by Niki Burnham
“If you want to leave, you can. But I like talking to you. You’d think we’d have done it more before now.”
“We’ve never really been around each other without Josh.”
His fingers flex against mine, but he leaves his hand in place. I stretch to interlace my fingers with his. Before I can rethink it, his fingers tighten to hold mine in place. He’s quiet for a heartbeat, then says, “In that case, I’m going to tell you my deepest, darkest secret, something I haven’t even told Josh. I might not get another opportunity.”
“You sure you should tell me, then?”
“It’s something I think you’re uniquely qualified to understand.” He sighs and looks at the ceiling. “I have zero desire to be an astronaut.”
“You jerk.” I knock my shoulder against his and laugh. “But I promise not to tell Josh.”
“Don’t promise yet, because that’s not all. While I don’t want to be an astronaut, I would love to be an architect. So believe it or not, MIT is my top choice school, too.” He’s completely serious as he adds, “Everyone at school thinks of me an athlete first. No one ever thinks beyond that, to what I might want to do with my life. But I think about it all the time.”
“I had no idea you’re interested in architecture.” But it thrills me to hear him say it.
“You wouldn’t. I mean, Josh and I don’t even talk about it.” He scrunches his lower lip before continuing. “I haven’t said a word to anyone other than my parents and guidance counselor. I had to tell them, because I’m applying early action and needed to set up my interview last week. But I don’t want anyone else to know, just in case I don’t get in.” His eyes lock with mine. “So there’s my deepest, darkest secret. It’s that I’m a total chicken.”
Out of reflex, I squeeze his fingers. “Well then, I’m a chicken, too, because I haven’t told my parents. The engineering part I’ve told them, but not the aerospace part. When I mentioned MIT last spring, just in an offhanded way, they said that was a great aspiration but that I should also look at safety schools. I got the sense they thought I was shooting too high, so I decided to wait until my senior year, when I start the actual application process, to tell them everything. By then I’ll know where I stand with my SAT scores, too.”
Connor slides the binder from my lap to an open spot on the comforter. His gaze meets mine, and there’s a mischievous sparkle in his eyes as he studies me. “Strange how you can know someone for years and see them nearly every day, yet not have a clue what it is they want more than anything else in the world.”
“I was just thinking the same thing.”
We simultaneously sneak a peek at our joined hands. His skin is darker than mine from all the time he spends on the soccer field. His knuckles are more substantial, his fingers longer and stronger. My heart is racing so fast it makes me wonder if he can feel my pulse. He mutters what I think is, “To hell with it,” but as I glance up to ask what he said, he leans toward me.
In that split second, I know he’s going to kiss me. And I know I’m going to kiss him back.
It’s not my first kiss—I’ve had a couple of boyfriends—but as his lips brush mine, it feels like my first kiss. Or, at least, the way a first kiss should feel. Not in the scary, tentative, am-I-going-to-mess-this-up way, but in the thrilling, heart-stopping, this-is-better-than-I-dreamed way you see in the movies, where the music gets soft and the audience goes silent, mesmerized by the sheer emotional impact of what they’re witnessing on the screen.
We pause, lips barely touching, smiling against each other. We stay like that for a few seconds, motionless, our fingers still intertwined. Then we kiss again, less hesitantly this time, as if we’ve each made the decision that this is worth exploring.
“Everyone at school should know you’re never going to play pro sports,” I whisper a few minutes later as he moves to kiss my cheek. “If they actually take the time to consider it for a minute.”
His breath tickles my ear as he murmurs, “Why’s that?”
“Your name. Strabinowski won’t fit on a jersey. You’re kinda stuck having to look for a different career. So it’s not such a deep, dark secret.”
“Still worth it to confess to you if this is the result.” He gives me the lightest, sweetest kiss, just in front of my ear, then eases back to look me in the eye. “Besides, you’re wrong. Jarrod Saltalamacchia. Pro baseball player. Whole name on the jersey and it’s two letters longer than Strabinowski.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Wow. You learn something new every day.”
“Sure do.”
A deep, needful sound rumbles from the back of his throat as he shifts his body closer to mine on the bed. The sound alone sends me. I melt into him, wrapping my free arm around his waist. He lets go of my other hand to thread his fingers through my hair; the light pull of my scalp causes my stomach to seize and my brain to shut down. As my hands explore the space where his T-shirt meets his jeans, his skin radiates warmth through the thin cotton fabric.
He eases my mouth open with his own, and I decide right then and there that being stupid over a guy—at least while you’re alone together in the quiet of his room—is highly underrated. But only when that guy is Connor Strabinowski.
Chapter Seven | Connor
I should have Senior Assassin on the brain. Round one closes in three days and we still haven’t eliminated Drew. I’ve received at least a dozen texts from Josh since I rolled my tired butt out of bed this morning, all asking if I had any ideas for strategy, if I knew Drew’s class schedule, and if disabling Drew’s car so he’d be forced to hop out and lift the hood—or better yet, walk home—would be a violation of tournament rules.
