by Dakota Chase
He nodded, eyes flicking everywhere but at me. That was a first—he looked as nervous as I felt. “So, do you have time this afternoon? To study? Or tutor? Or whatever it is we’re supposed to be doing?”
“Study. Yeah. Um, after practice?”
“Cool.”
Dylan turned and walked away to where a few of his buddies waited. No good-bye, no wave, but that was okay. He’d talked to me, as in actual back-and-forth dialogue, and I hadn’t frozen up or keeled over or had an embarrassing loss of bodily functions. I’d even held up my end of the conversation.
Okay, I hadn’t actually said more than three words at a time, but it was a start, right? Suddenly, my appetite came roaring back with a vengeance, and I dug out my half-eaten meatloaf sandwich from the paper sack, devouring it in two bites. I was going to need my strength. It was going to be a long afternoon.
Chapter Four
BILLY CAUGHT up to me between my last class and track practice, grabbing my arm and hauling me into the nearest bathroom. No one else was in there, which suited me just fine considering that I was certain Billy wouldn’t filter whatever he was going to say before he said it.
“I’m sorry, Jamie.”
Okay, that wasn’t what I’d expected, not from Billy. I’d figured that he was going to pass the blame for our argument on me, tell me that I was being too sensitive, that I had to grow a thicker skin to survive. An apology wasn’t something I’d even considered, not from Billy. I was surprised and impressed, but I wasn’t about to let him off the hook so easily.
“You were a real jerk-off, Billy. It hurt, dude.”
“I know. I’m just…. Look, there’s a lot going on in my head lately, Jamie, serious stuff I haven’t talked to you about, okay? I’m really sorry about this afternoon. Can’t we let it go at that?” He actually looked as though he meant it too. He hadn’t even cracked a smile.
“What kind of stuff?” I was wavering, but still not ready to forgive.
He shook his head. “Nothing you need to be concerned about. Not yet, anyway. I’m just not ready to talk about it, okay? It’s got to do with Robbie, but that’s all I can tell you. Look, just tell me everything’s still okay between us.”
I blinked. This wasn’t my Billy. My Billy didn’t have a serious thought in his head. My Billy was too concerned with clothes, hot guys, and the latest Who’s Who of Hollywood to think about anything of any real importance. Plus, my Billy couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. He’d always told me everything—at least, I’d always thought he had. “Robbie-the-Hunk? You don’t even know his last name.”
“I know a lot more about him than you think I do. Please, Jamie, just say we’re good, okay?” Jesus, he was practically begging! How could I say no?
“Okay, okay,” I said, giving in as I always did. “We’re cool.”
“Good! I have to go. Call me later, okay?”
“Yeah. Sure, Billy.” Then he was gone in a flash of rainbow-colored T-shirt and red Converse sneakers. The door swung shut behind him, leaving me alone in the bathroom with a whole load of questions and no answers.
The feeling I’d had that morning came roaring back, stronger than ever. Something wasn’t right, and now I was sure that whatever that something was, it had to do with Billy.
TRACK PRACTICE went about as usual. We warmed up, stretched, did a few laps. We had a meet coming up the following weekend against South Westfield High, two towns over. I spotted Dylan across the field, working with the other team members who would run the hurdles. I didn’t do the hurdles—I didn’t have the legs for it. You needed long legs to make the jumps, legs like Dylan’s. Mine might be fast, but they weren’t exceptionally long. I wasn’t good enough to run relay, either. I would run in the sprints, 100, 200, and 400 meters.
Dylan did everything—sprints, relay, hurdles, javelin, shot put, discus, hammer, and all the jumps—and he was equally good at every event, although he did his best in the hurdles. If anybody deserved an athletic scholarship to State, it was Dylan. Maybe this tutoring thing, if I could get past the fact that it was Dylan I was trying to teach, would help his grades.
I made good time during the practice runs. Maybe I pushed myself a little harder than usual, wondering if Dylan was watching me, knowing we had a date after practice. I know, I know… it wasn’t a date, but a guy could dream, right? If fantasizing helped move my butt around the track, then what was the harm?
