “It did, thanks for asking.” I step past him.

  “Are you free to join me for today’s football game, then? I know how much we both enjoyed the one last night.” He winks. “Why not do it again?”

  I feel my brows reach for my hairline. “They’re doing it again? Already? Why?” I take a seat on the porch swing, my legs feeling rubbery after being worked all morning.

  “My understanding is that today it’s my uni’s team playing, so a different spectacle altogether.”

  Apparently the college plays on Saturdays. It’s still a hell no.

  I rest my head against the swing chain. “Kingston, I tend not to do things I don’t enjoy.”

  “I suspect you also tend not to do things you would enjoy, very much.” His grin takes on a flirtatious quality that sends tingles—not nearly as unfamiliar as they used to be—racing across my skin. “Join me, please?”

  I’m already shaking my head adamantly. “No. I need to get back to practicing after I eat. You know we have a show tomorrow. I have to be fully prepared.”

  He sits beside me on the swing. “No, I wasn’t aware there was a show tomorrow. What does that mean, exactly?”

  His interest seems genuine, so I explain.

  “In the pavilion.” I point, and refrain from adding a “circus-tent” jab since we’re being serious. “We host performances every other Sunday. I’m sure my parents told you. People in town pay to watch. And with Sebastian gone and Savannah somewhat lacking in commitment, I’m going to be doing one of my solo routines, so I need to make sure I’m not rusty.”

  There’s a long pause before he responds.

  “I truly admire your dedication, Echo. I look forward to watching you tomorrow.”

  He stands, offering his hand to help me do the same.

  “Are you headed out now?” I ask.

  “Yes. I’m meeting some blokes before the game.”

  I can’t help my grin. “Ah, to do some off-roading?”

