Authors: Jennifer Echols
I didn’t need to teach Brody anything. As we kissed, his hand crept across my waist and circled my hip like he wanted to hold me steady forever. When I took a turn at kissing along his jawline, he lifted his head to give me better access to his neck, then gasped as if he’d never felt so good. This couldn’t be true, but he made me feel like I was giving him the sexy experience of a lifetime.
I kept expecting him to touch my breast, which made
me nervous with my mom around. But he didn’t try—maybe for the same reason. After we’d made out for a good half hour, though, I wanted something more. I slipped my hands underneath his shirt. That’s when he slid his hands under my shirt and fingered the hook of my bra.
But in the end, he decided against unhooking it. He broke our kiss and backed a few inches away from me, panting. Between breaths, he grinned at me and said, “You have to know what you can get away with.”
“Yeah.” I smiled, showing him I understood. But I had something more I needed to say to him, something I was afraid I would regret. “I . . . ,” I said, and sighed. I couldn’t catch my breath. “Um . . .”
Kennedy would have interrupted by now, asking me if I spoke English. Brody only raised his eyebrows and watched my mouth like I was beautiful.
“I . . . don’t want to do this anymore,” I said in a rush. “I don’t like sneaking around, cheating.”
He chuckled. “Yes you do.”
He must have been referring to the head rush I got every time he came anywhere near me. Was I that obvious? I clarified, “It’s not right.”
“Well, why don’t you break up with Kennedy, then?” he asked. “I’ve been waiting for you to do that.”
“Me!” I exclaimed. “Why don’t you break up with Grace?”
“I’m not
with
Grace,” he said. “I told you, she spent half of Monday with that jerk from Florida State.”
“But when she came back,” I pointed out, “you sandwiched her between your legs and massaged her shoulders.”
He pursed his lips and shook his head. This was the first time since Ms. Patel’s homeroom that I’d seen his green eyes look angry. “I did it because
you
were in the ocean with Kennedy—
right
after we made out in the pavilion. Like that meant nothing to you. Like you didn’t care.”
“Brody!” I said, exasperated. “I stayed out there with Kennedy because the second Grace came back from getting drunk with those college dudes, you had your hand on her ass.”
He tilted his head to one side, looking genuinely perplexed. “I had my hand on her ass?”
“Yes!”
“I don’t even remember that, Harper. I was probably just holding her up because she was falling-down drunk.”
“How can you not remember putting your hand on a girl’s ass?” I insisted.
“I dated her on and off all summer. I’m sure I’ve put my hand on her ass plenty of times. This one instance doesn’t stand out.”
“I’ve dated Kennedy for six weeks and he’s
never
put his hand on my ass.”
“Kennedy is from another planet. That’s my only explanation for why he doesn’t see you’re hot.”
I frowned hard. When Mom caught me making that face, she warned me, only half-jokingly, that I’d better lighten up or I’d get wrinkles. I smoothed my brow and relaxed my jaw, then sighed. “You know I don’t have a lot of experience with this, Brody. If you’re lying to me, I wouldn’t get it.”
“You think I’d mislead you for fun?”
“For a little thrill, yeah.”
He gave me a slow, clear-eyed, disappointed look.
Then he picked up my hand and placed it on his shirt. His heart raced under my fingertips.
“That could be excitement from misleading you,” he acknowledged. “Or, just possibly, you turn me on.” He held my gaze as he leaned toward me.
I met him more than halfway. I kissed him. He uttered a soft groan and put his hands in my hair. His mouth was soft and warm and sweet. My whole body glowed so brightly that I decided Kaye and Tia had sold this making-out business a little short. It wasn’t just the addictive physical sensations, but also something that shifted inside me, in my heart.
He let me go, panting again. He rubbed his rough thumb back and forth across my bottom lip. “My God, Harper.”
“I’ll break up with Kennedy at school tomorrow,” I said hoarsely.
“Do you want me to be there?” Brody asked.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Kennedy’s never been into me. I doubt he’ll mind. He’ll probably feel relieved.”
“I seriously doubt that.” With a final sigh, Brody said, “I’d better go. Calculus calls, and if I’m out too late, my mom will call too.”
