Текст книги "Double Clutch"

Автор книги: Лиз Реинхардт

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Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Double Clutch:

A Brenna Blixen Novel

Book 1

by Liz Reinhardt

Double Clutch: a pattern of breathing in which a runner inhales two breaths

for every one breath exhaled.

Chapter 1

My mom waltzed into my room early on the morning of my first day of high school back in Sussex County, NJ, after a year in Denmark, and I breathed a sigh of relief that she kissed my forehead like it was my first day of kindergarten instead.

“Good morning, Brenna.” She smoothed back my short, blunt bangs, which had been very cool in Denmark. I hadn’t seen them on anyone here when we were shopping at Wal-Mart and Target for back to school stuff. I shuddered a little when I noticed a good chunk of the girls had big bows tied around their high ponytails, like they should have been wearing poodle skirts and saddle shoes too. My bangs might as well have been a neon mohawk based on the open-mouthed stares I got.

“Morning, Mom.” I slid a look at her out of the corner of my eye. People always talked about how they thought their mother was the most beautiful woman in the world when they were little kids, but I still felt that way. My mom wasn’t beautiful in a lots-of-hairspray, full-of-herself way, like women were when they regretted having kids and wound up trying hard to stay physically perfect. My mom had soft, freckled skin and a cleft in her chin and blue-gray eyes, like the sky in summertime when thunderclouds rolled in. She had the softest, most delicate hands, and any perfume that smelled good in a bottle smelled incredible on her skin. I loved her fiercely, and to protect her, I swallowed around the lump that seemed to swell by the second in my throat from pure, raw nerves.

“Don’t be nervous.” My mom was a fortune teller when it came to reading my thoughts.

“I am not.” I raised my eyebrows, mostly to keep the tears from plopping out of my eyes. “I am world traveled.” Funny how glamorous our little joke still sounded. Like we sunbathed on the Riviera or strolled through Paris modeling all the latest fashions for a year. In fact, we spent most of our time holed up in a quaint, centuries-old dairy farm and read books. A lot of books.

“Don’t I know it.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled.

I smiled back. “We already conquered The Scarlet Letter. What more can they throw at me?”

Mom guided me through a home school program in Denmark, because there was no way I could curl my tongue around Danish fast enough to be eligible for even elementary school. Since I breezed through the thin ninth-grade packet and moved on to devour the tenth just to do something other than stare at the fields around our house, I was a technical sophomore. But being ahead didn’t mean school would be a breeze, because this year I would be attending two schools.

Mom pursed her lips and squinted at me a little. “Are you sure tech school is a good idea?”

“It’s Share Time, Mom,” I pointed out.

It meant I would be spending half my day at the regular academic high school and half my day at the vocational technical school down the road. Share Time students, or Techies, as they’re called, graduate with a regular diploma. But Techies might as well wear a big scarlet ‘T’ on their shirts as far as academic high schoolers are concerned, and I was trying not to dwell on the whole outcast thing anymore than I had to.

“It’s tech school.” Mom rolled it off her tongue like she was trying to spit a bad taste out of her mouth.

She graduated, six months pregnant with me, from an academic high school. She should have gone on for more schooling right away, but she had to put it off for years to raise me. My mom has always been one of the most brilliant people I’d ever met, degree or no.

“Don’t say it like that.” I tug on her little hand. I didn’t get my hands from her. Mine are long and bony with short, thin nails and bumpy knuckles. “It’s only half the day. I still get a good academic thing in the morning. When we did all of that photography and silk-screening in Denmark, I was really interested. Technical art is a skill you can keep forever. And it will help when I want to get a job. More than throwing pots and making macramé will, but you never get upset when I take an art class. Haven’t you always taught me to be self sufficient?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” She closed her eyes and kissed me by my ear, hard. “You want breakfast?” I let out a small sigh of relief; the tech conversation was over for the day.