  “No.” He smiles, then dips his head, lifting my hand he’s still holding to place a soft kiss on the inside of my wrist. Again. “The first time I do that, it will be with you.”

  ~~~~~

  I peek out from behind the blue velvet curtain and swallow down my jagged nerves. The chattering crowd for today’s show is huge and composed mostly, it appears, of people my age.

  And I know why. Much like everywhere he goes, nearly every girl in town has come not to see the show, but rather Kingston Hawthorne—causing the other guys in town to follow the girls, creating a coed crowd made up of the Kelly Springs young-adult masses. I’d be angry that my family’s talent and hard work has been turned into a Match.com mixer if it wasn’t for the fact that they each bought a ticket, which is income for my family. I’ll take it.

  And Kingston’s shower message this morning—Don’t break a leg, but good luck—was cute enough to have me in a great mood.

  As the act before me finishes, I take a deep, calming breath and check my costume one last time. It’s a new number my mom created for me, whose fabric I now find perfectly flowing.

  I nod to my father to cue the music and raise my right arm to signal Clay, in the rafters above the stage, to lower the aerial hoop.

  Donned all in white, I take pride in the gasps I hear from the audience as the lighting brightens, showcasing me, now in place. I tap the outside of the hoop with my ankle to send it spinning while I flip, twirl, and dance in and with the apparatus to “Completely” by Jennifer Day. I like to consider this one of my most elegant routines—and as I lock eyes with Kingston, seated in the front row, something in the way he watches me makes me think he might agree.

  Our gazes continue to seek each other out each time I face the crowd, until the final notes of the song conclude my performance and the lights dim to conceal my departure from the stage. Raucous applause erupts, and I positively beam with gratification. It’s exhilarating and powerful, and with my adrenaline rushing, I feel nearly euphoric.

  I’m reeling in my high as I make my way backstage, not paying attention, and walk right into…Kingston. Man, he moves quick.

  “Well done,” he compliments genuinely yet simply, totally contrasting the complex darkness in his eyes.

  My already-racing heart speeds up, no longer the result of my act, or the applause. It’s now solely because of the further praise he holds prisoner through translucent bars. I can’t be imagining the sheen of adoration in his rapt stare. Dare I say he seems almost mesmerized?

  “I thought you might need these.”

  He hands me a bottle of water, then lifts a small towel with his other hand and begins to dab at my dewy skin. His touch is gentle as it skims down my neck, across my shoulders, and over the top of my chest that’s left uncovered by my costume.

  “Better?” he asks huskily, before quickly clearing his throat.

  “Yes, thank you,” I whisper. I don’t ask his thoughts on my performance. I already know.

  And much like a huge zit on yearbook-picture day, Clay shows up to ruin the moment—one unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.

  “You killed it, Echo!” Ironic choice of words. He lifts me up and swings me around in a circle, my body stiffening against the onslaught. “Let’s go celebrate!”

  “Put me down!” I slap his arm and struggle to find my own footing, but soften my tone when he sets me on my feet. While I don’t ever want to find myself spinning in his arms again, I also have no reason to be mean about accepting a compliment. “Thank you. But you know I can’t just leave. I need to go change and help clean up. Then I’ll celebrate with my family and the rest of the performers at the dinner table, like we always do.” I lift a brow, curious how he’s forgotten what he’s watched happen for years. “You’ll be joining us, right?”

  I ask Clay the question but look at Kingston, who nods.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” Clay replies as he edges closer to me and also looks at Kingston.

  “Awesome!” I chirp out the word I rarely use, fidgeting under the strain of the mysterious dynamic between the two of them that I still don’t completely understand. But something tells me I don’t want to.

  Because if my suspicion is right, and I’m not just flattering myself, I wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it anyway.

  Chapter 11

  On Monday morning, I find myself ripping off my clothes and jumping in the shower like I’m going for the gold at an Olympic race. I crank the nozzle as far right as it’ll go—the hotter the better, for the steam to build quickly.

  A prelude
.

  More than I want a cleansing, I want the hidden message—our secret exchange of thoughts, belonging to only us—to appear.

  But as the shower glass fogs, no words emerge. And the depth of my disappointment is irrational; there should not be the sting of tears in my eyes right now.

  Kingston is forbidden fruit in so many ways: He’s our exchange student, my father has already warned him against me…and his departure date is set, and inevitable. So my anticipation of these messages is not only foolish, but self-destructive. Because the more attached I get, the worse it will hurt when they’re no longer even a possibility.

  I hurry through my now-mundane shower with a heavy lump of disenchanted sensibility in my gut.

  But when I turn off the water and step out, every thought I’d just told myself made sense is replaced with a swell of immeasurable bliss.

  Guess what else fogs up in a steamy bathroom? The mirror. And on it is his message to me—the best one yet.

  There was something in her movements that made you think she never walked but always danced.

  I’m instantly aware—this is bad, because once you think something’s gone and it comes back better than ever, your craving for it reaches a whole new, dangerous level. You only fully realize the depth of want and need immediately after experiencing loss.

  Too many emotions to name surge inside me, my head the good kind of hazy while the muscles around my heart cinch tighter. I know Kingston and I are just friends, albeit becoming better ones with every effortless interaction. We’re just housemates who’ve found a clever, entertaining way to match wits.

  But if it was, if it could be, more…he’d be damn good at it.

  I now understand how he’s able to bewitch girls by the droves. It’s not just his strikingly good looks, or enticing accent…it’s him. Those girls are such simpletons, so spellbound by the outside package, that they don’t even realize the entirety of his allure.

  But I do. I see his invisible, inherent charm; the sheer seductiveness that emits from his every smile and move; and his keen mind.

  Shaking off the silly, romantic musings that have no place in my life, I hustle to get ready for school.

  But once I’m in the parking lot, ignoring the bell warning me I’m about to be late, I throw caution—and my better judgment—to the wind, and type out a text.

  Me: You’ve read Anne of Green Gables?

  The second bell rings as I wait for a response, but for some inexplicable reason, I simply don’t care. Then a different ding sounds—and with it, my heart thrums an anxious beat.