I scooted off the bed, then held out both hands to help him off—which was a joke. He probably weighed almost twice as much as me. I led him by the hand through the house and out to his truck behind the B & B.
“Now that I think about it,” I said, “how’d you know I live in the house out back instead of the big Victorian?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I knocked at the B & B first. One of your guests came down in a bathrobe and told me where you live.”
“Great,” I said. “I’ll hear about how cute you are at the guests’ breakfast tomorrow.”
“Aw, shucks.” He laughed. “Speaking of tomorrow, will you come with me to Quarterback Club for dinner? It’s a bunch of old people who raise money for the team and invite
someone from the community to speak about how violent sports enrich our lives.”
“Fun!”
“Yeah. The football players go, and their girlfriends, and the cheerleaders, so Kaye will be there.”
“And Grace,” I guessed.
“And Grace,” he agreed, “but I’m not with Grace.”
He didn’t add,
I’m with you.
But he didn’t have to. It was finally sinking in that I was the star quarterback’s girlfriend.
“By the way,” he said, opening the door of his truck, “do we still need to take a new Superlatives picture, or was that just a ploy to go out with me?”
“Both,” I admitted. “I wanted an excuse to see you again. But we do need to take another picture. The one from the Crab Lab doesn’t go with the others I’ve taken. We don’t have to do it tonight, though. We have time.”
And when I said this, I believed it was true.
12
THE NEXT MORNING, THE LOCAL TV news was tracking a hurricane headed for central Florida. Two rooms of guests in the B & B announced at breakfast that they were leaving. Mom explained that the hurricane wouldn’t hit us just because it was moving in our general direction. The storm was still five days away. Anything could happen before it made landfall. It could peter out, or stay strong but veer toward Alabama. If Floridians packed up and left every time a hurricane headed our way, we’d be gone from August to October.
The tourists weren’t convinced. The TV news had really done a number on them, pointing out that the Tampa Bay area was way overdue for a direct hit from some kind of Hurrigeddon. They packed their cars and hit the road right
after breakfast, determined to make it out of town before everyone else got the same idea and the hurricane escape routes were immobilized with gridlock. Whatever.
The terror was infectious, though. At school, people were tense, talking about the coming storm and the Yankee transplants in town who’d decided to drive inland for a long weekend, just to play it safe. Maybe the charged atmosphere affected me, too, and that’s why I sounded so on edge when I told Kennedy during journalism class that I didn’t want to see him anymore. He sensed my weakness, and that’s why he said what he said next.
He crossed his arms and demanded, “Is it because of Brody?”
I glanced around the room. Mr. Oakley was out of town. His son played for the Gators, and he and his wife had driven to an away game up in Georgia. We had a sub who babysat for the school a lot. Her agenda was to spend the whole period texting on her phone unless someone actually started shouting, in which case she sent the offenders to Ms. Chen’s office.
Therefore, the class was even more disorganized than usual. Instead of working on our projects for the newspaper or the yearbook or journalism independent study, everyone was goofing off like it was study hall—except Kennedy and me, of course. They weren’t paying attention to us. The room
was so loud with conversations and laughter that nobody could hear us when we talked in a normal tone. I’d thought it was safe to sit with Kennedy and break up with him between assembling the layouts for two Superlatives pages. It never occurred to me that he would care enough to get mad—much less raise his voice.
Quinn and a few other guys eyed us, then turned back to their own computers. I kept my voice quiet, hoping Kennedy would follow my lead and calm down. “You and I have dated for six weeks,” I said, “and we’ve argued for probably five of them. We got along better when we were just friends, remember? Some couples don’t work out.”
Kennedy nodded. “Some couples aren’t
perfect
like you and Brody. You know he only wants down your pants, right?”
At least somebody does
, I thought. “If he did,” I said carefully, “it’s none of your b—”
“He never would have noticed you if you hadn’t started following him around like some rock-star groupie after that stupid vote. And dressing like you wanted it.” Kennedy waved at my fitted V-neck T-shirt (no cleavage), chunky necklace, Bermuda shorts, and high-heeled wedges.
What?
“Everybody says you’re trying to get Brody by dressing and acting like Grace,” Kennedy sneered.
“Oh, really?” I tried to sound scathing, but I didn’t feel very scathing. What Kennedy was saying hit too close to home.