“How about oatmeal?” Hot oatmeal had never been high on my list of foods before, but I’d acquired a taste in Denmark and couldn’t shake it now.

I rolled out of bed and stood like a dazed alien in my own room. On one hand it was so familiar, I could see every detail when I closed my eyes. On the other, it was another world. It was exactly the same as the day Mom decorated it when I was nine, the year Mom married Thorsten. Every detail was like I remembered it, right down to the lace-edged gingham curtains. I always felt comfortable in it, felt like it was a part of me, until the day we got off the plane and I opened the door and stood, shocked, looking at my private space with new eyes. Really new eyes.

Lilac walls complimented a patchwork bedspread. Over the bed hung three pictures of cats doing cute, silly things like batting at girls’ petticoats. The rug was black and white checked over a wood floor. The tall, white dresser was filled with clothes I hadn’t worn for over a year. I pulled open the creaky drawers and took out piece after piece slowly, surprised by how little sense they made. When did I ever like clothes like this? And, more importantly, why? They were mostly plain crewnecks and polos and unflattering jeans with glitter and heavily stitched logos on them. I had two pairs of Keds and a pair of penny loafers in the closet. These clothes were so unlike me, I felt like I was looking through a little kid’s dress-up trunk.

I pulled my suitcase from under the bed, and vowed that I really would unpack. Soon.

The clothes in my suitcase were the only part of the room that felt real to me, and my stomach clenched with excitement as I dug through for the perfect first-day-of-school outfit for a new year and a new me. I took out my slim midnight black jeans, a pair of black Chuck Taylors, my favorite black and purple striped sweater, and a tight black v-neck t-shirt to go underneath.

I yanked a brush through my long, light-brown hair, and imagined it a come-hither red or a daring black. Mom cut my bangs herself, happily, but she told me hair-dye was a mistake that could wait until I was older. I ran the toothbrush in slow circles around my teeth and tried to swallow back the acidic churn in my gut.

As I smoothed my makeup on, I thanked Odin for all that time in the Danish countryside with Mom’s Cosmopolitan magazines and no soda. My skin, which was a little lumpy and gross in middle school, smoothed out and became the perfect canvas for hours of cosmetic experiments in Denmark. If the retro-disco look ever caught on like Cosmopolitan promised it would, I would have hours of practice with metallic eyeshadow and false eyelashes under my belt.

My stepfather was putting a bowl of oatmeal on the table. “Hey, Fa.” I kissed him on the cheek. ‘Fa’ is what kids in Denmark call their dads, and since Thorsten is from Denmark and not quite my dad, ‘fa’ seemed like a good alternative.

“Ready for the new day, Brenna?” Thorsten had wide, white, straight teeth. He’d never even had to see an orthodontist. They sometimes made me wish I was his biological kid, just so I could have avoided my painful faceoff with braces.

“I think I am.” The force of my lie made my oatmeal sit heavy in my gut.

“Do you want a ride in?” he offered.

“No, Fa, it’s cool. You have a long drive to work. Anyway, the bus is okay with me.” I pushed my congealing oatmeal around in the bowl. “I wish we were close enough to ride my bike in.” I shot a pleading look at Thorsten, who looked at my mother expectantly.

“You know I don’t like it.” She sighed. “Danish people are used to bike riders, Brenna. This isn’t Denmark. Cars aren’t going to be expecting you. What if you get hit? What if someone grabs you and takes you?”

I did what I knew was the only thing that might possibly work. “That’s cool.” I made sure to keep my voice only very slightly depressed. “I’ll miss the exercise, but I’ll get over it.”

I could feel her wavering, but I didn’t look up. I couldn’t blow my spot now.

“Brenna, you would only be able to do it for a few weeks. Soon it will be freezing and then it will start to snow.” Her voice was full of worry.

Then she was quiet, waiting for me to beg or plead or cry, but there was no chance of that. My mom was a master at persuasion and getting what she wanted; I learned my techniques from the master herself. Finally, she gave a loud sigh.

