Текст книги "Resentment"

Автор книги: Nicole London

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

Chapter 2

MIA

When I arrive at Dean’s any my spot in the library the following week, I’m surprised that he’s already there waiting for me.

Impressed, I take a seat. “Is there a catch to today’s session? Is that why you’re here early?”

“No.” He smiles. “I was actually going to ask you if we could we do an extra hour today? I got an A minus on that last essay.”

“Is that not good enough for you or something?”

“It is, but I told you I needed an A, a flat one.”

“Really though?”

“Yes, really though.” A brief look of concern comes over his face, but it’s gone within minutes. “I really have to make an A on all of my next papers to make up for the Cs I made on our first few papers.”

I nod, still feeling completely caught off guard.

“Where should we start?” he asks.

“Well,” I say, taking out my folder. “Since you’re not caught up on the reading, we’ll do the work that’s currently due and pick up everything else later. Which piece did you pick for the assignment?”

“Macbeth.”

“What? You’re joking, right?”

“Not at all.” He arches a brow. “What’s wrong with Macbeth?”

“Nothing, I just...” I pause. “I never would have thought you were the Shakespearean literature type. That’s all.”

“Well, why is that?”

“Because Shakespeare had a very strange tendency of killing off all of his cocky characters. That, and Macbeth is one of my favorite plays.” I admit.

He’s silent for a moment, but then he looks at me. “What’s your favorite novel?”

“I love way too many to choose just one.” I try to direct the conversation back to Macbeth and our assignment, but he stops me.

“Tell me,” he says. “What’s your favorite novel?”

“I’ll have to write you a list. I prefer essays. Such, Such Were the Joys by George Orwell is my top re-read. What’s your favorite novel?”

“I don’t have one either.” He reaches into his bag and pulls out a book. The Art of the Personal Essay. “I read this a lot, though. For pointers, of course. That Orwell essay is actually in here...”

“Okay,” I say, stopping myself before I actually continue this line of conversation because there is absolutely no way that we have that in common. “I swear to God, Dean, if this is your attempt to get into my pants—”

“It isn’t.” He laughs, putting the book away. “Trust me, when I attempt to do that, you won’t have any doubts and you’ll know for sure.”

I’m not sure what comes over me right then, but I actually laugh out loud.

He laughs even louder, and then we can’t help but ask each other about our other favorite things, completely ignoring the time. I’m not sure at what point it happens, but we get onto the topic of music and he pulls out his iPod and hands me his earbuds, insisting that he introduce me to some of his favorite bands.

We share all the same ones except two.

It’s not until the librarian lets us know that the study room is closing, that I realize we didn’t accomplish anything today.

“How about we make it up on another day this weekend?” he asks, helping me put my books away.

“Don’t you have football practice?”

“I do.” That strange look from our first session crosses his face again. “But I’ll make the time afterwards. Let me give you a ride home.”

“You really don’t have to keep offering to do that. I’ll be fine.”

“It’s eight o clock, Mia. There are no buses, and I’m not about to let you walk home or call someone when I’m right here.”

This time I don’t bother arguing with him. I simply walk by his side as we leave the building.

When we make it to his car, he completely surprises me by opening the passenger door for me.

“What?” he asks. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You opened my door.”

“Yes.” He smirks. “That’s the only way to get inside of the car. Do you know an alternative?”

I hold back a laugh and get in.

After shutting my door, he slips behind the wheel and cranks the engine. Then he speeds out of the parking lot, going the wrong way.

“Do I need to remind you where I live, Dean?”

“No, but there’s construction that way. That’s why I’m going this way.”

There’s definitely no construction that way, and there hasn’t been any new construction in our city for years. But when I see him pull onto the main road that leads directly to my neighborhood, I let it go.

He’s taking the super long way to my house—passing Donnellson’s where the varsity team is currently hanging out with their letterman jackets on full display, the movie theater where me and Autumn worked our very first jobs last summer, and the hidden cover where couples go at the end of their dates to make out.

When he finally pulls up to my house, I don’t get a chance to unbuckle my seat belt before he gets out the car to open my door. “So, you really are a gentleman, huh?”

“When it comes to you.” He extends his hand with a grin, making me blush against my will. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.” I rush inside and shut the door behind me. I place a hand over my heart to see if it really is beating as fast as I think it is, or if it’s a figment of my imagination.

Shit, it’s real...It’s real...What the hell?

“Why are you standing there with your hand over your heart like that, Mia?” My mother walks into the foyer. “Have I unknowingly installed an American flag in the hallway? Are you pledging allegiance?”

My heart rate instantly returns to its normal pace, to the beat of “Fuck my life.”

