“And I’m just reminding you that this is a sensitive subject,” he says. “Honesty isn’t an excuse for you to shoot off at the mouth.”
His gaze flickers over me briefly, but it’s long enough for Klein to make the association.
For everyone to make the association.
Klein whips around in his seat to catch my eye, to silently mouth, Sorry, Legs, even though the whole class can see him and knows what he’s saying.
I look away instantly. He doesn’t know as much as he thinks he does.
No one is all bad or all good.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IT’S IMPOSSIBLE TO PRETEND HOSEA ISN’T IN THE ROOM AS I dance.
Hard to forget that he’s behind the piano in the corner, that with a few piqué turns, I could be standing beside him. That a few seconds after that I could sink down into his lap, tuck that stray piece of hair behind his ear and feel his hands travel across the small of my back.
But it’s as if we have some kind of unspoken agreement. Our eyes can meet in the mirror but not across the room. A nod is okay, but never a smile.
We’ve been texting since the night we kissed. We exchanged numbers when he dropped me off at my car; he asked for mine first, said I should have his, too, in case I ever needed to talk. We only text every few days and never about anything important—usually it’s just about school or something funny that happened at ballet or to simply say hello—but I smile when my phone dings with a new message and a little thrill goes through me every time I see it’s from him.
Last night I locked myself in my bedroom and stood naked in front of my full-length mirror and pictured his arms wrapped around me from behind. Keeping me warm. Safe. I twisted and turned and stretched in slow motion as I wondered how he would see me. If my breasts are too small for him or if he likes my nearly nonexistent hips the way Chris did.
Ellie probably takes everything about him for granted. Like how it feels to run her fingers through his hair, or how his kisses are the perfect combination of soft and warm and wanting. I wouldn’t take him for granted if he were truly mine. Not a single part of him.
I think about Hosea much more than I should, but when I’m dancing, all I think about is Chris.
I stand in first position next to Ruthie as Marisa guides us through plié, demi, and grand. We bend at the knee, halfway and then deeper, lifting our heels and pushing down on the balls of our feet. Perfectly synchronized because these movements are ingrained in our memory. Plié is so soothing, so methodical; it’s easy to let my mind wander. To think about him.
I’ll never forget Donovan’s face the first time he caught us behind the store. There was an old picnic bench in back, to the right and down a few feet when you walked out the door. Chris and I would sit out there on his breaks, him puffing on a cigarette and me leaning in for the occasional drag. He would straddle the bench and sit close enough for his knees to touch the side of my leg. Sometimes he would rest his big hand on my thigh; squeeze my knee and tickle me until I begged him to stop, sprinkled tiny little kisses on his stubble-covered chin.
The day Donovan caught us, Chris was practically all over me as soon as we stepped outside. We didn’t even make it to the picnic table.
He pushed me up against the wall and shoved his tongue in my mouth and I thought it was sexy. It was the way high school girls kissed their boyfriends. It was passionate and it meant he really wanted me because he was brave enough to do it where someone could walk down the alley and see us.
He had just slipped his hand under my shirt when the back door to the store creaked open. I knew without looking that it was Donovan. Chris didn’t stop right away. He kept going, kept moving his hand beneath my shirt, kept pushing his tongue around in my mouth until I pulled away. I’d turned my head to look at Donovan and immediately wished I hadn’t. His face was a blend of confusion and horror and something else I couldn’t quite place at the time, but what I later recognized as unease.
“Oh, hey, man,” Chris said, looking over at the same time he disengaged his hand from under my shirt. “What’s up?”
“Someone needs to pay for gas.” Donovan’s voice cracked as he said this, and I couldn’t tell if he was more humiliated by the fact that it happened in front of Chris or that it happened right after he’d caught us in the middle of second base.
Chris made a little clicking sound from the side of his mouth and said, “Nice work. Thanks for keeping an eye out, man.”
He gave my waist a hard squeeze, patted Donovan on the shoulder before he walked back inside. Donovan stared at me for a long, heavy moment before he followed.
Maybe I should have apologized but it’s hard to say you’re sorry when you’re not sure why you’re saying it. Donovan looked so concerned, like I was in over my head or something. But Chris was my boyfriend. And they were friends. Donovan didn’t need to worry about me. Or maybe he was just worried that having Chris around was changing our friendship.
I readjusted my shirt and smoothed down my hair and when I went inside, the store was empty again. Chris was helping Donovan choose a comic book. Any comic he wanted, on the house.
We were silent the whole way home that day. Once, I glanced over and caught him smiling and I pretended it was because he was happy for Chris and me and not because of the X-Men comic tucked under his arm. We never spoke of the incident again, never even hinted at it, but it was clear something had changed between us.
After ballet I walk back to the dressing room alongside Ruthie. She dabs at her neck and chest with the sleeve of her shrug.
“What are you doing this weekend?” I ask.
Ruthie kind of laughs and when I look over, she’s rolling her eyes. “I’m on lockdown.”
Again? Ruthie is probably grounded more than anyone I know. It’s the status quo around Chez Pathman.