“Fine. But you need to leave now, so you have plenty of time. No riding with your iPod on. And keep your cell in your pocket.”

I squeezed her shoulders tight and smacked a kiss on her cheek. “Love you!” My jacket and backpack already in hand, I breezed a kiss on Thorsten’s face and beat it before she had a change of heart. “Have a good day, Fa!”

“You too!” He focused his conspirator’s smile on his iPad, but I caught it.

“Be good! Be safe! Love you!” Mom followed me to the garage where I unlocked my bike and grabbed my helmet. My iPod was safely hidden in my pocket. I needed my music, but didn’t need my mom to worry. As if she knew my intent to break the rules, she grabbed me and kissed me again.

“I’ll be fine,” I reassured her. “I’ll call you before I leave school.”

My mom looked like she might cry, just like she had on the first day of school every year of my life. For the first time, I felt like crying, too, so I knew I had better hit the road fast if I wanted to make it to school without puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

I got on my bike and started pedaling. I was going to have to bike close to five miles, but I was up for it. I loved the freedom of it. I liked being able to get myself places. My birthday was October 11th, and I would only be turning sixteen, so even though I’d be eligible for my permit, my license was far away. Until I got it, my bike was the best chance I had for freedom.

I pedaled hard; I didn’t want to be late on my first day. I gulped down the clean smell of cool air mixed with the sweet and rotten stench of dead leaves and the acrid smoke from burn piles. I focused on the blood pumping through my legs and the strong beat of my heart. I had been a fairly sedentary kid before the big Denmark adventure, and the farther I got from that kid, the less I even wanted to pick any of her old, lazy habits up again.

Before I knew it, I hit the high school, all three stories of sandy-colored stone with wide front steps and a patio with trees and bushes and benches. There was a completely empty bike rack where I parked, chained my bike, and walked into the front office with my eyes trained straight ahead of me.

The school had the same weird familiar/unfamiliar feeling that my room had. I toured it and the tech school one time back in eighth grade, when I was so excited to start high school I could hardly contain it. I didn’t know then that I would leave for an entire year within a few months. Only a few of my friends even knew where I went.

I wondered if anyone would recognize me. I was so nervous, I couldn’t look at anyone.

“Brenna? Brenna Blixen? Is that you?”

I turned and saw a girl with bright red lipstick and curly black hair. She was a little heavyset and had a big nose, but she was cheerful and smiley. She did have a big bow in her hair, but I tried not to hold it against her.

“Meg Yakovy?” I was suddenly folded in an excited hug.

“Yeah! You look great! Did you really go to Germany with your parents and the Peace Corps?” Her curls shook around her excited face.

“No. I went to Denmark. My step-dad inherited some land and a house, and we went there so we could fix it up.” I wiggled in her firm grip and she let me go.

“Oh.” Her face fell, apparently disappointed by the fact that it hadn’t been the Peace Corps and Germany. “So, did you, like, meet some hot Dutch boys?”

“Danish,” I corrected. “Um, no. I was in Jutland. It’s a lot of farms and stuff. We didn’t have any neighbors my age.”

Her eyes shimmered with agonized, sympathetic tears. “That must have been so, so terrible. Just you and your parents.” She shivered and closed her eyes. “I would have killed myself.”

“Uh, it wasn’t so bad.” I hadn’t been in the company of someone my age for months, but she seemed weirdly dramatic.

“Well, you look really pretty! You should try out for the fall drama. It’s The Miracle Worker. It’s going to be amazing.” Only she said it ah-MAHZ-ing. And shivered again. She was making me kind of cold.

Aha. Meg and drama club. How could I forget her belting out “Tomorrow” all through seventh grade when she landed the lead in Annie?

“I will, uh, think about it.” The idea of getting on stage and performing sounded almost as appealing as hot pokers in my eyeballs, but I didn’t want to make the first person who talked to me hate my guts off the bat. “So, it was good seeing you, but I have to check in at the office.”