As Josh likes to point out, we really only have this afternoon and tomorrow to make our hit. Drew won’t budge from his house on Saturday. Not unless Josh and I are both eliminated before then and he knows its safe.
Problem is, I can’t stop thinking about Peyton. Not so much about her hair—though who knew a girl’s hair could have such an addictive smell?—or the fact that the skin at the small of her back feels even better than I imagined when I stole that quick look at Lowe’s. Not even about the mind-blowing way she spiraled her fingertips around the muscle right where my quad meets my knee. I’m positive she had no idea what that did to me. I’m not really thinking about kissing her, either.
Well, sort of about kissing her.
Okay, a lot about kissing her. Because kissing her was un-frickin-real.
But more than that, I can’t stop thinking about how my world upended before all the kissing began.
Making out with Peyton wasn’t simply about making out, or about getting a thrill from little things like spiraling fingers or a girl’s skin, the way it’s been with every other girl I’ve ever kissed. Making out with Peyton felt like a natural extension of our conversation.
I’m making all the usual ‘hey, man’ and ‘see you at soccer’ comments as I pass friends on my way to class, but I’m afraid I’m coming off as dazed as I feel. I know it’s not possible to see that a seismic shift has occurred within someone by simply passing them in a high school hallway, but ever since Peyton was in my room yesterday, I feel different inside, so much so that I suspect the change is obvious on my face.
And I can’t stop wondering if Peyton’s feeling the same way about me.
Thing is, I’ve always waited for that jolt of awareness before I knew kissing a particular girl was legit, and I’ve either experienced it or not within five minutes of meeting someone. With Peyton, there wasn’t a jolt. No lightning moment. And now I’m considering whether the fact I’ve known her all these years, and that we share similar aspirations and fears, means a hell of a lot more than any first-meet jolt.
It’s exactly what Josh was describing when he told me about how many married couples have known each other their whole lives. Problem is, when he told me that story he meant that I should take a closer look at Molly, not at his sister.
I pause to nab a quick drink from the
water fountain. As I wipe my mouth on the back of my arm, there’s a touch at my lower back. Small fingers, definitely a girl’s. And definitely possessive. The pads of her fingers exert a fraction more pressure than when you’re simply letting a friend know you’ve walked up behind them.
I reach behind me and close my fingers around a lean wrist, amazed that Peyton would approach me like this in the middle of senior hall. I’m not sure I want whatever’s between us to be public, despite the insta-thrill I’m getting from her touch. Not yet. While we had a great afternoon yesterday—a great afternoon—at least until we heard the garage door open and leapt apart before my mom caught us, we didn’t have time to discuss whether what happened in my bedroom was a one-time deal or the first step in a more serious direction. We definitely didn’t discuss whether we’d say anything to anyone, so I assumed we wouldn’t.
Frankly, I wouldn’t have wanted a discussion, even if we’d had time. I’d have wanted to lie back against my pillows and kiss Peyton some more in case it was a one-time deal.
When I spin around, though, it’s Molly gazing up at me. I take a step backward, surprised.
Her eyes widen in alarm at my reaction. Slowly, she withdraws her hand and slips it under the notebook she’s carrying. “Sorry, I—”
“Hey, Molly. It’s okay…you caught me off guard.”
She’s not one for obvious makeup, but she must’ve swiped on lipgloss and used one of those compact things in the last few minutes. Her mouth is shiny and pink, and the skin under her eyes and across her nose sparkles as if she’s dusted a glittery powder there. “Didn’t mean to scare you. I said your name a couple times back there, but you looked like your mind was elsewhere, so—” She lifts one shoulder and flashes a shy grin.
“You didn’t scare me. Just…well, like you said, my mind was elsewhere.” I smile back, because what else am I supposed to do? We’re both headed to AP Calculus, so I gesture for her to join me as I walk. She keeps within an inch of my elbow, much closer than necessary given the number of people in the hallway.
I need to man up and simply tell Molly I’m not interested and make it clear that being friendly with her—like when I return one of her smiles—does not mean I want to go out with her. Of course, knowing I should tell her and actually forming the words are two entirely different things.
I wasn’t lying to Peyton yesterday when I said I was chicken. However, I may have failed to convey the scope of my chicken tendencies.
“Sorry if I interrupted you yesterday,” she says. At my quizzical look she explains, “When I sent you that text and you had Josh and Peyton over. I think that’s so sweet of you to give her your chemistry notes. You’re the most thoughtful person, Connor. Josh is lucky to have you as a friend.”
Ah, crap.
I stop walking and turn to face Molly. I wish I could communicate via osmosis that I enjoy being her friend, but that’s it. Her friend. My stomach pitches as she looks at me in anticipation. I dread seeing disappointment on her face when I say the words aloud.
The hallway crowd is starting to thin. Still, I pull her off to the side. Drew might’ve embarrassed her in front of everyone, but I’d rather be discreet. “Look, about yesterday, I need to talk to you.”
