“That’s not true,” I disagree. “Girls love gestures.”
Noah rolls his eyes. “Girls only like gestures if it’s from the right guy.”
“Exactly,” Harry agrees. “See, if it had been Noah holding that mistletoe over her head, she would have started writing their love story right then. But unfortunately for Cadi, she got Mohammad.”
“Ouch,” Mohammad says, placing his hand over his chest, acting offended.
“All right, new subject,” I cut in. I take a bite of my apple and catch Mohammad looking at me.
“Can we talk about your red lips then?” Mohammad says.
“You like?” I make a kissy face, posing.
“There’s something very American about your look today,” he continues, taking in my white sweater and red lips. “It’s hot.”
“Well, you can thank Noah. He helped me create my look this morning.”
Noah’s eyes flare, and he shoots me a glare. But the second that Harry and Mohammad look toward him, his face goes blank.
“She was spazzing,” Noah states indifferently. “I had to help.”
“He picked out the red?” Harry asks me, his face searching mine, his eyes sliding down to my lips.
“Yeah.”
Harry looks between Noah and me, and I notice a touch of concern in his expression.
I quickly change the subject.
“What did you mean when you said I looked American today?” I ask Mohammad. “I wasn’t trying to look like the flag or some shit.”
Because is that what he was getting at?
“Red lips aren’t American,” Harry interjects, rolling his eyes. “They’re sexy.”
“What do you mean?” Mohammad says, pointing from my red lips to my white sweater to my navy skirt. “Your whole outfit is so American. You’re literally red, white, and blue.”
I roll my eyes.
“These are your school colors,” I point out.
“We’re muted tones. Navy and maroon. Old school,” Mohammad counters. “But that sweater is such a crisp, new white, and combined with your lips … well, look around, Miss America. More than a few guys have noticed.”
I turn, looking at a few of the tables around us, my eyes instantly connecting with a guy who is looking at me. He drops my gaze, seemingly embarrassed to have been caught.
And, shit, Mohammad was right. As I scan the room, more sets of eyes connect with mine. But this time, I get smiles.
I look at Harry. He was glancing around, too, and he looks back at me, shaken.
“Mohammad,” I scold.
He just shrugs. “What? I thought it was obvious. Red lips are hot.”
I purse my red lips at his comment. “Seriously? That’s so stereotypical and kind of ridiculous. Almost all of the girls here wear makeup. And lipstick.”
“Yeah,” he says, agreeing with me. “But not like that. The red you have on today is so bright. Very bold.”
“Fine. Explain it to me then. What’s the appeal? Why do guys like it so much?” I ask.
“There are so many reasons. I mean, straight off, it grabs your attention. They’re red and plump.”
“Mohammad,” Harry says, sounding upset.
“Ew. Not Mallory’s,” he says, almost looking grossed out. “Sorry, I didn’t mean ew. But you know what I mean. I’m speaking hypothetically, all right?”
“Continue,” Noah says. He seems quite amused by this conversation.
“Red lips grab your attention. They’re sexy because they instantly remind guys of kissing. A girl’s mouth always gets red after kissing, obviously. Anyway, next is the fact that red lips sort of do have this sexy thing about them. I mean, a man never knows what a girl with red lips is going to do. She has to be bold and wild to pick out that color. Can she be trusted? You never know. That’s the exciting thing,” Mohammad says.
“Seriously?” I reply, rolling my eyes.
I glance over at Harry, knowing that he has to think Mohammad sounds as insane as I do. But he just shrugs his shoulder at me.
“He has a point,” Harry says.
I look across the table to Noah with wide eyes. He’s covering his mouth, laughing behind his hand.
“And is that all?” I ask Mohammad, wondering if he has had his fun and is done now.
“Nope,” he says. “Then, there’s the idea of red lips. Red lips mean proof, right? So, if you get a girl with red lips to kiss you, they will leave a trail. It’s a thrilling idea for a man. And, well, let’s just say that most guys would love if that trail started at their lips and worked all the way down their chest to their stomach and onto their—”
“Mohammad!” I shout, stopping him.
Noah busts out laughing, his eyes squinting so much that they’re almost closed.
“Fuck, Mohammad. I don’t know how you do it sometimes. You’re absolutely right,” Harry says slowly, like he’s just had some life-changing epiphany.
“Thank you.” Mohammad smiles, pleased with himself. “Always doing my best to help my mates.”
I look between them, waiting for someone else to crack besides Noah but they don’t.
I immediately grab the napkin off of Mohammad’s tray, wiping at my lips.
“I was using that.” Mohammad pouts, raising his hands up in front of him.
I glance over at his empty tray and have absolutely zero sympathy.
Harry bursts out laughing, grabbing our attention.
“You two.” Harry laughs harder, trying to catch his breath. He gives the bottom of my chin a fond pinch, his blue eyes sparkling.
I pull away from his hand and cross my arms over my chest.
When the lunch bell goes off, Harry picks up the napkin with my red lipstick on it. He folds it up neatly before shoving it down into Mohammad’s pocket.