“Alright!” She hugged me again and shook me back and forth a few times. “It was so, so good to see you, Brenna. I am so, so glad you’re back.” Another warm, perfume-dense hug.

Meg was a nice girl. She signed ‘HAGS’ in my yearbook at the end of eighth, short for ‘have a great summer,’ and added the obligatory, ‘See you in high school!’ But, other than that, I could hardly remember her talking to me. Maybe high school just made her even friendlier?

I made it to the office unnoticed and waited behind kids who didn’t like their schedules and were pretty much being told to deal with it and get to class. Harsh, but it made the line move really quickly.

“Hello.” I put my hands on the counter and unpacked my biggest smile. I’d worked on my smile a lot in Denmark because, since I had never learned more than a few basic sentences, I found that a big friendly smile (besides marking me as an American) was taken as an appreciated attempt at communication. “My name is Brenna Blixen, and today is my first day.” I handed the lady behind the counter the forms that came in the mail.

“Brenna Blixen.” The secretary had curly red hair and kind eyes that soothed my anxious nerves. “I heard about you. Didn’t your family take off and go to Austria for a while?”

“Denmark.” I sighed. Why did Thorsten have to be from the least recognized of all of the European nations?

“Well, welcome to Frankford High.” She smiled wide. “I’m Mrs. Post, and you can come here if you need anything. Wow, you have a crazy schedule.” She suddenly noticed the paper she held out to me. “You’re going to do Share Time?”

I tried to guess what her tone of voice implied, but I had no idea, so I decided to pretend it was just curiosity, even if it wasn’t. “Yes. Graphic design.”

“You didn’t strike me as a cosmetology type.” She handed me the paper.

I wasn’t sure how to respond, so I just shrugged. “Thanks.” I gave her a little wave and walked out.

“Brenna! Brenna!”

My heart lifted a little. A voice I knew.

“Kelsie!” I cried and we embraced, a real hug this time. Kelsie Jordan was still petite, still had dark, shiny hair and pretty eyes. She also had a plump butt, something she had always hated, but I thought it made her look curvy and sexy.

“You look incredible. Not that you didn’t look great in eighth, but you look really cool now.” She swept her hair behind her ear and a pair of silvery bell earrings chimed sweetly.

Kelsie had changed her style, too. I had a flashback to both of us in polos, shiny jeans and Keds. Today she wore a hippie-type peasant shirt and dark jeans with sandals and a flowery bandana in her long, dark hair. My mom always said Kelsie’s hair line was too low to make her truly pretty, but I think that was just because my mom didn’t like Kelsie. Because looking at her glowing right in front of my eyes, there was no denying how beautiful she was.

“You do, too. Look cool, I mean. It’s weird to be back.” I shifted my backpack and tugged on the edge of my sweater. “It’s like I know everyone, but I don’t, you know?”

“It must be crazy. Let’s see your schedule.” She snatched it out of my hands. “Hey, we’ve got crafts together!” Her head snapped up. “Brenna, they have you down for Share Time!” Her voice didn’t leave me wondering. She was clearly horrified.

“Yeah, graphic design.” I took the schedule back and folded it into a tiny rectangle that I turned over and over in my fingers.

“But you were always so smart.” She held up her hands, at a loss.“Why would you go to tech?”

“It’s just Share Time.” I could feel the scarlet ‘T’ glowing on my forehead and a little, nagging voice in my head wondered if I should have listened to my mother. “I gotta go. I’m gonna be late. Do you know where 204 is?”

Kelsie pointed down the hall, her hand glittering with silver and amber rings, rows of beaded bracelets swishing on her wrist. “Go to the end of the hall, turn left. It’s on the left, the English side. Right side is the art room, so I’ll meet you there third?” We didn’t say anything for a minute, then she pulled me into another quick hug, but this one was a little awkward.

