I was getting sucked into the guy’s vortex of charisma. I mean . . . he obviously had some kind of hidden agenda, and my gut told me there was something fishy about this transfer-mentoring program. And why all the secrecy surrounding the school? It was downright scary how little we actually knew about the boarding school—all the way out in California—that Andrew might be attending in just four short months.
My stomach clenched; I wasn’t even sure I could eat today. Maybe he wouldn’t show up? I mean, I didn’t recall even telling him what class I have third-hour, so how’s he gonna find me? Something told me that if Pete Davenport wanted something, he’d get it. An image of Andrew flashed in my mind. We’ll see about that.
A plan. That’s what I needed, “Operation Derail.” Phase One: redouble my efforts to avoid Pete. Phase Two: have Andrew recommit to not performing well on his tests (easier said than done for an overachiever like my brother). Also, there was the little problem of him being smitten with his “mentor.” Andrew dropped “so cool” about a half-dozen times during the ride home alone, followed by a “I might want to go to boarding school” in the brief exchange we had before bed. After I almost went into cardiac arrest, he quickly changed his tune, but you could tell it was only to appease me.
Daddy, of course, was pleased as punch by the glowing report. He shot me a gloating look that made me start itching for a pie. Arrgh! It all made me want to punch something—maybe even a very good-looking, smug cadet.
The morning rolled by quickly and predictably. Before I knew it third-hour bell rang, signaling the last class that stood between me and my lunch date. Between the clenching and the butterflies, I could barely even sit upright. Miguel and Ashley-Leigh slid into the same seats as yesterday, both staring expectantly at me while I studiously perused the contents of my notebook. I was actually going over a list of questions I had for Pete regarding his school, in case he miraculously showed up.
Midway through class, Mrs. Jenkins told us to get together in groups of twos or threes to discuss the Walt Whitman poem we’d just read. Uh-oh. I was barely paying attention, so probably couldn’t contribute much more than a yawn.
Miguel leaned over. “Wanna partner up?”
“Sure.” I smiled, and we lifted and turned our desks to face each other the same time Ashley-Leigh bumped hers up against the side of mine.
“Uh!” she huffed dramatically, pretending not to see one of her “besties” waving her down in the middle of the room. “What the hell, Miguel?”
“You snooze, you lose,” he replied calmly.
“You know I always partner up with Katie.”
Miguel and I exchanged looks. “Since when?”
“Since, like, forever,” she insisted.
“Why don’t you go partner up with BFF over there?” Miguel nodded toward Madison, who was still frantically waving like an aircraft was heading in the wrong direction.
“Why don’t you?” she replied churlishly. “. . .‘Sides, Katie’s my real BFF.”
Miguel started to argue, but I interrupted quickly, having lots of experience refereeing squabbling children. “We can all partner up,” I said diplomatically. “Mrs. Jenkins said groups of two or three.”
Ashley-Leigh poked her tongue out at Miguel before plopping into her seat. He glowered back at her. I inwardly smiled. This is working out great. They both obviously wanted to ask me something but neither one wanted to do it in the presence of the other . . . I couldn’t have planned this better.
Unfortunately (or fortunately), the hour had almost run its course. We were all busy cramming the desks back into rows and packing to leave when I caught Ashley-Leigh eyeing my outfit. I did a swift one-eighty to talk to Miguel, who caught me off guard by asking what I was doing for lunch. I stammered my way through some loose interpretation of already having plans.
“Isn’t that, like, the outfit you wore Saturday night for your birthday?” Ashley-Leigh interrupted, tact not being her strong suit. I confirmed that it was and caught myself squirming under her scrutiny. She narrowed her eyes at me. “Why are you so dressed up today?”
“Why you always gotta be so nosey?” Miguel answered for me. “Don’t listen to her, Katie. I think you look real pretty today.”
“Thanks, Miguel.” I rummaged around in my backpack, but before I could hide my face in there, Ashley-Leigh peeled it away from my hands.
“So are you gonna hang with us today at lunch?” she demanded.
“She’s already got plans.” Miguel plucked my backpack from Ashley-Leigh and handed it back to me. “Plans that don’t include you. Right, Katie?”
“Uh . . .” Thankfully the bell rang and everyone began pooling to the door. “Saved by the bell” may never have been a more apt expression. My imminent lunch plans flew a fresh migration of butterflies to my stomach. It felt a lot like I was stepping from behind the velvet curtain and into the spotlight—naked. I sank back to my desk to get my bearings.
“You comin’?” Miguel called, wading against the current to wait for me.
“You go ahead, Miguel . . . I want to, ah, ask Mrs. Jenkins somethin’. I’ll see you in Spanish.”
“Okey-dokey. Hasta luego!” With a wave, he allowed himself to be drained out the door with the rest of the school.
I lingered a moment longer, lubing my lips and brushing out my hair. (I hated myself so much then, you don’t even know.) Mrs. Jenkins eyed me inquiringly. I gave her an apologetic smile, shrugged my backpack on, and headed the short distance to the door, hoping the crowds had sufficiently thinned because I was feeling sorta like the girl who was about to be stood up . . . and didn’t want a crowd of witnesses.
But I needn’t have worried because I saw him almost immediately (he was kind of hard to miss). Everyone within a hundred-foot radius was staring at him, for one thing. For another, he was absolutely breathtakingly gorgeous. My heart did an immediate cannonball to my stomach. Breathe.
Leaning casually—in vintage T-shirt and jeans—across the hallway, he was occupying his time pecking on his phone. As if sensing I was staring at him, he looked up and broke into a delighted smile so dazzling, it literally stunned me. I hovered in the doorway, watching Pete shrug off the wall and stride toward me. He slipped his phone into his back pocket and politely brushed someone off, who had finally worked up enough nerve to talk to him. He did this while keeping his eyes on mine the whole time. I swallowed, the butterflies swarming like bees. As he walked, he grinned over at me like he was coming to collect a winning lotto ticket. If he was acting (which I believed he was), he could make a fortune selling refrigerators to Eskimos.
It took me a moment to get my feet to moving again, and we finally met somewhere in the middle of the hall, standing face-to-chest, because he was more than a head taller than me. We just stood there for a moment, absorbing each other’s chemistry, until I finally tipped my head up to look at him.
He was the first to break the silence: “Whew! You had me worried there for a couple of seconds—thought you were going to stand me up.”
I laughed out loud. I doubted that anyone had ever or would ever stand him up. “Thought about hidin’,” I admitted, a little sheepishly.