“Memories,” Harry sighs, wrapping his arm over Mohammad’s shoulders.
I want to stay upset at them, but I can’t.
Because Mohammad looks happy.
Your body mapped out.
Geography
“You know, I’m a little sad the red lips are gone,” Harry says, sitting down behind me in Geography.
“After Mohammad’s informative talk, they had to go.”
“They were hot.” Harry pouts.
“And apparently, too much of a distraction for all of you to handle,” I say over my shoulder.
“I always try to tell you, but you never listen. We’re just mere men, Mallory. And in the presence of a goddess, no less.”
I turn around, connecting my eyes with Harry’s. He’s trying to pout, but his eyes are playful.
“Not going to work. Plus, the whole red lips are associated with sex is just wrong.”
Harry shrugs. “Mohammad’s the one who said it.”
“But repeating false connotations doesn’t make it any truer,” I argue with him.
“But the thing is, he was right. Your lips were distracting me all through lunch,” he says, glancing up at me with an innocent face.
“Just because you wanted to kiss me doesn’t mean that red lips should automatically be associated with sex.”
“No one said sex,” Harry corrects.
“It’s implied, isn’t it?”
“If it’s implied, does that mean you’ll never wear red lips again?”
“Yes,” I say, wanting him to just answer me.
Harry shakes his head. “Then, definitely not. Red lips are feminine and empowering. They have nothing to do with sex—or any S-word for that matter.”
I roll my eyes at him. “So, you’re saying that you don’t think about my mouth and your …” I point down to his pants.
“Oh, I definitely do,” he replies, excitedly nodding his head and obviously enjoying our conversation. “But that’s with or without red lips.”
“So, what’s the verdict then?” I ask, trying to figure out why we’re still talking about red lips and their symbolism.
“The verdict,” he says with a smile, “is that I c
an’t wait to see you tonight.”
I grin at him. His blond hair is parted, and his blue eyes are sparkling at me. I think I could hold his gaze forever and just sit with my back to Mr. Pritchard all through class.
“Don’t forget though, we have detention tonight first.”
“Ugh,” Harry moans.
“Hey,” I say, trying to be encouraging. “You get an extra hour to spend with me. Shouldn’t that be exciting?”
“Yeah, an hour in silence. I can’t talk to you or touch you. Sounds more like torture.”
I bite my lip, holding back a smile. Because what he just said is sort of flattering.
“You could get some of your homework out of the way,” I urge, trying to see the bright side.
“Right.” Harry almost snorts. “I’d rather pretend to read for an hour than do coursework.”
“Why not just do it? We can sit in silent torture together and at least get something out of the way during it. That way, later tonight, we can focus solely on our date.”
“Hmm. Maybe I’ll try and get ahead in Geography,” he finally says.
“Yeah?” I ask, surprised and proud of him.
“What do you think Mr. Pritchard would say if I turned in a project that was focused on the geography of you?” He smirks. “I wouldn’t mind studying you in detention. Plotting out all of your curves on a map.”
And the funny thing is, if that was actually a project possibility, he would probably do amazing at it. I can tell just from the way he’s talking about the idea that he would give it his full attention.
“I think if you plotted out my curves on a map, Mr. Pritchard might have an aneurysm,” I reply.
“From seeing your body mapped out?” he asks with a grin.
“No, from the realization that you’re actually capable of completing an assignment.” I raise my eyebrows at him and then turn to face the front of the classroom.
Mr. Pritchard stands up and starts writing across the whiteboard while I try to ignore Harry’s presence behind me.
But a few seconds later, he’s at my ear. His breath is warm, and it makes goose bumps rise across my arms.
“You play dirty,” he whispers, his lips tickling my cheek. “And I love it.”
It kind of sucks.
Yoga
After Geography, I walk with Harry to the changing rooms.
When I get to Yoga, our teacher, Amy’s, eyes are instantly on me.
She narrows in her gaze, watching as I walk to a mat and take a seat.
I drop my head, staring down at the mat.
I just want this class to be over.
I just want this class to be over.
I hear the door open and shut, and I glance up, seeing Olivia. She walks past me, taking her place a few mats away.
Amy looks between the two of us, and let me tell you, if looks could speak, hers would be saying, Behave yourselves, or I’ll drag you both back to the office, kicking and screaming.
She has a no bullshit look in her eye, and I respect it.
I don’t look at Olivia.
I don’t want to get into any more trouble. And I don’t want to talk to her. At this point, I don’t even know what I’d say to her.
We’ll probably never end up seeing eye to eye.
And I don’t want the drama.
So, I’m going to do my best to avoid her.
Yoga flies by, and I spend our break time sitting directly on my mat, right in front of Amy. Partly so she can see me and partly so Olivia doesn’t have a chance to start anything.
It’s uncomfortable, feeling both their eyes on me, but I guess it’s expected. It was just our last class that Olivia attacked me.
And honestly, it kind of sucks.
After things with Harry on Friday night, I gained a new respect for her. I saw how much she cared about him. How she was there for him.
But when Harry told me how she urged him to lie about his dad, all that respect went away.