I ran down the emptying hall, determined not to be late to class, and I sat down as the bell rang. Mr. Dawes was a fat, squat man with a ready scowl and a syllabus designed to knock us out from day one. There was a lot I read last year, and a lot I hadn’t. Vonnegut stood out like an old, familiar friend, and the plays by O’Neill sent a shiver down my spine based on title alone. Who wouldn’t fall instantly in love with “Mourning Becomes Electra”? I saw Jane Austen’s name and had the funny feeling we were going to be good friends, and I sighed with relief when I saw Grapes of Wrath, mostly because it had collected dust on my shelf for two years, spine uncracked, but I felt like it was something every American had to read.

A quick glance around the room told me that I was in foreign territory. Frankford High pulled from four districts, and my elementary school was one of the smallest, so I wasn’t going to see too many kids from middle school.

“This is honors English, kids.” Mr. Dawes’s growl made me sit up straighter and cap my pen with purpose. “I don’t accept late work. At all. And I don’t announce every quiz and in-class writing. Stay on your toes.”

He looked slightly like one of Santa’s jolly old elves, just in a really scowly, pissed off mood. He tossed us copies of Lord of the Flies by William Golding and we passed around the sheet where we put our names and how beat up the books were, probably so he could fine us accordingly when we handed them back in. I thumbed through the book, which I’d read before. Even though it was about a bunch of killer school boys, I never managed to get into this one. But I decided it was a fresh year, and the best tactic was to give everything an equal chance, even if it disappointed me before. The boy in front of me turned around and stared at me like I was a fish in an aquarium.

“You need something?” I asked. His direct gaze made me squirm.

“Who are you?” His social graces were so awful they were almost funny.

“Brenna Blixen. Who are you?”

“Devon Conner.” He shuffled his big feet and blinked hard. “Are you new?”

“Kind of.” I watched him bite the inside of his cheek.

“Mr. Conner, Ms. Blixen, why don’t you join your classmates in silent reading?” Mr. Dawes scowled.

I ducked my head over my book quickly and Devon followed my lead. Pissed off a teacher on day one, in first period. Great.

I focused on the story, the boys on the mysterious island, lost and confused and clinging to the order that had dictated their lives in their schools back in England. I felt like I had the sacred conch shell in my hand, my feet on the white sand beaches, Jack and Ralph glaring on either side of me, when the bell jarred me back into the noisy classroom where Mr. Dawes waved a hand, dismissing us.

I had to race across the school, stopping a few times to ask directions before I found my next classroom. I got there last, again, slipping into the chair at the bell. The teacher barely looked up.

This was my AP class, in American government, where I’d be at least a year younger than every other student. My classmates checked me out coolly, a group of sharks just waiting for the chum.

A total of eight students and our teacher, a graying hulk of a man in a too-tight button down who wrote with a ruler, sat in an antechamber around a u-shaped table. The teacher took names with impersonal speed and wrote each one in his plan book with the ruler underneath his pen at all times. It struck me as weird, but the other students were paying no attention, busy organizing notebooks, laying out pens, examining textbooks with sharp, eager eyes. Whoa, alpha class.

There was one exception.

He had inky black hair that looked both perfectly styled and like he’d just crawled out of bed. His dark brown, almond-shaped eyes flicked slowly around the room, clearly unimpressed with everyone and everything. His olive skin was smooth except for the prickle of five o’clock shadow already darkening his jaw. Those nearly-black eyes settled on me and his lips curved into a taunting grin that tugged at me and made me fight not to grin right back. He didn’t have a backpack, didn’t have any papers out, didn’t seem the least bit interested in his textbook. He was calm amidst all the busy chaos, leaned back in his chair with a sleepy, bored look in his eyes.

“Sit up before you break your neck, Saxon!” the teacher barked. The dark-eyed boy gave him a sharp salute and banged the chair down on all four legs, never taking his eyes off of me. My mouth dried up and my heart hammered fast and erratic.