“Is that Dean Collins?” she asks, peering through the window. “Did Dean Collins just drop you off at home?”

“Yes, he did.”

A smile crosses her lips and she pulls me into a hug. “Good. You’re finally learning how to be social and you’re dating.”

“We’re not dating. I’m his tutor.”

“What could he possibly use tutoring in?” She looks confused. “What teacher at Central would be dumb enough not to pass him? Especially with a third state championship on the line?”

I bite my tongue before I can say something smart, something really smart.

Fortunately, she doesn’t notice the look on my face. Instead, she pulls me into a hug that makes me feel hundreds of degrees colder. “Have you heard back from Harvard yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“You did apply, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” My eyes veer toward her framed degree that hangs on the wall. (She has like twenty copies of it hanging all over our house.)

“Well, if you haven’t heard anything back in four more weeks, let me know and I’ll make the call.” She lets me go. “What about the bonfire and homecoming? Also, prom? I know you’re planning on going to all of those events this year. At least, you better be.”

“I’m still thinking about it.”

“Let me know when you look for a dress for homecoming. We’ll make an event—a mother daughter type of thing. It’ll be good for your development.” She smiles as she walks away from me and into the living room. Just like that, I know our numerous arguments for the past month are now forgotten.

Especially since this is the first time she’s spoken to me in a while.

All of our arguments end the same way, with her holding a grudge until I do something that makes her smile. While most moms get upset over bad grades, drug experimentation, or serious shit that actually affects a life, my mom gets upset over my inability to like the things that really matter in life. Things like wanting to be homecoming queen, having a great high school social status, and dating.

Two hundred and fifty-five days...

Before she can ask me to do anything, I run up the stairs to my room and shut the door.  I plop onto my bed and groan as I take in the pale and bleak ugliness that surrounds me.

If anyone else saw my room right now, they’d think I was trying to imitate a cell in a psych ward. My walls are covered in a near-colorless eggshell color, my bed spread is taupe, and all of the furniture is the color of coffee cream.

If that’s not horrible enough, the only pictures that hang on the wall are those of gray and brown rocks. Oh, and sand. Lots and lots of sand.

I’ve been begging my mom to let me paint and redesign this ugliness since I was seven years old, but “neutral colors are a necessary stimulus for the female brain” according to her ridiculous psychology studies. And besides, to her, my art is a hobby that’s distracting me from the things that are truly important in life. Popularity.

I pull the covers over my head and feel my phone buzzing. A text from Dean.

DEAN:  Hey. Is red your favorite color?

MIA: Hey. Just because we had a good day today does not mean you’re allowed to text me outside of tutoring. Goodnight.

DEAN:  LOL. Answer the question, Mia. Is it red?

MIA: No, red is not my favorite color. Stop texting me.

DEAN:  Is it blue?

MIA:  Yes, it’s blue. Goodnight.

DEAN:  Interesting. I only thought it was red because you always wear red bras, and you clearly have quite the collection...The one with the polka dots, the one with the lace, the one with the flowers, and today’s silk one. The best one yet, in my opinion. Goodnight :-)

I turn my phone off, my cheeks on fire.

Chapter 3

MIA

Something is definitely wrong with me. After only a few weeks of tutoring sessions with Dean, I’m actually looking forward to seeing him today. I’m looking forward to having another good conversation and seeing what he thought of the indie rock CD I gave him. (Okay, and I’m also looking forward to being close enough to smell his seductive cologne and get an up close glimpse of his smile that I secretly like.)

During school hours, we still exist in two completely different worlds, but when we’re together and alone, we get along better than I could’ve ever imagined and I haven’t had the desire to thrash him once.

Well, so far...

Hanging around him has also quite a numbing effect on my home-life. I can get through a whole dinner with my mother without wanting to scream, and for some reason, if I come home a few hours later than normal, if I tell her that I’ve been with Dean, she doesn’t mind at all.

Only one thing has me questioning me and Dean’s current arrangement: He never wants to go home. Like, ever. He’s always looking to extend our time together somehow with more conversation or more homework, and although I want to believe that he enjoys hanging out with me as much as I enjoy hanging out with him, I can’t help but think that there might be something darker beneath the surface...

Taking a seat in AP Chemistry, I pull out my books and notice a text from Autumn.

AUTUMN:  Sooooo, I’m in crisis mode and I’m pulling the ‘BFF Trump Card’ ASAP!

ME:  The what?

AUTUMN:  The BFF Trump Card. That you-cannot-say-no-to-whatever-I-request but only just this one time type of card. Say yes!

ME:  You pulled ten of those last month, Autumn.

