“Your face is super red. Like really. You hot? I can fan you with my notebook?” He chuckles.
I blink, coming back to the present. He totally brought that night up on purpose.
I cross my arms and circle back to our earlier conversation. “Why the fidgeting?”
He rubs at his jawline. “I have an attention issue and get distracted. A bird that flies by the window, someone coughing, you—especially you. Doesn’t mean I’m not smart. It just takes me a while to take it all in.” He taps one of the pens on his desk.
Especially you.
“ADD?” I’ve read enough to know a little about it.
“Technically, ADHD, but I don’t jive with putting a label on it.”
I feel him. “We put labels on everyone. Greeks, jocks, nerds—it’s how our society works. People need a name to understand it. I’m not saying it’s right, just human nature. It’s a fascinating topic.”
He nods and leans in. “Right. It’s just a trait I come with, not a disability. Got diagnosed in third grade when I wandered out of the classroom and the teacher found me in the gym shooting hoops.” He grimaces. “I spent most of middle school in the principal’s office. My meds didn’t work, and it wasn’t until I put a football in my hand that I felt right.”
Dillon leans over. “He’s a kickass football player with the reflexes of a cat. He’s a dynamo.”
Blaze smirks. “He’s my biggest supporter, obviously.”
DING!
We stop talking as a bell rings, something similar to those little metal ones used at old hotels.
Dr. Cartwright walks out from the office door at the front of the room. An older man with a shock of wiry gray hair and a barrel chest, he looks a little intimidating.
“Ladies and gentlemen, get settled. Class has officially started, and that was your first prompt. From now on in this class, you will hear that bell randomly. When you do, I want you to write down exactly what you were thinking at that moment. Whether you are intently concentrating on my lecture or thinking about clipping your toenails, I want the truth. I will be using this information for a study you all agreed to participate in by walking through those doors.”
Everyone dutifully pulls out a piece of paper and starts to write down some comments. I was thinking about Blaze when the bell sounded. Not fair; I didn’t know the thought police would be listening this morning.
I write down Reflexes of a cat.
Without being too obvious, I sneak a look at Blaze’s paper. Must pass this class.
“Also, write on your piece of paper your major and the number on your seat, but not your name. This will keep your responses confidential while allowing us to correlate all of the data to make it useful. I’m working on a new study, and you’re the mice in the maze. Also, I hope you enjoy the seat you are in, because it’s your seat for the entire term. To gather good data, I need it to be consistent.”
“I guess that makes us psych buddies,” Blaze says with a slight grin, nudging my shoulder with his. It’s just a light touch, but the pressure sparks fire straight to my core.
Down libido. I own you—you don’t own me.
“Just as long as you know we are no longer fuck buddies,” I say.
He frowns.
DING!
Great. I look down at my paper and decide it’s time to start not caring about this shit.
I write Fuck buddies on my paper and show him. What is wrong with me?
I glance over and notice Blaze has written Not fuck buddies.
“This semester we are going to focus on what people think, how they think, and why they think. There’s nothing off limits in this class, including speech. We want to understand why words have meaning and power, so we will let that shit fly. This will include taboo words associated with sex and anatomy. We do this to understand our world and to make it better, not to belittle or put anyone down. If this bothers you, feel free to leave now. I have special permission to allow anyone to drop the class without explanation this week. But, if you stick it out past Friday’s lecture, you are locked in, and I expect everyone’s honest and thoughtful participation in class discussion as well as the concentration study we will be conducting. Our goal is to understand society and, more importantly, each other.”
There is an awkward silence as Professor Cartwright surveys the room. No one moves.
“I don’t see anyone heading for the door. Good, now, let’s talk about menstruation and why this topic bothers some people. Show of hands, how many men in the room have ever bought feminine products?”
The room is as quiet as a church, and a slow laugh comes from the professor.
He points his finger at all of us. “The guys are lying, and we can’t have that. I know there are some real men in here who’ve run errands for a mom or a sister or a girlfriend. Don’t be shy. Let’s discuss.”
He proceeds to ask people to offer their opinions on why we should or shouldn’t be able to talk openly about these topics.
DING!
Real men buy tampons. Lord knows my two older brothers were all up in my business and took care of anything I ever needed growing up.
I smile down at my paper, drawn into the lesson—a great distraction from the hotness next to me.
Logical, human brain: one point. Illogical, sex-starved, lizard brain: zero.
Easing over a hair, I try to see what he wrote. Suck on a peppermint and jack off.
I bite my lip. WTH. My shoulders shake as I try to not laugh.
“Stop peeking. This is personal,” he whispers out of the corner of his mouth.
“Jacking off usually is,” I whisper back, holding my head down so the professor doesn’t notice. “No wonder you like Christmas. How many peppermints does it take to get you there?”
I sneak a look at him when he doesn’t respond. His eyes meet mine, glinting with laughter. “There’s the sassy girl I know. Smartass.”
The professor continues and I try to focus, but shit, he’s going to be in this class—right next to me—for the whole semester.