“What happened this time?” I stretch my arms above my head, roll my shoulders back as we walk down the corridor of exposed-brick walls. The windows to our left look out over the bustling city sidewalks below.
“A week of in-school suspension.” Ruthie folds her shrug into a tiny square as we’re walking, so it fits neatly into her palm. “Which is so not a big deal. I mean, I sit in a room alone and finish all my work before lunch and they act like it’s punishment.”
Lainie McBride has been walking behind us this whole time. You can always tell when she’s near; she’s basically allergic to the world, so she’s constantly sneezing or wheezing or popping an allergy pill. It’s disgusting.
She catches up to us, hovering over our shoulders, and sniffs right in my ear. “In trouble again, Pathman? Don’t they take that kind of thing into consideration for summer intensives?”
“Fuck off, McBride.” Ruthie’s eyes are the iciest shade of blue, probably similar to what they look like before her fists start talking. “It’s about the dancing. Which I guess you wouldn’t know, since you weren’t supposed to be here in the first place.”
It’s true. Lainie tries hard, but she’s the weakest in our class, and only joined the senior company when Meridith Bryant moved to New Jersey and Marisa had to fill a spot quickly.
Lainie pushes ahead of us and through the dressing room door just in time to let it slam in Ruthie’s face. Not the smartest move, but she knows Ruthie wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize her place here at the studio—and especially not her possible spot in a summer program.
“Such a fucking bitch,” she mutters as we pass Lainie’s locker.
Lainie pretends not to hear her, but she scoots a little farther back on the bench.
“Forget her,” I say as we sit down on the opposite side of the room. I lower my voice. “Why’d you get suspended?”
She turns away from me as she tugs down the straps of her leotard. “Same reason as always. People are assholes, and I’m not going to sit there and take it while someone talks shit about me.”
Ruthie’s parents send her to a really good, expensive private school. They support her dream. They’re kind and patient and they put up with her mean streak. I guess that’s what you do when you love someone—take all of the bad even when it outweighs the good.
Sort of like being with Chris. I loved the gentle version of him, but to be with him, I also had to put up with the Chris who wasn’t gentle—who made me feel ashamed as I slipped on my underwear when we were finished.
“Well, your parents can’t ground you forever, right?” I say as I toss my tights into my bag.
She pulls a sweater down hard over her curls. “It’s going to take them a while to forgive me for this one. The girl I got into it with is sort of a family friend. Her parents gave my school a letter of recommendation . . . I’m pretty sure they’re the only reason I got in.”
“Shit, Ruthie.” I stand up from the bench to slide on my yoga pants as I think about what it’s like to be her.
“Yeah, well.” Ruthie looks away from me before I can make eye contact. Bends over to knot the laces on her black Converse. “It’s kind of a big deal and everyone blames me because I’m the one with the record or whatever.”
She doesn’t sound angry. She doesn’t look it, either.
Even with her head down—even when I can’t see her face—she just looks tired. And maybe a little bit sad.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I FEEL BAD ABOUT KISSING SOMEONE ELSE’S BOYFRIEND.
But not bad enough to stop.
I thought what happened with Hosea might be a one-time thing. We’ve been texting, but we haven’t seen each other outside of ballet or random hallway sightings at school. And it would be the right thing to do—to stop seeing him before I fall too far. Yet a big part of me hopes that kissing him, that being with him, wasn’t a one-time thing. We would be good together—I know it—so I wish guilt didn’t rush through my veins every time I think about being That Girl. Because I don’t know if it’s a title I’d ever be comfortable owning.
Then, the Monday after Halloween, he texts me.
It comes through a few seconds after the lunch bell, so I read it as everyone is rushing out of English, toward the cafeteria. I stand at my desk and pull up his message with shaking fingers.
Meet me in the old science lab? I want to see you.
The old lab. Of course. No one ever uses it. I cover my smile with my hand, but I can’t do anything about the goose bumps that prickle along my arms as I text him back:
See you there.
It was too fast. Maybe I should have waited a little bit, left him wondering. But I couldn’t have stopped myself, even if I’d wanted to.
I shoot Sara-Kate a quick text that says I have to study during lunch, then duck into the nearest bathroom for a quick mirror check. I put on a fresh coat of lip gloss. Stop. Really look at myself. And it’s strange. The same old me looking back as always—dark eyes, thick hair, skin a warm brown with reddish undertones. But for the first time in a long time, I look . . . happy.
I peek out into the hall to make sure it’s empty, then book it to the science lab. It’s more of a supply room, really. No one has class here anymore after some super-brainy kid’s parents donated a ton of money to build a new lab a few years ago.
I take a deep breath when I’m standing outside the door. Smooth my hands over my fitted white button-down with the tiny yellow flowers, look down at my dark jeans to make sure they’re still tucked snugly into my boots.
The knob turns easily. I step in, close the door behind me, lean my back against it as I search the room for him. Or maybe I’m here first? But I follow the rustling sound to the far left corner and there he is.
We look at each other for a long second. He smiles and I smile and we walk toward each other until we meet in the middle.
“Hi,” I say when we’re so close the toes of our boots are touching.