“I’m Sanotoni, for whoever’s new. Who’s new?” The teacher looked down at the roll book and up at me. “Blixen? Like the reindeer?” The class chuckled with him.

I cleared my throat. “Like the Danish author. Pen name Isak Dinesen.”

“I like this one.” Mr. Sanotoni pointed at me with his ruler and laughed, a strange sound that was something between a bark and a howl. Everyone else joined in except Saxon.

Sanotoni snapped up and pulled down a map of the United States. “We’re dividing into parties and setting up a mini caucus,” he ordered. “Let’s make it a three party system in honor of the kooks who think that might ever work.” He barked/laughed again, counted us off quickly, handed out pamphlets and instructed us to start working answering the campaign sign-in questions using the textbooks he passed out. A petite girl looked at Saxon then me, rolled her eyes, and headed over with lots of huffing and sighing.

Saxon sauntered towards me, plopped his textbook down on the table and fell into the chair with a lazy smile just for me.

That smile made me think of a predator for some reason. I shivered suddenly. Meg Yakovy’s dramatics had definitely rubbed off on me.

“I’m Brenna Blixen.” Kind of unnecessary since Sanotoni just mocked my reindeer-based name, but between Saxon’s sexy stare and the girl’s pronounced scowl, I felt like someone needed to make normal introductions.

“I’m Lynn Orr,” snapped the dark-haired girl with daggers shooting out of her eyes. “This is Saxon Maclean. Are you planning on actually working this term, Saxon?”

“Why should I bother? Don’t you already know all the answers, Lynn?” His words stretched out slow and sweet as warm taffy. He turned the wattage of his lazy smile on Lynn, and that smile only widened when she snarled in his direction.

“You’re such a stoner. I don’t even know how you got in this class.” She threw her textbook open with a pout.

Saxon uncrossed his long arms and leaned close to her, his words sliding out with lazy glee. “Well, it wasn’t based on the fact that my mommy’s the big, fat mayor. Isn’t that how you got in?”

“Screw you, loser,” she hissed, her hands clawed around the edges of her book, her teeth bared.

“Um, so I think the answers to questions one through three are on page eighteen,” I announced a little loudly. “About registration requirements. Here on page eighteen.” I thumped my index finger on the page, hoping to distract them away from jumping across the table and ripping each other’s throats out.

“You’re right,” Lynn sneered at me, her glare fixed on Saxon. He crossed his arms and flexed, the biceps bulging under the sleeves of his t-shirt, clearly enjoying Lynn’s simmering temper. “Aren’t you going to write this down, Saxon?”

He flipped her a smile and shrugged.

“Why don’t we all just do our thing and not worry about anyone else’s?” I suggested desperately.

“Yeah, and what if we get a group grade, genius?” Lynn turned her malice on me. “Are you willing for your GPA to take a nosedive for this idiot?”

I blinked in the face of her open hostility. “Well, if we get a group grade, it will probably be based on one paper,” I pointed out. “So, let’s get one done.”

“This is bullshit,” Lynn muttered, but she began filling her questions in with angry slashes of her pen.

Saxon winked at me and pulled his chair over so our shoulders bumped. He wore cologne. I had smelled guys’ cologne a million times before, but whatever he wore made me want to bury my head in his chest and take long, deep breaths until my lungs couldn’t take it anymore. My pen wobbled in my shaky fingers. Saxon leaned over my open book, his warm arm pressed against mine, his cheek inches from my face, and acted as if he were innocently checking the pages. “You rode a bike in.” His voice was low, so low that Lynn didn’t even look up.

He noticed I rode a bike in? How? When? How had I missed him this morning? My head swam. Words. I needed words. “Yeah,” I finally managed. “I ride my bike to school.”

“You won’t be able to do that for long. New Jersey winters are long and cold. Lots of snow.” His voice had a vibration to it that I felt right in the pit of my stomach. It was almost like he was this big, purring jungle cat.

