“C’mon where?” I glance at the front door. Through the clear glass I can see that the parking lot is empty, Dean’s motorcycle the only vehicle in sight. Yes, Dean drives a motorcycle, because of course he does. The chalkboard out front reads:
DAD, WHAT’S A VIDEO?
I sigh and put down the pastry I’m holding, abandoning Sugar Mountain to follow him into the break room. There’s an old couch against one wall that probably has things growing in it, and across from that, a small TV. The walls are covered in more old movie posters, which I kind of love, and in the corner there’s a life-sized cutout of Legolas from The Lord of the Rings, which has probably been there for years. I guess somebody put a Santa hat on his head around Christmas and it’s still there.
Dean is inserting Mayhem in the Monastery into the DVD player.
“We can’t watch now.” I pause halfway through the door. “What if we have customers?”
“We never have customers,” he says dryly. The menu pops up and scary, dramatic violin music fills the room.
“We do have customers,” I protest weakly. “That woman came in earlier for a coffee. And what about that vampire guy?”
The truth is, I don’t want to sit next to Dean on the small couch almost as badly as I do want to sit next to him. Sitting next to him means not knowing where to put my hands and having to keep my body rigid, because if I relax, what if I lean toward him and our shoulders touch? He probably wouldn’t want our shoulders to touch because he’s used to his shoulder touching prettier, older girls—sophisticated college girls who study film and smoke clove cigarettes and talk about how art makes them feel.
“There’s a bell over the door,” he says. “Remember? If anyone comes in we can go back up front.” I know he’s right. In the three weeks I’ve been here, we’ve had more time alone than we’ve had with customers—it’s just we usually don’t spend it actually hanging out. This is the first time he’s paid this much attention to me, and I am practically glowing. He presses PLAY on the remote. “It’ll be fine. I promise.” There he goes again with the promises.
“Mean it?” I ask.
“Every time.”
He flops down on the couch and I sit hesitantly next to him. The screen goes dark, then opens on a scene of a mountain, swirling fog licking the top of the peak. A woman’s scream fills the room and the title card flips into view: Mayhem in the Monastery.
Dean’s leg is relaxed, his knee leaning toward mine. He shifts and the edge of his knee makes contact. I can’t tell if it’s on purpose. The touch is so light he may not have even noticed, though to me, the spot is burning, spreading heat up my leg and through my body, warming my chest and cheeks.
I can’t focus on what’s happening on the screen. His presence is too distracting. Why did he pull me back here? Why is he suddenly paying me this attention? Is it just because he wants to watch a stupid movie? Is it because he’s bored? Or did he want to sit here next to me, want to let his knee touch mine? I can hear my breath, distractingly loud in my ears, so I close my mouth and try to breathe from my nose, but that only makes me dizzy.
“What do you think?” He turns to me, shifting so his knee loses contact. I feel a rush of relief and suddenly I can breathe again.
“I can’t tell if you actually like this movie or if it’s a joke.”
“But you look scared,” he says. “You’re so tense you’re practically running from the room.”
“I’m not scared!”
“It’s okay if you’re scared. The nuns are very scary.” And then he reaches over and takes my hand, squeezing it gently in his.
I’ve held hands before, but not like this. His hands are rough and slightly calloused, but I don’t mind. His fingers are dancing in mine, a light feathery touch. I let them trace the center of my palm, then move up my wrist. They flutter on the sensitive skin there, then move back down as he takes a light hold onto each of my fingers, playing with them one by one.
As we let our hands slide along each other, my breath catches in my throat. I want to speak, but I don’t know what to say or how to say it. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to speak again. All I can focus on is the feel of his skin on mine and the roaring rush of blood in my ears as the world fades away to just soft, moving hands.
The little bell jingles at the front of the store and I jump, the bright light of the break room crashing back into focus. I blink at the screen as a woman in a nun’s habit runs screaming through a dark forest, the exaggerated image so out of place with my mood. Dean pulls back his hand and picks up the remote, pausing the movie.
“Duty calls.”
“Right.”
He stands up and walks toward the door. “I can get it if you want to keep watching. There’s a really good part coming up.”
“You don’t think it’s Mr. Roth?” I feel disoriented, like I’ve woken up from a nap.
“Nope, older lady. She’s seriously eyeing your tower of pastries.”
“Don’t let her eat my mountain!”
“I’m on it. Keep watching. There’s a scene coming up where a zombie gets his head cut off by a shovel. Sorry. Spoiler alert.”
“Sounds lovely.”
He moves to walk back into the store, but then pauses and turns back to me. “I’m glad you’re into this kind of stuff.” He motions toward the TV. “Sarah, who used to work here, only wanted to watch, like, really basic movies. I could never get her to watch anything weird. You’re pretty cool.”
He grins and then leaves me alone in the break room. His words flow through me like warm light.
TEN
DANIELLE OLIVER SUCKS IN BED ;)
DANIELLE FOUND THE note taped to her locker Friday morning, right after first period. Now it’s laid out in front of us on her bedroom rug and we’re gathered around it, sprawled out on the floor. It’s early on a Saturday night and we’re planning on sleeping over, already in our sweats and surrounded by boxes of Chinese takeout (a risky order from Chinese Food Restaurant).
“It’s actually kind of pathetic,” Danielle says. “Like, if someone has a problem with me, they should say it to my face.” She picks up the note and rips it cleanly in two, throwing the severed pieces into the trash. “Whoever wrote this is a fucking coward.” She scoops up a piece of broccoli with her chopsticks.
“Well, maybe they’re jealous,” Ava says. She pulls a box of nail polish out from under Danielle’s bed and begins rummaging through it. “Maybe it’s someone who loves Chase and she’s mad you got there first. Now that you’ve slept with him, nobody else is going to measure up.”