“OhmiGod!” Madison squealed. “Do you think he’s gonna ask you to homecoming?”
Ashley gave a high-pitched giggle. “I dunno cause the bell rang, and he had to get to class. But he said he’d tell me after school today.” She paused to let that sink in. “Sounded mysterious . . . that’s just like him you know.”
Couldn’t help myself, I snorted.
She looked down sharply. “Bitter much?”
“Sounds like a straight up blow off to me,” I shot back, then ignored her to focus my attention on what plans Pete might be referring to. I couldn’t fathom him going to our ridiculous homecoming at all, much less with the even more ridiculous Ashley-Leigh as his date.
Miguel slipped in after the bell, and we shared an eye-roll at Ashley-Leigh’s expense. He leaned across the aisle. “Hey, I wanted to ask you, are you actually going to homecoming with the Ron Man? Cuz that’s the word on the street.”
I saw Ashley’s back stiffen and couldn’t resist a dig. “He asked my father’s permission to take me, but I’m workin’ Friday night,” I said, giving Ron an out.
“Oh.” Miguel’s face relaxed. “That’s good. Cuz I might’ve had to go along as your chaperone.”
“Don’t you mean you and Jenn might’ve had to go along as my chaperones? I think that’s what they refer to as a double date.” I smiled to take the sting out.
Miguel smiled sheepishly. “Right.”
Class passed swiftly. I was in an especially good mood because I didn’t purposefully miss any answers on the quiz today. It felt good. More than good—it felt right. I headed out the door with Miguel, who was chatting a mile a minute about the subject of the week. He promised to stop by the diner to cheer me up after the game, since I was stuck working. A pretend smile lifted my lips, but I wasn’t too thrilled about a pack of crazed classmates, wearing ill-fitting suits and dresses with enormous mums pinned to them, sitting in my station feeling sorry for me. Not exactly a cheerer-upper, but I didn’t say so.
“I’m lovin’ the boots, by the way!” He smiled at me a little too long before disappearing into the crowd. The smile slowly faded from my face. I really liked Miguel but would have to do something about him. Sooner rather than later.
After a quiet lunch of hiding out and finishing my Pre Cal homework, I left the confines of the library and stepped outside for the first time since morning. The sky was a wide expanse of periwinkle blue, with a few wispy clouds dispersing into thin streaks with the blinding sun. As if on a whim, the wind picked up, vigorously blowing the new season up my tied shirt. I shivered and threw my arms around my waist.
I decided I’d tried about a day and a half too late for this look and wished fervently for one of my shapeless sweaters as I leaned into the wind. A group of senior guys, lounging over the hood of their Tundra, began cat calling. I waved back shyly but continued forward with wolf-whistles following my trail. I smug-smiled to myself—looked like my jeans were doing their job.
Predictably, I was the first one in class so I marched right up to Mr. Sanchez to plead my case. And I only felt a twinge of guilt telling him I got contacts. After all, hadn’t I been lying about needing glasses all along? He easily agreed to move me back to my original seat. I beamed and headed for the door with a cheerful, “Thanks, Mr. Sanchez!”
“De nada.” Mr. Sanchez’s smile was a little too enthusiastic for a teacher.
Oh Gah! I scurried out the door, cringing at the thought of my teacher checking out my assets. I still wasn’t accustomed to wearing pants to school, much less butt-hugging jeans that clung to my legs like second skin. Apparently, more than just Pete liked the “country Kate look.” This morning one of the most popular senior boys said something that made me roll my eyes and blush at the same time: I hate seeing you go . . . but I love watching you leave. Really—so cheesy. Still, it brought a smile to my face, because it had been as easy as walking by. Who knew catching boys’ attention could be so easy? But I wasn’t fishing for just any ole big fish in our small pond. I was hoping to attract an angelfish . . . from somewhere beyond the sea.
Firmly holed up in the bathroom till class, I made use of my time smoothing down my hair with my slick palms. I took another minute to self-evaluate and decided to add some lip gloss and mascara to my shopping list this afternoon to add more oomph to my look. I still eschewed makeup as a whole; couldn’t stand the clogging feel of it on my skin. When Ashley-Leigh used to use me as her life-sized Barbie, I would run to wash off all her efforts the second she let me go. Mama always referred to these sessions as “gilding the lily.” I sighed, thinking: como cambio el mundo—how times change. I wished we could still be friends because I really missed her mom and female camaraderie.
But I was on a whole different wavelength now.
The warning bell rang. So with a final swipe of vanilla lip balm, I headed out, not wanting to be tardy, just late enough that Molly Donaldson already had a chance to move seats. I saw her sitting up front and center in my newly vacated seat. It was hard to tell who was scowling more: her, Miguel, or Ashley. Definitely Ashley-Leigh. I stifled a smirk because Miguel turned around to give me a disapproving grimace. A helpless shrug was my only stab at commiseration before slipping into my seat in front of Pete. I gave him my Mona Lisa, not exactly sure where we stood with each other. He instantly shot back with the kind of primal smile that should be tamed before it turned indecent. Blood swarmed to my face, shot down my neckline . . . and headed south.
Gah! Try to at least act cool, Kate.
I forced my body into stillness, but it took roll call and the bell-ringer just to get my heartbeat regulated. The expectation was killing me. Heaving a sigh, I flipped back some hair along my neckline and attempted to focus on the Spanish film we were watching today. A beat later, soft movement rippled down the length of my hair—Pete’s finger parting the curtain and trailing along the back of my neck. A pleasurable, almost unbearable chill swept down my spine. I whipped around, my eyes flashing to his dark ones.
Slowly, one cheek lifted in that way it did when he was aroused to humor. “Sorry,” he whispered, “I was just removing a hay seed from your hair.”
I narrowed my eyes, trying but epically failing, to keep a smile off my face. “Ha-ha, very funny. Aren’t you supposed to not be speakin’ to me?” I followed that bit of maturity up by turning around and grinning like an idiot.
“Fine. I won’t talk then,” he mouthed into my ear, then proceeded to flick my hair with his pencil every few seconds, presumably just to annoy me (although it was having the opposite effect).
Playing hard to get, I refused to turn around. A minute later something crackly poked my back. I sighed exaggeratedly, waited a beat, then opened the note with Ashley-Leigh shooting sidelong daggers at me.
Does this mean you’re talking to me now?
I scribbled back a brief sí, and tossed it back over my shoulder. Warm air stirred the back of my hair as he chuckled quietly. I noticed we were on the receiving end of several curious glances—guess it was pretty hard not to attract attention with a mile-wide smile on your lips. I was pretending to take notes when I felt paper brush the forbidden half-inch of exposed skin on my waist. My eyes cut to Mr. Sanchez, who had paused the TV to point out the vosotros form was used in Spain but not in Mexico. Apparently, we were visiting Barcelona today, but I had no idea because I was over the moon. Feigning impatience, I unfolded the note.