DING!
He’s going to drive me crazy.
He wrote, Where’s that Kama Sutra book? I bet she still has it. Get a copy.
I take a deep breath. This is going to be a long semester.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a piece of Big Red gum, unwrapping the red rectangle, popping it in his mouth, and chewing. How can a dude look hot chewing on a stupid piece of gum? I don’t have an answer for that, but of course he manages to pull it off.
I can’t help but see that his fingers play with the foil the gum came in. He presses it flat on the desk and runs his hands across it. Slow and easy, straightening out the lines until it’s smooth as paper. Then he picks it up, folds it, kisses it, and tucks it back in his pocket.
How…strange.
Then I remember.
My heart stops for a second before stuttering back to life.
That gum.
That wrapper.
The words I wrote—
Tears—shit—tears threaten, and I blink them away and clench my fists. Don’t, Charisma. Don’t remember.
DING!
Big Red, I write.
This time I hide my paper, and he does too, cupping his big palm over it. Guards are up. I know mine is, and I can feel his emanating from him like a force field. He doesn’t want me to read what he wrote, and frankly, I’m terrified to know what he remembers.
Did he get the note I left on his door the night he dumped me? It was after three in the morning and dark out, and his place was dead silent.
Did it blow away in the wind?
It totally blew away. It did. Must have. It was a windy evening and his door is in an alcove that invites the air—or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself these past three months.
I bite my lip again. Dear God, Please let him not have seen what I wrote in a drunken-crying-my-eyes-out-weak moment.
DING!
He saw my note. I feel it in m
y bones. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He knows I begged him back.
I glance over at him, but he’s bent over now, clearly being secretive.
Somehow, I manage to push him out of my head and focus. The lecture continues for the next hour with several more dings.
Dr. Cartwright says, “Before we end class, I would like to hear a few of the random thoughts you recorded. We need honesty if we are going to better understand each other, so I would appreciate your cooperation. Here in the front row, please share your third response.”
The girl in question is next to Dillon and crosses her arms like she’s trying to protect herself as she blushes.
“Please, you’re amongst friends. There is nothing you can say that will shock or embarrass any of us.”
“Well, the third thing I wrote down was I need to pee.”
Chuckles drift across the lecture room.
Dr. Cartwright grins. “Good, good. Thank you for being honest. That is surprisingly common when we do this exercise. Now, how many others wrote that down at some point this morning?”
Around twenty students raise their hands, including Dillon. Blaze and I both give him a look, and he just shrugs. “I had a huge protein drink right before class.”
Professor Cartwright continues, “My suggestion to you all is to try to take care of pissing before class so we can better focus. Okay, now how about a celebrity in our midst. Mr. Townsend, what did you write down as your seventh response?”
He moves around in his seat and gets a hesitant look on his face before he speaks. “Uh, let me see. Seventh response I wrote down: Charisma.”
I blink.
“I appreciate the compliment,” the professor says with a smirk. “I’ve been told I have lots of charm and charisma while I teach. Feel free to elaborate on your responses next time, especially if they are complimentary of me. Let’s get one more. You in the middle…”
I glance over at his paper, and Blaze catches me peeking. He lets me see a few of his responses, but not all of them.
Charisma has been jotted down several times.
I smirk and whisper, “Please.”
“Show me yours?”
I shake my head.
He pulls out that gum from his pocket. “Want a piece?” His gaze holds mine steady, clear and wide and so blue, too damn innocent for my liking. I search his face for answers, trying to determine if he’s dropping a hint about the note, but he gives me nothing.
“No. Thank you.”
He shrugs and keeps his voice low. “Fresh breath and all that. You been hooking up with anyone lately?”
The question comes out of nowhere, and I pause and look over at him, seeing that questioning look in his gaze and the way his hand taps at his leg.
“No,” I murmur, staring down at my notebook.
“Huh. How come?”
“I’m working on it. Got a couple of chess guys calling me.”
He frowns. “Which ones?”
“Why?”
“No reason. Just curious. I haven’t seen you anywhere for three months. Thought maybe you had a guy on the line.”
“And if I did?” I arch my brows. I do have a date planned with Mike soon, but…
His gaze holds mine. “Then he’s lucky. You need a good guy, Charm. It wasn’t me.”
It wasn’t me.
I lick my lips and dart my eyes back to the front of the room.
The professor ends the class, thank goodness. “Please turn in your response notes and remember to sit in the same place on Wednesday. Thank you all.”
“Wanna walk to our next class together?” Blaze asks as we turn our papers in.
“Uh—” I’m surprised. Why does he want to?
“We can talk more,” he adds.
“Um, that’s okay. My next class is clear across campus near the planetarium.”
“Mine too.”
“Really?”
He blushes, the color rising slowly from his neck to his face. “Uh—”
“Blaze!” The girl who gave up her seat for him is back and standing close. She’s got her hand on his shoulder again, only this time it lingers, brushing him off as if he has lint on his shirt. She rambles on about the game and how great he played.