Ugh, what was I thinking? Who was I, Mowgli? I had to focus on government, on not failing, not on some good-smelling, purring jungle boy. I brushed my bangs back, sat up straighter, and decided to breathe through my mouth, do my work, and stop my brain from curling around this guy in ways that made my heart thump.

“I know. I’ve lived in New Jersey for most of my life. Listen, I had this speech from my mom this morning. But I haven’t figured out what the average percentage of incumbent wins over a five year period in the Northeast is, so can we get back to that?” I gave him my best all-work, no-messing-around, strictly-school face and prayed he couldn’t tell how much I wanted to smell him and stare at his lips all day long.

There were little gold flecks floating in Saxon’s eyes, but mostly they were almost the same inky black as his pupils. He leaned close to me, licked his lips and whispered, “Bottom of page twenty one.”

It took a minute for me to shake myself out of his hypnosis. I looked down frantically at page twenty-one, seeing the numbers but not processing. I felt hot, very hot, fever hot.

“Thanks,” I managed to mumble and wrote down the answer. “Do you want to fill your sheet in?” I offered, hoping that he would look at something other than me.

“No thanks.” His eyes never wavered; the gold flecks shivered. “I have a photographic memory.” His smile went smug.

I narrowed my eyes at him and tilted my head. “Really?” I pulled the word out so it was long and stretched. “How exactly does it work?”

I swear his incisors gleamed like the Big Bad Wolf’s when he smiled at me. “I look at a page.” He traced one finger down a page in my book. “I look for a whole twenty seconds. Then it’s here.” He tapped his head. “And it doesn’t leave. At all.”

“Lucky you,” I croaked, shaking off images of Saxon pulling one finger down me. What was wrong with my brain today?

He shook his head. “It’s a curse.” I frowned, he shrugged. “It feels like my brain won’t turn off.”

I raised one eyebrow, still unbelieving, and he snatched the book out of my hands. He flicked his eyes up and down the page and then snapped the book shut. “An incumbent’s chances for success are magnified by three important factors. The first is…”

Saxon kept talking, his voice smooth and fluid. I grabbed the book, flipped it open, and fumbled for the page. When I had it, I found that he was reading along, word for word. The entire page. He stopped mid-sentence. Which made sense, since that’s how the page ended. I shook my head.

“So that page from our government book is in your head forever?” I looked from his gorgeous face to the boring black-and-white print.

“Yep.” His mouth was set in a grim, unhappy line.

“So if we meet up in an old peoples’ home in seventy years and I say, ‘Saxon, tell me about page twenty-one in our high school government book,’ you’ll be able to?”

He laughed at my old lady voice and nodded. “Sure will.”

“I guess I wouldn’t pay attention to much then either. I’d want to have some say over what stuck in my head.” I traced my finger down the same path his had traveled on the page.

He looked at me like I was an algebra problem with no solution for x. “Exactly.”

“What about things you listen to or hear? Are you a lyrics brainiac too?” I joked to clear the air that had gotten serious and intense fast.

He smiled, but this time his smile was different. It was happy, not made to provoke anyone or mask anything. And it was so beautiful my breath caught in my throat. “No. I’m really bad with lyrics. You know that band from Ireland, The Cranberries?” he asked.

“Love ‘em.” I did love The Cranberries. They were amazing, and I had deep respect for post grunge female-led bands from Ireland on principle.

“They had this song, ‘Zombie,’right? And when I was a kid, I thought it was ‘Tommy.’ So, I’m belting it out, eyes closed, all serious and deep when my dad stops me and says, ‘Idiot! You’re singing the whole thing wrong!’” He laughed.

It was the kind of laugh that pulled at my lips and coaxed my own laugh up and out of my mouth. “Funny.” Our eyes locked, really locked, like they talk about in books and movies. I had a fluttery feeling in my stomach, like I was going to chuck all of that oatmeal I had been so hungry for. The scream of the school bell shocked me out of my trance.