AUTUMN:  I pulled NINE. That last one didn’t count. Anyway, say yes. I’m about to take a pop quiz in Bio.

ME:  Tell me what it is first.

AUTUMN:  Just say yes. (Oh, and is it the nucleus or the mitochondria that stores the cell’s information?)

ME:  Does it involve a party? (The mitochondria)

AUTUMN:  Never. Stop being difficult! (DNA helix was discovered by...?)

ME:  Does it involve being a third-wheel with you and Jacob? (Crick and Watson)

AUTUMN:  Shockingly, no. We’re currently fighting :-( (Can you just take this damn quiz for me? WTF...There are like fifty questions on this thing. This isn’t a QUIZ! It’s a TEST!)

I laugh, figuring whatever it is she wants to do can’t be too bad.

ME:  Yes. Now, what is the trump card for?

AUTUMN:  You have to be my wing woman at the pep rally tonight! Okay gotta go for real this time! I’ll pick you up at seven!

What the hell... Ugh...

She knows I don’t enjoy going to those, that I’m going to fight her to the very last minute about going with her tonight. I start texting a response, but I hear a familiar deep laugh next to me.

“Good morning,” Dean says as he slides into the empty seat next to me.

“Good morning. That’s not your seat.”

“I’m aware.”  He shrugs.

“We have assigned seats for a reason,” I whisper as the class starts to fill up. “If you’re aware, then why are you sitting there?”

“Max is absent today.”

“So?”

“So, it’s athlete skip day and most of the athletes won’t be here today.

“But you’re an athlete.”

“I am.” He moves closer to me. “The only reason I came is because today’s the day we pick partners for the semester project.”

Butterflies immediately flutter in my stomach, and I don’t get a chance to respond to that before the teacher starts class. I keep my focus straight ahead, refusing to believe that Dean is clearly staring at me for the entire period. That he writes his name down next to mine when the teacher asks us who we would prefer to work with for our upcoming assignment.

When the bell rings, I jump out of my chair and nearly run out of the room, but he grabs my hand and forces me to look at him.

“Yes?” I try to ignore the way his simple touch is making me feel.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Are you coming to the pep rally tonight?” he asks.

“Probably not.”

“Why?”

“School spirit isn’t really my thing. No offense, but...football isn’t either.”

He laughs, and I suddenly realize that the two of us have never talked about football during our sessions together. In fact, whenever I’ve brought it up, he’s changed the subject to something else.

“Well,” he says, letting my hand go. “You should come for me instead.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I mean, since you’re not into school spirit or football, but you’re clearly into me, you can make an exception and come tonight.”

“You’re getting quite presumptuous lately.” I put on my best poker face. “Do I need to help you with that definition?”

“Not when I know the true word you’re looking for is cognizant.” He grins, stepping back. “I hope to see you tonight.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“I’m sure you always do.” He gives me a look so sexy that I almost melt into the floor.

Goddamn, Dean Collins...

***

Later that night, I grab a stack of graham crackers from the cheer station and hand them to Autumn.

“Do they really have to dye all of the marshmallows blue?” I ask. “Do you think they know that too much artificial food dye can be poisonous? Do you trust this?”

“Oh, god...” She laughs. “You’ve really got to get out more. And what the hell have you done to your top?” She adjusts my shirt, pulling the left sleeve down so my shoulder is exposed.

“That’s how the shirt is supposed to look, Mia,” she says. “All the girls wear it like that. See?”

I look all around us, at the field of fans, at the sea of royal blue and silver shirts that are surrounding the bonfire. As Autumn said, all of the girls have cut their shirts to hang off their shoulders. I decide not to ask any more questions, to just accept the blue food dye, awkwardly cut shirts, and the incessant, loud cheering.

As the football coach tests the mic, the two of us move closer to the bonfire.

“Alright, everyone!” He bellows. “Alright, everyone! Before we start the bonfire, let’s introduce your two-time State Champion Bulldogs!”

The crowd’s screams reach a fever pitch and the coach has an immediate change of heart. He doesn’t bother waiting for everyone to calm down, he simply goes right into the roll call. First, he calls out the names of the defense, and with each name he says, the crowd claps a little more excitedly. A little louder.

When the last defensive player’s name has been called, he moves on to the offense, and the crowd loses its mind. In between him calling out the other players, everyone is screaming for Dean.

The coach purposely saves him for last, but the second he says his name, the crowd manages to get even louder and crazier. They’re so loud and jumping up and down so much, that I don’t get a chance to see him come out of the huddle.

