“Fucking asshole,” Charlotte blurted.
Jack’s attention whipped her way. Her bag and books had toppled, while one of the football guys bounded in the other direction, probably after knocking into her. She mumbled under her breath and bent to gather her things. Jack should have left. He should have kept his head down, his feet moving, his mind on hairy moles and halitosis. But his granddad always told him to treat girls nice, to help when they were in trouble.
He told Marco he’d meet him in class, then hurried to Charlotte’s side and grabbed her bag. He held it out for her to fill, but couldn’t meet her Cinderella eyes.
“Thanks,” she said.
He nodded.
“No, really.” She placed her hand on his wrist, and holy fucking magnetic field. The situation in his jeans became a problem. A very big problem. He stayed crouched. She kept her hand on his arm. “Seriously, Maxwell. It was nice of you to help.”
She’d never said his name before, even if she hadn’t used his preferred name. He wasn’t even sure she’d known he existed. Stomach swooping like an X-wing fighter, he chanced a glance up. “Sorry.” One word was easier than two.
“Why are you sorry? That prick”—she nodded down the hall—“is the one with shoulders too big for his body. You’re the one who stopped to help.”
He half-smiled, hiding his braces best he could, and silently thanked his granddad for his top-notch advice. They packed the rest of her things, hands brushing a few times. He’d never felt anything so soft. When they were done, she stood, and he was forced to do the same, with more difficulty. He maneuvered his bag in front of his groin.
“So,” she said.
He offered a tight-lipped smile.
“You don’t talk much.”
He shook his head.
“Is it the stutter?”
There was only so long he could play the silent card. Sighing, he said, “Yeah.”
Charlotte’s big eyes went soft. “I had a lisp as a kid. Not as bad as your stutter, but it was embarrassing. Kids made fun of me.”
“I w-w-wouldn’t have.” He wished he’d known her then, but she’d moved here a couple of years ago. Swept in with her red-apple cheeks and Cinderella eyes, upending his life without even knowing it.
“Thing is,” she said, “I still talked. I didn’t let it stop me.”
Because you’re nice and beautiful and your hair looks like a bed of sunshine.
The hall emptied out. She sassed out her hip and raised an eyebrow.
He diverted his eyes to the ground. “The guys are d-d-dicks. And you can c-c-call me Jack.”
“Okay, Jack. They can be douches, but they’re not all bad. And they’re not here now.”
No, they weren’t. The hall was almost empty. Jack should head to math. He’d never skipped a class before. He didn’t want to miss today’s geometry lesson, but he was standing in a candy hallway with a sunshine girl, who wasn’t cough-shaming him.
Charlotte tapped her heels, then her toes, doing an impromptu dance. “I took tap classes until it wasn’t cool anymore, but I loved it.”
“You’re good.”
“Whatever. I’m fine. Now tell me one thing about yourself, Jack David.” He opened his mouth, but she held up her hand. “And you have to use actual sentences. I won’t tease you.”
Five minutes ago he would have given his model airplane collection to get Charlotte alone, be allowed to watch her pink lips form her consonants and vowels. Now he wanted to disappear. He eyed the fire alarm. Could he pull it without her knowing?
“Times a tickin’, Jack. Tell me something. Ask me a question. I’m not moving ’til you do.”
Sweat slicked his armpits. The fluorescent lights felt like blasts of heat radiation. Why did she even care? She’d never said a word to him, let alone waved hello. Yet here she was, wide stance, arms crossed, staring him down.
His eyes flicked to the fire alarm again, to the sheet tacked beside it. A promotion for the dance, which was a week and a half away. They planned to play old fifties tunes at it, the type of music Jack loved. Elvis Presley. The Everly Brothers. Dean Martin. He liked dancing, too, moving and singing, his body and tongue loosened by the beats. He’d rather swing Charlotte around the gymnasium than string together three words for her.
She waved in front of his face. “I’ve heard you talk, Jack. Just ask me a stupid question.”
A door slammed shut. His saliva was practically glue. When she huffed and moved to leave, he blurted, “Will you go to the d-d-dance with me?”
Her mouth dropped open. He almost reached for that damn alarm. Go to the dance with him? He couldn’t look at her without his dick hitting warp speed. Dance with her? Yeah, right. Not like she’d say yes anyway. All he’d done was invite ridicule and rejection when she was just being nice.
“Sorry. Forget it.” He turned, bag still guarding his crotch, and hurried toward the stairwell, needing to get away and inhale fresh air. He’d skip math after all. Get notes from Marco. He leaned his shoulder into the door, gave it shove.
A quiet “Yes” stopped him cold.
He glanced back. Charlotte hadn’t moved. She chewed her lip and bounced her knee and rolled her eyes. “Yes,” she said louder. “I’ll go with you. It’ll be fun. But don’t wear that preppy stuff. It does you no favors.”
She strutted the opposite way, like she hadn’t just changed his life. Like she hadn’t elated and terrified him with equal measure. Jack was taking Charlotte Aaron to the Candyland dance. Alone. Just her and him. He would also never wear his khaki pants, loafers, and collared T-shirt again.
It wasn’t just his clothes that changed that day. Everything changed.
For the next week and half Jack David was cool. The D Squad invited him to sit with them at lunch. No one teased his stutter or farted on his face. The cough-shaming ceased. Charlotte was tense around him and seemed kind of down. Post-dance-date-acceptance regret, likely. Jack tried to care. He tried to care when he ditched Marco on the weekend, choosing to sit in a parked car with the D Squad instead, hacking as they prodded him to smoke. He tried not to care when Darrin hip-checked Marco into the lockers. Marco’s books fell. The Squad laughed. Jack forced a chuckle while Marco shook his head.
Stickiness coated his insides at Marco’s disappointment, but it seeped out when Darrin pounded Jack’s back. He was accepted. Cool. This is what it feels like. One day a loser, the next he was in. He should have known something was off. Basic instincts—self-preservation—should have kicked in. He was too high on acceptance to care.
So when he was at the dance—the corners of his lips stained red from the punch, slacks and button-down on instead of khakis and a Polo shirt—and Charlotte asked him to go for a walk, he said yes. They had danced a bit. His tongue had somewhat obeyed him, his stutter less severe as he’d relaxed. He wanted to walk with Charlotte and be alone with her and kiss her. But the second they left the gym, Elvis’s “The Wonder of You” fading as they walked farther away, the obeying ceased. His braces felt more cumbersome than usual, his saliva nonexistent. His vital organs all pumped too fast.
“Let’s go to the bathroom.” She didn’t look at him. Just kept walking.