“Hi.” He removes his hands from the front pocket of his hoodie. Traces my collarbone and lingers there only slightly before his hand slides up my neck and along the line of my jaw. His thumb strokes my earlobe and I lean into his palm, move closer, shut my eyes as I give myself to the moment.
Our first kiss is soft. Sweet. Short.
“I’m glad you came,” he murmurs, our lips inches apart.
“Me too,” I breathe back, wondering how such a small kiss can leave me so flustered. “But how’d you think of the lab? Shouldn’t this room be locked up?” I look at the microscopes and Bunsen burners and boxes of rock samples perched on the tables around us. The light that manages to shine through the hazy windows reveals that everything is covered in a thick layer of dust.
His body heat melds into mine. Does he know my heart is pounding double time? Can he feel how I feel about him?
“Should be. Never is.” He shrugs. “Gas is turned off on the tables and they took out all the chemicals. Klein told me about it a while ago.”
“Does he still come here?” I look toward the door, wondering if this is too good to be true. I never would have thought to meet up here, but I’ve only recently become a person with so many things to hide.
“We’re fine.” He takes my hand in his. Squeezes. “I promise.”
We move farther into the room and off to the side. My back against the edge of a lab table, his arms braced on either side of mine as he presses against me. My hands are cold. I look at him as I slip them between his hoodie and T-shirt so they’re sitting at his waist. His mouth turns up in a slow grin as he leans in to kiss my neck.
“Hosea.” I say his name quietly, but he stops. Looks at me as I wait for the right words to come. “Do . . . do you bring her here?”
His eyebrows lift in surprise. “Ellie? No.” He pauses. “Never.”
Of course not. He doesn’t have to bring her here, because she’s his girlfriend. They can be together anytime they want; they don’t have to sneak around.
“Hey.” He tilts his head to the side a little, his gray eyes soft. “What’s wrong?”
I look down at my hands still resting on his waist. “Nothing, I . . .”
I’m being stupid.
I should just enjoy this.
I shouldn’t be upset that you’re with her.
“This can be our place . . . if you want,” he says, his gaze locked firmly on me. “Just you and me, okay?”
I nod. And I know it means I’m saying that what we’re doing could happen again, that I’m not strong enough to resist him. But these feelings aren’t going to disappear. I like these feelings. I was afraid I’d never have them again, after Chris. And besides, right now, all I want is to say yes to Hosea.
“Okay?” he says again. He’s still looking at me and we share a private smile that sends ribbons of warmth dancing through me.
“Okay.” Maybe it’s not so bad being That Girl.
I tip my head back and close my eyes and his mouth comes down on mine, soft and warm and familiar.
At least That Girl gets what she wants.
• • •
My lips are swollen when I leave the science lab.
We kept all our clothes on, but our hands were busy. My shirt is rumpled. Bunched in weird places. I tug it down at the bottom and decide to stop off in the bathroom for another mirror check. I left first and Hosea will follow in a little bit, just to be safe.
There are still a few minutes before lunch ends, so I figure the bathroom will be empty—but I figure wrong. Lark Pearson is standing at the far end of the room in front of the sinks, reapplying her eyeliner. She leans forward in a way that makes her ass stick out, emphasizing the fit of her painted-on jeans.
She gives me a long look in the mirror as the door closes behind me. I wait for her to speak, but she never turns around, and then finally, she looks away. I keep an eye on her as I move toward the farthest stall, and still she doesn’t say a word. Just s
tares straight ahead at her reflection as she rims the lids of her blue eyes with layers and layers of black liner.
I step into the stall with every intention of staying in here until she leaves. Even if it makes me late to my next class. I’ve closed the door, am just getting ready to slide the lock into place when her voice echoes out across the room.
“Got any more smokes?”
I freeze. There’s no pretending I didn’t hear her. We’re the only ones in here. I crack the stall door to look at her. “What?”
Lark drops the tube of eyeliner in her purse, then turns around and flutters a hand in the general direction of my chest. “Cloves. Got any more?”
Shit.
How could I forget? Hosea gave me one before we left the lab. “To remember me by,” he’d said, pecking my lips as he tucked it into the triangular pocket of my button-down.
And now it’s just sitting there, poking out of my shirt like I’m marking my territory.
I ignore the bad feeling that blooms in my chest as I shrug. “Sorry, it’s my last one.”
I start to close myself into the stall again as Lark makes her way to the door, but she pauses in front of me. Puts her hand on the edge of the stall door before I can fully shut it. Shit.
“Since when do you smoke cloves?” Her raccoon eyes are scary up close as they assess me.
“I’ve always smoked cloves,” I say, forcing myself to not look away from her. “When they’re around.”
“Well, the only person I know who smokes cloves around here is Hosea.” Lark squints at me and her breath smells faintly of old coffee and I wish more than anything that someone would walk in and save me.
“Maybe you should know more people,” I respond with another shrug. Calm and cool. Totally relaxed, like my palms aren’t sweating.
Her mouth falls open, but she recovers quickly. “Bitch,” she says in a loud, clear voice before she slinks out of the bathroom.
Pointe Page 11