Coach blew the whistle and the team made for the showers. That was the moment when a new worry hit me, a serious one I hadn’t considered before.
I didn’t make a habit of showering with the guys. The gym showers didn’t have separate stalls—they didn’t even have curtains between them. Getting naked with a bunch of buff guys was just too difficult and uncomfortable for me. I usually grabbed my gear and hightailed it home after practice, showering in the privacy of my own bathroom where it didn’t matter if I sprouted a boner. If pressed, for example after an away-game, I’d wait until everyone else had finished, then duck in, lather up, and get the hell out. Let’s face it: I fantasized about Dylan in the shower all the time. Actually seeing him there in the flesh, wet and soapy, would result in a problem I wouldn’t be able to hide.
I’d gotten very good at excuses too. Can’t shower—athlete’s foot. Can’t shower—dental appointment. Can’t shower—going to be late for doctor/date/grandma’s funeral/cousin’s wedding. Honestly, when it came to excuses, I had enough material to write a book on the subject.
This time, I didn’t have a choice. I had to meet Dylan afterward for our first tutoring session, and I couldn’t show up smelling like the chimp house at the zoo. I didn’t want him to have to wait too long for me, either—he’d either want an explanation or give up and go home.
Still, I dragged my feet, trying to wait until most of the guys had finished showering. I undressed slowly in the locker room, in a corner behind a row of lockers where no one could see me and, more importantly, where I couldn’t see them. With a towel wrapped loosely around my waist—draped in the front to hide anything that might suddenly spring up—I grabbed my soap and shampoo, kept my eyes glued to the floor and made my way into the shower room.
It was empty except for one guy showering under the last head at the back of the room.
Of course, the guy would be Dylan.
I didn’t stare. I swear it. Only one quick peek to verify it was him, but believe me, that was more than enough. I squeezed my eyes shut, cranked up the shower, and stepped under the spray, careful to keep my back to him.
Unfortunately, I’d forgotten all about my towel. I didn’t even notice the wet, heavy terrycloth dragging at my hips. I was too busy trying to scrub the vision of Dylan naked from my brain via my scalp before parts below my belly button realized it was there.
Dylan, however, noticed.
Before I knew what was happening, a hand yanked my towel off and reached around my shoulders, waving it in my face. “Forget something?” Dylan asked, laughing, shaking the towel. I was frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe. Dylan’s arm disappeared, along with the towel.
“Meet you in the library, dude.” He snapped my butt with the wet towel and was gone.
The whole incident had taken less than thirty seconds, but in my head it went on and on, repeating over and over again in slow motion, like a sensational play on Monday Night Football.
Not only had Dylan seen me naked, he’d touched me. He’d used the painful end of a wet towel to do it, sure, but who was I to split hairs? I allowed myself to savor the feeling for a few brief moments, then filed the entire experience away in my memory to be taken out later that night when I was alone and safe in my bed and could really enjoy it.
Then I took a deep, calming breath and turned the shower knob all the way over to the cold setting.
After about five minutes under the icy spray, once I deemed myself sufficiently shrunken and pruned, I turned off the water. Having no towel was a problem, but not one I couldn’t overcome. I hu
rried to the doorway, snaking my arm around the corner, fishing for a clean towel from the rack. For once, luck was with me. I snagged a corner of soft terrycloth and pulled hard.
I succeeded in getting a towel, and wrapped it snugly around my waist before running through the dressing room to my dark little corner. Everyone else had gone already, including Dylan. The only person left in the room was Pete, the equipment manager, who was too busy slinging jockstraps and dirty towels into a laundry bin to notice me.
It didn’t take me long to dress, fuss at my hair in the mirror until I realized it wasn’t going to behave no matter what I tried, short of shaving it off, and splashed on a little cologne. It wasn’t expensive stuff, but it was better than the Old Spice my stepfather usually doused himself in. I suddenly wasn’t very concerned with how I looked—the guy had just swatted my bare butt in all its hairy glory. I didn’t think wrinkles in my shirt or the bleach spot on my jeans was going to make much of a difference in his opinion of me.