I almost tell her that Josh wasn’t at my house when Peyton picked up the notebook, then decide I don’t want to take the conversation down that road. I don’t want Molly—or anyone else—to suspect what’s up with me and Peyton. If anything’s actually up, because even I don’t know that.
If what happened yesterday afternoon with Peyton isn’t a one time thing, I don’t want Molly to assume I’m pulling a Drew on her, leading her on and then ditching her for another girl.
“Did Peyton tell you what I told her?” Molly looks around as she says this, as if afraid someone will overhear.
“Um—” A hard lump forms in my throat at the sound of Peyton’s name coming from Molly’s lips. The two of them talked about me? “No. I don’t think so.”
“Well, I told her to tell Josh, but I figured she’d talk to you, too, especially since the three of you were at your house yesterday.” Molly’s practically vibrating with excitement. She leans forward, her mouth only inches from my shoulder as she whispers, “Everyone knows you guys were assigned Drew and Grayson in Senior Assassin. Right?”
This is about Senior Assassin? After a second’s pause, I tell her, “I will neither confirm nor deny.”
I can’t imagine where this is leading. The entire senior class received a warning e-mail from Jayne Dover this morning instructing us not to post any more videos of Senior Assassin hits, stating that doing so from now on will result in automatic elimination from the tournament. Everyone knows it’s in direct response to the anonymously posted video of Grayson standing in his front driveway, eyes growing wider and wider as a bright orange water balloon comes hurtling at him, then soaks him completely when he turns and ducks a second too late.
Even if the new rule states that people will be automatically eliminated from now on, I’m not about to verify to the school at large—let alone to Molly, who’s Jayne’s best friend—that the Grayson video came from Josh.
“You don’t need to confirm it. Everyone’s talking about how Josh got Grayson. I mean, how cool is it that you see the broken balloon stuck to the back of Grayson’s shirt?” She glances behind us to see who’s walking nearby, then drops her voice to add, “You know that with Josh posting that video, Drew and Grayson are dying to prove themselves by winning it all. Drew’s eliminated both his targets already, so they’re into the next round as long as Drew stays dry. It would also mean that you and Josh are out.”
Careful not to say anything to implicate myself, I keep my expression neutral. “What is it that Peyton was supposed to tell me?”
“That if I can help you and Josh in any way, I will.”
Help us? “What do you mean?”
A wicked light fills her eyes. “I mean that I can act like there’s something important I need to tell Drew to lure him out in the open. I’ll have him meet me in public or even at my house. Then boom! You know he won’t expect it from me. And you know—well, given what happened last spring—he’ll feel obligated to come talk to me if I ask him to, assuming he has even one decent bone in his body.”
This is not what I was expecting to hear at all.
“Are you sure? I mean, you’d be comfortable doing that?” Teams pull these shenanigans all the time, using any con imaginable to draw a target out in the open. Josh and I never considered it as part of our strategy—well, other than in Josh’s text about disabling Drew’s car, which I assume was a joke—but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Besides, every time we try to stalk Drew we risk getting shot by Joe Delano, who still hasn’t been shot by the team targeting him.
Molly would make things very, very easy. Especially since everything in her body language screams, do it, do it! But then an image of Peyton pops into my head, giving me a case of the guilts over using her as an excuse to stop Molly’s texting yesterday afternoon.
“You’re not going to get Drew without my help.” Her argument sounds very matter-of-fact. “And I’m totally comfortable with it.”
“But I’m not sure I’m comfortable with it.” I close my eyes for a moment and lean against the cinder block wall between two banks of lockers. The last thing I need is be part of some revenge plot between exes, particularly with Molly involved.
Nope. I can’t. No matter how tempting her offer.
I meet her gaze square-on. “Molly, between us—and I will deny this conversation ever took place if asked—Josh should never have taken or posted that video. It ticked off Grayson and Drew big time, which makes our job harder. Regardless, what happened with you and Drew shouldn’t—”
“Please? You can always pay me back by helping me knock out my target. People cut these deals all the time to advance. You know they do.” Her fingers are wrapped around my arm, right above my elbow, as she breathes cl
ose to my ear. “Don’t consider what happened with me and Drew, if it makes you feel better. We’ll look at it as two friends who are helping each other advance in the tournament. All right? Because I can use the help, too. I want to win Senior Assassin as much as you do.”
As much as we both know she’s flirting by putting her hand on my elbow, it’s not the right opening for me to explain how I feel or to pull away. It’s practically mandatory to stand this close when the topic of conversation is Senior Assassin. Even a guy would be leaning in to whisper strategy.
Although a guy might not smell like he popped a Cinnamon Altoid in anticipation of the conversation.
“Come on, Connor. You know you want to.”
She can tell I’m struggling. Her eyes are wide, innocent, and pleading, as if turning her down would be both idiotic and inconsiderate on my part.
I look away. She squeezes my elbow. “Pretty please?”
I nod.