Until he said this: “I thought you were a nice girl.”
“You thought I was a nice girl,” I repeated. “You thought I was a
nice girl
? What the fuck does that mean?” Now everybody from the surrounding computers was staring at us. I lowered my voice. “I can’t be a nice girl anymore because I don’t wear glasses, or I don’t wear high-necked dresses? Or is it because I don’t do what you tell me?”
“You know what it means,” Kennedy said darkly.
“No, I honestly don’t,” I said. “But I know it’s sexist. Like girls are supposed to be vessels of purity, and I’ve sprung a leak. Boys, meanwhile, can do whatever they want.
“You know what?” My voice was rising again. I’d stopped caring. “You’ve never treated me like you genuinely wanted to be with me. You wanted the
appearance
of dating without caring about me or my feelings. I deserve better. I should have broken up with you the first time you gave me the silent treatment.”
I got up then, taking my bag and moving toward the back of the room. When I’d brought up the subject, I’d intended to break up with him gently and then listen carefully to his response. But I didn’t care what he had to say anymore.
I didn’t look forward to sitting at the back of the room for
the rest of the period either. Everyone who’d been in earshot of our breakup was still staring at me. But before I’d even sat down, Kennedy was standing close, towering over me.
“I need all of the Superlatives photos tomorrow,” he said smugly.
“Tomorrow!” I exclaimed. “My deadline is a
week
from tomorrow.”
“No,
my
deadline is a week from tomorrow,” he corrected me. “For the whole section.
Your
deadline is whenever I say it is. I’ve given you as many breaks as I could, but I’ve told you I need those photos on a rolling basis so I have time to lay out everything. You haven’t been turning many in. So I want them all tomorrow.”
I looked slowly around the room. All conversations had hushed when Kennedy followed me to the back. Now everyone—not just the people who’d overheard us before, but
everyone
—stared at us like we were a reality show. Only the sub wasn’t paying attention. She had her earphones plugged into her phone.
“Kennedy,” I whispered hoarsely, “I know you’re mad at me, but I can’t do that. There’s no way. I haven’t even taken all the photos yet. And once I did, I’d have to stay up all night to format them.”
He shrugged, as if to say,
Serves you right.
“You’d have the
section photographed and turned in by now if you hadn’t spent the last week creating an after-school job for yourself with that 5K. Maybe we need a different yearbook photographer.”
I’d felt myself blushing under everyone’s attention before. Now I felt the blood drain out of my face, and my fingers tingled. Photography was what I loved most in the world. I’d busted my ass to get this position. Kennedy couldn’t do this to me.
Yes he could. Mr. Oakley had told us to handle our problems like the yearbook was a business and we were employees. That meant Kennedy could fire me.
I gaped at him, wishing away the tears in my eyes. “That makes zero sense! I’m busy, but I’m turning everything in on time. If you’d set my deadline for tomorrow in the first place, instead of a week from tomorrow, I wouldn’t have asked for the 5K job.”
He smiled. “If you turn all the Superlatives photos in tomorrow during class, I’ll consider letting you keep your position.”
I wasn’t sure whether it was his patronizing tone, or the fact that he’d chosen to make a scene in front of the whole class, or the entire six weeks of him acting like I wasn’t good enough for him. But something made me snap. I shouted, “You know what? Don’t bother. I quit.”
His face fell. His eyes were wide, looking around at the staring class for the first time. “You can’t quit! This section is due. Nobody in our class will get a yearbook on time!”
“Oh, I’ll make your stupid deadline tomorrow,” I said. “The section and the yearbooks won’t be late because of me. After that, as long as I can get into journalism independent study and Mr. Oakley promises not to flunk me, I’m quitting. I’m not going to work for a boss like you.”
The bell rang. Kennedy and I faced off, with the rest of the class circling us. I wasn’t backing down, but the bell seemed to go on forever.
Finally it ended. I grabbed my bag and hurried for the door.
“Harper!” Quinn called, but I made my way to Ms. Patel’s room without him. He was the one who’d told me to stop worrying about appearances. And now that I’d stopped—boy, had I stopped. I was already going over and over my public screaming match with Kennedy in my mind, wishing I could take it back.