I ran all the way from the gym to the library, which was up two flights of stairs on the other side of the building. Since it wouldn’t do to burst into the library wheezing and sweating, I leaned against the wall for a few minutes, composing myself. Then, gathering my courage, I opened the door and walked in.
Chapter Five
WHEN I reached the library, Dylan was sitting at a small table near the back of the room, legs stretched underneath, feet planted on the seat of the chair across from him. He was looking down, picking at his nails, obviously bored out of his mind. There were no books, no pencils, and no papers anywhere in sight.
“Hi,” I said, standing awkwardly in front of the table. I wasn’t sure where to sit. My first inclination was to sit across from him, but that would mean having to dump his feet off the chair, and I just didn’t have the nerve to do that. Should I drag a chair over and sit next to him? I’d never be able to concentrate with him being that close. No, I decided, his feet were going to have to go. I moved to the chair, setting my backpack on the table in front of it, hoping he’d get the hint.
“Hey,” Dylan answered. God, he had a great voice. Deep, rumbling, just a little bit gravelly.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said. He moved his feet and I sat down. I busied myself digging out Grayle’s tutor packet, our English IV textbook, a pad of lined paper, and a pen. I slid the paper and pen toward Dylan. “For notes,” I said when he looked at me questioningly.
He picked up the pen and immediately began clicking it, his thumb repeatedly depressing the button at the top of the pen until it sounded like a cricket on a crack. Sheesh. You’d think he was nervous or something. I shook the odd thought out of my head and opened the packet. “Okay, it looks like our first test is going to be on Hamlet. What can you tell me about it?”
“It’s a play by that English dude.”
Oh, no. Maybe Dylan really was all beauty and no brains. I hoped not, or he could kiss his scholarship good-bye right now. “Shakespeare. Not ‘that English dude.’ His name was Shakespeare. What do you know about the play?”
Dylan sighed as if the weight of the world rested on his broad shoulders. “Uh, it’s about this guy named Hamlet who lives in Denmark. His father gets wasted, then there’s something about a ghost. Oh, yeah, there’s a skull in there somewhere too. Then everybody dies.”
“Dylan, you did read the play, right? Tell me that you read the play.”
“You know what my practice schedule is like, Jamie. You’re on the team.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.” Maybe it did in a roundabout way, but I needed to hear him say it. What was I going to do now? A quick glance at the study materials made it obvious they’d be useless if he hadn’t read the damn play!
“I’ve been really, really busy.” His eyes never left the pen and he started clicking it again, even faster than before. “Besides, you know how it is… I’m supposed to be a jock. We can barely read, let alone read Shakespeare.”
I opened my mouth to tell him this meeting was going to be a colossal waste of time because I couldn’t possibly teach him enough in a couple of days to pass the test if he hadn’t read the play, when something he’d said stopped me. Supposed to be a jock? He was a jock. He was the best athlete on the team. We can barely read, let alone read Shakespeare. It occurred to me that Dylan wasn’t stating a fact; he was talking about a stereotype. Considering my own personal history, I knew quite a bit about stereotyping myself.
“Can’t read Shakespeare, or can’t admit to reading it?” I asked softly.
For the first time since I’d sat down, his turquoise eyes flicked up to meet mine. He only held my gaze for a few seconds before dropping them again, but I’d seen the truth there.
“Look, Dylan, I don’t know why you think you have to go along with the stereotype of the dumb jock, and it’s none of my business. I won’t tell anyone that you read Hamlet. The only thing that’s important is getting a decent grade on the test, and on the SATs. But you have to level with me so I know where we stand.”
“You hang out with that guy Billy a lot, don’t you?”
Okay. Not exactly on the subject, but I’d been expecting the question sooner or later. That didn’t stop me from immediately going on the defensive. “Yeah. What about him?”
“He’s… you know….” He shrugged one shoulder. At the same time, the clicking got faster.