Naomi is her friend though, and I had fun at the nail salon with her on Sunday.
I decide maybe I should do what I did with Sophia today with Olivia. Try and make things better.
“Olivia,” I say when we’re in the locker room after class.
She’s bent over, looking through her duffel, but she stops to glance up at me.
I’m not sure how her hair always manages to look perfect, but it does. A light sheen of sweat graces her forehead, but for the most part, it looks almost like she just got changed for Yoga instead of being done with it.
“Yeah?” she replies.
“What are you doing tomorrow night?” I ask, not sure why the words are tumbling out of my mouth.
Because I know what’s going to happen next. She’s going to insult me, my friendship with Naomi, or my relationship with Harry.
But stupidly, I asked anyway.
“Why?” she says defensively. She stands up straighter, pushing a piece of hair behind her ear.
“I was wondering if you wanted to come over for a sleepover.”
I brace for her reaction, feeling my eyes squint unintentionally. It’s like she’s a champagne bottle that’s going to explode open at any second, the cork coming up to hit me in the face. And the worst part is that I know it’s going to happen; I just don’t know when.
“You’re kidding?” She laughs.
“Not really. Naomi is coming over, and I thought maybe you might want to come.” I shrug at her, trying to act indifferent.
“A sleepover,” Olivia repeats. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
She turns her attention back to her duffel and pulls out a sweatshirt.
“I’m not kidding,” I say.
“You want me to come over and, what, put on a face mask and pretend like I don’t hate you? Be serious,” she says, but her tone is light, and she seems like she’s in a good mood.
Well, as good of a mood as I’ve ever seen Olivia in.
“I’m not asking you to come over and braid my hair.” I roll my eyes.
“That’s probably for the best. I would likely end up wanting to pull it out anyway.”
I narrow my gaze in on her. “I don’t want us to always be going back and forth. I’m not saying we have to be friends …”
Olivia’s face flashes with almost repulsion, causing me to sigh.
“I just don’t want to fight with you anymore. And this whole avoiding and hating one another thing is going to get old, quick. Would it be so bad if we tried to hang out tomorrow night?”
Olivia pinches her lips closed, her eyes flicking up to me. “It would be that bad,” she says dryly.
“Olivia,” I say, almost pouting, “what’s the worst that can happen? We’ve already fought, yelled, pulled each other’s hair, and been in a screaming match. I think we’re over the hating one another hump.”
“You already have Harry, all right?” she says, flinching. She glances around the locker room, her voice growing quieter. “And fuck it, have Naomi while you’re at it too, for all I care. If she wants to be your friend, she can be your friend. But that’s enough. Stop asking me for more.”
She closes her locker and grabs her duffel. A second later, she’s out the door.
I rub my hands down across my face.
Because what she said has some truth to it.
To her, I do have Harry. Naomi and I are becoming friends.
To someone like Olivia, I’m just a threat regardless of if I actually am one.
I let out a sigh, feeling bad for her.
How his lips feel on mine.
5:10pm
I walk into the Williams’ house in a rush, wanting to have plenty of time to get ready for my date tonight.
Detention was boring.
Unfortunately, our supervising teacher was more alert than the one last week, which forced me to sneak glances at Harry, each time only seeing a piece of him.
Like his blond hair.
Or the corner of his blue eye.
The way his wh
ite shirt was rolled up at the sleeves.
How his fingers would flip from one page to the next in the book he was pretending to read.
I noticed so many small things that make Harry, Harry.
“Hi, sweetie,” Helen coos, her cheeks flushed from the fire burning in the living room.
“Hi.” I grin at her because I feel like I’m swimming in happiness.
Despite being in detention, I got to be next to Harry.
And I got to think about his fingers and his shirt and his blue eyes and how, tonight, I would finally be able to fully appreciate those parts of him.
Without being in detention.
And definitely without anyone else present.
I bite my lip, thinking about our date.
“You look like you’ve just seen the stars,” Helen says as I sit down on the couch across from her.
I slip off my shoes and tuck my legs under me. “I have a date tonight with Harry.”
“I see,” Helen replies, understanding my excitement. “Do you know where he’s taking you?”
“He wouldn’t tell me anything. Or even give me a hint. I’m not sure how to plan what to wear without any idea of what we’re doing or where we’re going.”
Helen purses her lips, thinking, before her eyes grow wide with excitement. “Generally, I would think he’d take you out for dinner. Maybe a film after or a show.”
“But there are so many options. Should I wear a dress and heels for a fancy date? Do I do something more casual, like jeans and a sweater in case he’s planned more of an activity? Or maybe I should find something in between, like boots and a fun skirt?”
“I would suggest the first.” Helen nods. “I think Harry knows that he needs to make tonight special.”
“You think?”
“There are really only two options for a first date,” Helen starts. “If you hadn’t been friends before, I would have suggested something more casual. I think first dates where you don’t know one another should be more about getting to know the person. But since you and Harry are friends and have already been out, I think tonight will be all about romance.”
London Prep: Book Two Page 13
