“I dropped off some aptitude tests for Mrs. Woodward to administer after school.” He relieved me of my gym bag as we fell into step together to the parking lot. “I see you decided not to change today like you usually do,” he said, apropos a nothing. “And I was wondering . . . why is that?”
I glanced down at my bare legs and bright sneakers, feeling inexplicably guilty. “I dunno . . . laziness I guess.” I shrugged and tried not to notice Miguel, Ron, and another baller eyeing us as we walked.
“Kate, you are many things”—hand slipping around my shoulder, Pete squeezed me to him—“however, lazy is not one of them.” He let it and me go to switch topics again. “I had a reason for going in a little later this afternoon—I wanted to talk to you in private.”
“Oh.” My voice and temperature rose at the same time. “I—” Cleared my throat. “Don’t really wanna talk about it.” The wound was still too raw and fresh to go poking at.
We’d reached my dusty car now and stood around awkwardly not talking, just kind of staring at the puffy clouds changing shapes then each other. A stray hair escaped my ponytail to float across my face. He reached out to tuck it behind my ear, bringing his sensual mouth in close proximity to mine. I was finding it hard to breathe all of a sudden.
Pete seemed to also be struggling for air because he deep-breathed in through his nose before letting it leak out slowly between his lips. Then he studied me like I was a newly discovered species he couldn’t quite figure out. For someone who wanted to talk, he sure was being awfully quiet. I fervently wished he wasn’t wearing lens that only mirrored back my own eyes.
After a few more moments of standing under his stare and jiggling my key chain, I went with: “I guess I better go pick up Mikey . . .”
He still hadn’t moved his vocal cords, so I made to move forward with my plan, but the dadgum door was glued shut. He watched me struggle for a second before heaving another sigh and moving me aside to wrench it open for me.
“Thanks.” I made a face. “It’s, uh . . . kinda jammed.”
He simply nodded.
Somehow, I didn’t feel released from our odd encounter yet. So I stalled a moment longer, wondering if he’d actually start a real conversation but hoping he wouldn’t if it involved more talk about our mishap of a make-out. He just stared some more until I saw myself flushing. Something was on his mind. I drummed my fingers on top of the car, standing half-in, half-out.
“Okay then . . . I guess I’ll see you at 4:30.” Spinning around to get in, I inadvertently whipped him with my ponytail.
“Hey!” He batted it out of his face.
I whirled back around. “Sorry!”
“It’s fine.” He gave a little laugh. “You know . . . you could probably classify that thing as a weapon.”
“Uh . . . thanks?” I frowned at him.
“No, it’s cute.” He smiled and pushed the stray hair behind my ear again. “Except for the fact that it subtracts a few years from your age.” There was that edge again.
“Well, I feel about seventy-one today,” I said, right on the verge of yawning in his face.
He shook his head at me. “I told you—you gotta take better care of yourself.” He said this in a teasing manner that didn’t sting, and I could tell I was forgiven. It immediately felt like a weight had been lifted, and I was just sighing in relief when he said, “Kate, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but I need to apologize again for today.”
My chest swirled with emotion. “’Snothin’ to apologize for,” I mumbled, moving my eyes to my sneakers.
Pete chucked a hand under my chin. He removed his shades. “As much as I enjoyed kissing you, it was very wrong of me to do so. I’m Andrew’s mentor, and it could be construed as a conflict of interest . . . especially in light of how opposed you seemed to be to the idea of him joining. Having that kind of relationship with you could cloud my judgment, and it’s my duty as his mentor to give him his due diligence”—he batted my ponytail— “and not be swayed by ponytail-wielding vixens.”
Is that why he’s been sighing all afternoon? Does this mean we can no longer spend time together? Isn’t that what I want? A reality check hit my gut. No, no it was not.
I must’ve looked stricken because he quickly said, “But there’s nothing in the rules against us being friends. And I don’t know about you, but I could sure use one right about now.” He flashed me another of his brilliant smiles, and it literally took my breath away.
It wasn’t what my body or my heart wanted to hear, but my head had to admit—it was a good idea. Because he was clouding my judgment. And wasn’t I supposed to keep my friends close, and my enemies closer? . . . Pete just happened to fall into both categories.
Does that make him my frenemy?
He watched the play of emotions on my face. “Whadoyasay, Katie-Kat . . . friends for real?” He offered his hand, and I accepted it.
“Sure.” This time, I was prepared as he pulled me into a hug. He really was a good hugger—none of those Ashley-Leigh face-smashers or one-armed things. He hugged with his whole body, but not in a lascivious way (unfortunately).
He threw his aviators back on and held up his palm. I slapped him five, and he held on to my hand, intertwining our fingers before letting go. “Okay . . . I’ll see ya later then, buddy.”
“After while, pal,” I fired back.
He turned around and shot me with his finger triggers, and another spectacular smile, before climbing into his monster truck and driving off.
After Pete left to go do his “due diligence,” I collapsed in my car awhile, using the steering wheel as a pillow. Gah. I was so tired. My body was tired, my brain was tired, my eyes were tired. I closed them for a second, thinking of everything. The problem was, I quite simply wanted to believe in a world where Pete Davenport was as good as he was good-looking, and more interested in me than procuring my gifted brother for his elite academy. I sighed. I sure needed some clarity. So I started up the car, determined to go on a fact-finding mission this afternoon.
I picked Mikey up from preschool, holding my breath that Mrs. Reyes wouldn’t need to pull me aside again. She simply smiled and nodded to me from the playground. Nothing to report in regards to Michael Connelly was a good thing. I exhaled and squished his palm in mine, praising him lavishly. “Come on, baby bro, let’s go shoppin’.”
We skipped to the car with Mikey protesting indignantly at being referred to as a baby. Three stop signs, two stoplights, and a giant pothole later, and we were parked outside the always-busy Wal-Mart. I was in the middle of counting our money when Mikey broke my concentration.
“Hey Kadee, why aren’t you wearwing your gwasses today?”
“Uh . . . I broke them today at the park, honey.”
“Did you fall off the merry-go-round?” Mikey wondered.
I snorted. “You could say that.”
“Huh?”
That’s just what I was thinking. I recounted the money in my wallet. Weird . . . it had grown by twenty bucks. When you were as poor as us, you knew right down to the last nickel how much money you had on you at any given time.
“I wike you bettuh without your gwasses on anyway,” Mikey declared. “You wook even pwettiuh.”