  Kingston: No. Should I have?

  Me: Yes, great books. But I asked because the quote you left me this morning, which I really liked btw…it’s from one of the books.

  Kingston: Ah, well they stole your story then, Love.

  I’ve definitely unfairly judged the girls caught under his spell. The choice was never theirs. He’s that good.

  Me: How do you figure?

  Kingston: I searched “quotes for Echo Kelly” and that came up. As it should. Said it perfectly.

  This—he—could get addictive. And lines clearly drawn in my head and heart could easily become blurry, if not completely obliterated, should I sit here any longer.

  So I force myself back into friend mode and reply accordingly.

  Me: You’re on a roll this morning. Better save some of those savvy lines for the tarts.

  I hesitate before sending one last message.

  Me: I’m late. Have a good day, playboy!

  I run into school, out of breath for two reasons but satisfied with myself for taking back control of the situation that was headed in a direction I dare not explore.

  First, you don’t leap from shy introvert who doesn’t date to Kingston Hawthorne: a smooth-talker with a face made for dreams, a body of unworldly men, and the entourage of a celebrity. He’s not the type of guy to get your feet wet with, or you’re sure to drown on your first swim. And secondly, the detour I threw worked, because the texts that continue the rest of the day are back on the track they need to be.

  Case in point: In second period, my phone vibrates in my pocket. While the teacher’s back is turned, I read his message under my desk. It’s a picture of a girl I don’t know, and for a moment, I’m confused—until my phone buzzes again.

  Kingston: Need my Echo Meter. What do you think?

  Now this game I can play without fear of emotional risk.

  Me: Does she speak in full, coherent sentences that, in any way, correlate to the topic at hand?

  Kingston: You delight me. In comparison to even YOUR texts, no, she’s functional at best.

  Well, there’s his answer then.

  But before I can respond, he texts again.

  Kingston: But yes, it is indeed English she is speaking.

  Me: Can you, without spraining your neck, tell what color of underwear she’s wearing?

  I glance up at the front of the room. The teacher’s still facing away, scrawling on the board. I have no idea what she’s teaching today, nor do I care. Kingston, among being a million other things, is a fun distraction. And I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so distracted.

  He makes me smile, laugh…think. He challenges my mind, which has gone too long without a worthy opponent for splendid banter. Since his arrival, my life has more color in it—vibrant Technicolor that I now find myself stopping to notice and fully appreciate.

  I miss my brother something awful. I do. But I’m glad Kingston’s here.

  Kingston: She’s not wearing any.

  I’m not sure whether he’s just trying to get a rise out of me. I’d hope so, because ew. But either way, it works—I have to slap my hand over my mouth to muffle my laughter. I don’t know why I find it so funny. Perhaps I’m just trapped in a perpetually good mood.

  Me: Doesn’t that easy access make her an automatic 10? What do you need me for?

  Kingston: Several things. And no, I’ve found that a certain new someone in my life has caused me to raise my standards.

  I smile, glad I’ve made an impact. Kingston doesn’t have to settle. He can handpick someone worthy of him.

  Kingston: Can I get that meter reading please? She’s becoming clingier with each minute you make me await your decision.

  Me: She may have been out of clean underwear, so to be fair, I need more information. Her laugh: more human or small, distressed-animal sounding?

  Kingston: Definitely the latter.

  Me: Ask her to spell definitely.

  There’s a gap in response time. Poor girl—I can picture her face scrunching up in what she thinks is “cute” confusion.

  Kingston: Not even close.

  I actually snicker before making a decision. I feel a bit guilty being so judgmental, but fake laughter, the inability to spell, and no panties? Nope.

  Me: Two.

  Kingston: Agreed. Thank you for your brilliant wisdom.

  Me: I do what I can. Now I have to go learn something. You should try doing the same.

  Either he got tangled up with the “two” despite my meter reading or actually took my advice on learning something, because I don’t hear from him again until the middle of lunch. And his message is accompanied by another picture.

  Kingston: How about her? She has a certain “wholesome” feel.

  I literally spit out the drink I’d just taken, scowling back at the people now staring at me.

  “What was that about?” Savannah gripes, wiping my Coke off her sweater.

  “Nothing, sorry,” I mumble, staring back down at my phone.

  “No, really, what’s so fascinating? You’re, like, not even listening to a word I’ve said,” she whines, forgetting I’m impervious to “that” voice. It only works on Sebastian.

  Me: That’s because she IS wholesome. That’s Mrs. Thurman, THE PASTOR’S WIFE! Walk away, playboy. WALK. AWAY. And I know you’re not enrolled in her Religion class, so why are you near her? Oh God. (No pun intended.)


  “I’m done trying,” Savannah huffs. “Have fun with your Trivia Crack, or whatever’s got you so busy over there. See ya at your truck later.”

  She storms off and I feel sort of bad, but not enough to lift my head or respond.

  I scarf down the rest of my lunch and go through the motions of dumping my trash, grabbing my books from my locker, and walking to my class. But all the while, I’m looking forward to my phone vibrating again.

  Which it does, in fifth period: my last class of the day on the high-school campus.

  It’s another picture.

  Um. Wow.

  Me: Kingston, that’s A GUY.

  Kingston: Are you sure?

  Me: Quite.

  Kingston: Did you laugh?

  Me: Yes.

  Kingston: Then my work here is done. So you’ll be smiling when I see you in just a bit?

  Me: Most likely.

  Kingston: Looking forward to it.

  So am I.

  ~~~~~

  Savannah spends the entire ride to the college hounding me for information. Why do I seem so cheerful? Why am I so distracted? Why am I not giving her the usual 100% of my attention?

  I pacify her with short, evasive answers, proud of myself for resisting the urge to turn the radio on full blast.

  I don’t know what this “thing” between Kingston and me is, exactly, but I know it’s ours—mine. And I just want to enjoy it while I can without examining it or getting advice, which Savannah would give. And give. And give.

  Once we park, she’s out of the truck and running to the social circle gathered on the sidewalk, suddenly unconcerned with all the burning questions she had on the trip over. But, as always, I remind myself of our long-standing friendship and the acceptance that comes, on both our parts, with it.

  As previously agreed upon, I enter the classroom and head for the back row while Kingston’s eyes find me. He gives me nothing more than a small smile and wink.

  Luckily for him, continuing our “game” doesn’t draw attention to me and I can do calculus in my sleep, so I damn near giggle when my phone stirs in my pocket.