He’s polite with a grin, that usual laidback, Southern charm thing going on, and I mumble a quick goodbye then dart between other students.
Yeah, hanging out with him, even if it is just a walk across campus, isn’t a good idea.
You barely knew him before, and look how he broke you then.
10
I reach the stairwell where she’s headed. “Charisma?”
She freezes when I catch up and touch her shoulder, but she doesn’t jerk away. Progress.
Wait? Do I want progress with her?
She throws her head back in that defiant way of hers, and her dark hair falls over her shoulders, long and thick, the curls soft. Part of me wants to touch them, to wrap my finger around those strands. Her whiskey-colored eyes flash fire at me, and she’s wearing a hole in her bottom lip as she chews on it.
I can’t seem to stop myself from taking the rest of her. I mean, how can I resist? Those curves, the way her…
My hands twitch. Don’t stare at her boobs, moron. Right, right. Charisma’s more than just a girl with a banging body. She’s smart as hell…and on her way to Boston soon.
Yeah.
We’ll be going in different directions after graduation.
Who knows where I’ll be, but it won’t be where she is.
“Can we be friends?” It’s not really what I wanted to say, but it’s what comes out.
She blinks. “Why?”
I adjust the backpack on my shoulders. “Maybe we were just fuck buddies who never talked about real shit before, but it’s a new semester. Maybe we can make a fresh start. Our friends are dating.”
She gets a wary look on her face. “Okay, tell me something about you. Surprise me.”
I rack my brain trying to decide what I can tell her. She probably wants me to say something really intelligent, and while I could do that, what I come up is: “I hate mayonnaise.”
A full smile crosses her face, and I blink at the force of it, the way her plump lips curve up. They’ve always fascinated me, and shit, I know they’re just regular lips, but she—
“Shocking,” she murmurs. “You’re a mayo hater.”
I lean against the wall. Be cool. Be cool. I shrug. “Well, did you know that about me already?”
“Fair enough. Continue. Please elaborate.”
I grin. “Mayo’s disgusting, and people put it in everything—slaw, potato salad, dips, burgers. I’ve thought about starting a club for people to get together online to talk about how much we despise it. Maybe a website called MayoNOnaise.com. Catchy, right?”
Her eyes dance, and it makes me laugh.
“I love mayo,” she says. “You might actually know that if you had taken me out for a sandwich or something.”
“You never asked for a sandwich, but okay, point taken. Let’s go to the student center right now and grab one. I’ll pay and you can have all the mayonnaise. I may make you sit at a table a few feet away though.”
“It’s too early for lunch, and I have a class.”
“Fine, but we’re marking this down: I asked you if you wanted a sandwich. It shall be proclaimed on banners and described in song around the annual Waylon bonfire and the toga party for ages to come. Blaze Townsend asked Charisma Rossi if she wanted to do lunch and she said no. Her loss, really. Blaze is super good company.”
“Now who’s using third person?”
She just shakes her head at me and we walk together out the entrance. It’s freezing. I offer my varsity jacket, and she shakes her head.
Fine, fine. Move slow, Blaze.
“Where you headed?”
She gives me a side-eye. “Class.”
We head down the path, passing several people who call out to me along the way. She makes a left at a fork in the sidewa
lk, and I follow.
“Don’t tell me we have our second class together too,” she says as we pass by a couple of buildings. She darts a look at me.
“You never know.”
She turns right and takes the steps up to the Crest Building, an ancient-looking structure with thick windows and heavy molding around the entrance. I’ve never been inside it, but it looks interesting. Here goes nothing.
We enter a huge, spacious room on the ground floor with not a chair in the place. There are long yoga-looking mats on the floor, and the air has a musty quality to it. It reminds me how nice our gym facility is.
Against the wall is a rack of wooden and metal sticks, and next to it are wire mesh masks hanging from pegs. Ah. I give her a surprised look. I picture Charisma in a white fencing uniform—is that what they call it?—her lush body bouncing around, poking her opponent with a sword. Nice. I could get behind that.
“Fencing? I like your style, city girl.”
She blows at her bangs. “Why do you keep calling me that? I’m not, like, sophisticated.” She does a twirl. “Look at me. I’m in Chucks and leggings.”
“To this Mississippi boy, you are totally sophisticated.”
She pauses, a shuttered expression on her face as she sets her backpack in a cubby. I do the same. I’m all about going with the flow.
“Welcome to class,” states a tall, thin man who’s come out of a side door. In his late forties with a blond man bun, he speaks with a slight Russian accent. He claps his hands fast and does a little dance, one step forward and two steps back, frisky like. “Grab a partner, preferably someone similar in height and wingspan. Take a mat.”
Charisma walks to the other side of the room and stands on a mat. I hang back for a second. Even though I said I had a class so I could walk with her, I don’t, and if I want to leave, now’s the time. I could get in a quick lifting session—
“Charisma, do you have a partner?” The words come from a male.
I Hate You Page 8