“So?” Please, God, don’t let this go where I think it’s going, I prayed. Don’t make me have to defend Billy and end up saying things I’m not ready for anyone else to know. I’ll go to church. I’ll give up chocolate. I’ll delete those pictures I downloaded. Anything, but please don’t let Dylan throw down the gay card!
“…a blabbermouth,” Dylan finished.
I bit back a relieved “Yes!” and tried to look compassionate. “I won’t tell him, Dylan. I promise.”
“Look, I’ll be honest with you,” he said, finally putting the pen down and leaning over the table, dropping his voice to a whisper. Those brilliant turquoise eyes locked on mine, earnest and unwavering. I couldn’t have looked away if I’d wanted to. “The school, the coach, my dad, everybody wants to see me get that scholarship. I want it too. But I’m supposed to be practicing every free minute I get. When am I supposed to do my homework? When am I supposed to study? I don’t have time to read freaking Shakespeare, but I knew if I flunked English, I was dead in the water. So I… cut back on my practice time. I read it while I was supposed to be lifting weights in the basement. If my old man finds out about it, he’ll flip. There goes my car, my allowance, my whole freaking life.
“Plus, I have to worry about what the other guys are going to think if they find out I’ve been ditching practice to study. If I was slacking off to party, that’d be okay, but to read? Who does that?”
Thank you, God. “So you did read it.” I couldn’t suppress a grin. “I swear I won’t tell anyone that you’ve been studying. When Billy asks me, I’ll just shake my head and tell him what a huge dumbass you are.”
Dylan laughed, then his eyes returned to stare at his fingers. He picked up the pen again, and the clicking resumed. “Okay. This is what I know about it. Hamlet was written by Shakespeare somewhere around 1600. It’s his longest play, and there are three different versions of it that we know of, and it’s a tragedy. Boo-hoo. Hamlet’s father is poisoned by Hamlet’s uncle, Claudius. Hamlet’s dad comes back as a ghost to give Hamlet the low-down on what happened to him. Hamlet swears revenge and pretends to be looney tunes to get the goods on his uncle. Meanwhile Hamlet’s girlfriend, Ophelia, wigs out and commits suicide after dissing Hamlet to Claudius. In the end, Laertes kills Hamlet and manages to skewer himself too. Hamlet’s mom bites it by accidentally drinking poisoned wine, and Hamlet kills Claudius before he kicks it.”
I was… stunned. Not only was it right on the money, it was also the most words I’d ever heard Dylan speak at one time. “Wow. That was quite a synopsis.” I couldn’t help smiling at him. Who knew there was a brai
n underneath all those good looks and muscles? I caught myself relaxing, easing my guard down. Something about his confession of being a closet geek had made me a lot more comfortable around him. He was only a guy, after all. A guy I’d been crushing on, yes, but still just a guy, like me. Well, maybe not quite like me, but close enough.
Dylan’s cheeks colored and he gave me a sort of half grin. “Yeah. There’s a whole lot more to it, all that Freudian crap about Oedipus complex and stuff, but that’s basically it, I guess.”
“Did you screw up that last test on purpose, Dylan?” I asked bluntly. I had a feeling that he had, but I wanted to know.
His half grin grew a little wider. “No, actually I didn’t. I was up late the night before, and my head wasn’t in the game. It was my own fault.”
I didn’t want to know what he’d been doing—or who—that had kept him up late. “So, what do we do, now? You really don’t need tutoring.”
“Yeah, but I really need to pretend I do. Would you mind? I mean, I could pay you for your time. We only need to meet a few hours a week….” If he clicked the pen any faster, it might actually burst into flames.
Pay me? He was offering to pay me to spend time with him? At what point had I drifted into some weird parallel dimension where everything was halfass backward? In the world I was in ten minutes ago, I would have thought for sure I’d need to pay him to hang out with me.
“No, that’s okay. It’s the assignment, after all. We can flip through the packets each week, but unless there’s something you want to spend time on, we can just go do… whatever.” I gave a shrug as if it was no big deal, even though my heart was doing cartwheels in my chest cavity. A thought occurred to me. “You don’t fool around with Guitar Hero, do you?”