I step back away from the screams, covering my ears and mouthing “I’ll be right back” to Autumn. I head toward the bleachers, hoping I’ll be able to see everything from there and the sounds will be a lot more bearable.

As I’m taking my seat, our band begins to march onto the field, touting chants in between a slightly remixed version of “We Are the Champions.” They’re encouraging everyone to stand up and sing along.

Feeling everyone’s enthusiasm, I clap along and give add to the loud applause when the song comes to an end.

The crowd however, doesn’t accept the final note. They scream “Encore!” “One more time” and “More! More” and the band gives in and does a repeat.

In the middle of the second verse, I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket.

DEAN:  Are you here tonight?

MIA:  Nope...I told you pep rallies and football aren’t really my thing. That third option you listed wasn’t good enough either.

DEAN:  Liar. I’m looking at you right now.

I hesitate before texting back. I look around, but I don’t see him.

MIA:  Shouldn’t you be focusing on your teammates or something?

DEAN:  I’d rather focus on something that’s had my attention for quite some time...

MIA:  Are you referring to that term paper you need to finish this weekend? I would get on that tonight if I were you.

DEAN:  I’m referring to the girl I’ve had a crush on since sophomore year.

My jaw drops.

DEAN:  The girl whose notebook I had to steal to finally make her notice me.

MIA:  Are you secretly drunk right now? Is that why you’re saying this?

DEAN:  Completely sober, and I mean every word.

MIA:  Um...

DEAN:  I see you’ve switched from red to purple...I approve :-)

MIA:  I didn’t switch my bra color for you.

DEAN:  So it’s just a coincidence that the day after I asked you if you had any purple bras, that you’re wearing one tonight?

MIA:  Absolutely.

DEAN:  LOL. How did you get here?

MIA:  Autumn drove...Why?

DEAN:  Wait for me after this is over.  I’ll take you home.

As I’m about to reply “No, you don’t have to” he sends another text:  I’m not taking no for an answer. Let me take you.

I don’t text back.

I look up and see him standing by the bonfire. Our eyes meet and he gives me a short wave. Then he types something into his phone.

DEAN:  You think you can come to the first game next week, too?

MIA: Now you’re pushing it...I don’t even know how to watch football.

DEAN:  You don’t have to. Just focus on me :-). I parked behind the end-zone to your left. See you soon.

I watch as he puts his phone in his pocket. He looks up and his eyes meet mine one last time before he turns away and joins his teammates in a series of chants.

The crowd is now intoxicatingly electric—even from the bleachers—they’re on their feet, erupting with praise. I stand, clapping as well, feeling happy that, for the first time, I don’t feel like an outsider, I feel like I fit right in with everyone else at Central High...

***

When the rally is over, I find Autumn and tell her that Dean will be taking me home tonight.

“Really?” She smiles. “Oh my god! I told you that he likes you! He really likes you!”

“It’s just a ride home, Autumn.”

“Um hmmm.” She opens her purse and pulls out a condom, slipping it into the front pocket of my jeans. “Make sure you tell me all about that ‘ride’ tomorrow.”

“What the—I don’t need this!”

“You’ll always need this.” She nods. “Safety first, Mia. Didn’t you learn anything is Sex-Ed?”

“Do you hear yourself right now?”

“I should’ve known,” she says, tapping her lip. “I was wondering how he always managed to get in all of your classes for two years straight—even after you switched.”

“What?”

“Hmmm. Interesting, isn’t it?” She gives me a hug. “Me and Jacob just made up, so he’s meeting me at the drive-in-diner to treat me to ice-cream. I would ask you if you wanted to come join us but...” She points to where she placed the condom in my pants and starts walking backwards—throwing me a thumbs up sign.

I give her the middle finger and she laughs in return, eventually turning away.

I make my way to the far side of the parking lot and find Dean’s car. As I approach it, I notice that someone has had a field day writing bright and colorful quotes all over it: “Lead us to a Three-peat!” “Go Bulldogs Go!” “We Love You, Dean!” “#1 Quarterback!”

I can’t help but smile as I read the quote on the bumper: “Let’s Beat the Shit Out of Greenway H.S.! Thanks in Advance!”

Zipping up my hoodie, I shiver as wind whips my hair around my face.

I take out my phone and snap a few pictures of the fans running through the parking lot with blue streamers. I capture pictures of people kissing as they sit on the back of pickup trucks, and of people holding up their cell phones and singing along to a song I can’t quite remember.

I know that half of these people won’t be going home anytime soon, and I feel a small tinge of regret for not seeing this side of Central High life until just now.

“Are you cold?” Dean is suddenly behind me.

“A little.”

“Here.” He puts his letterman jacket on my shoulders, and the group of cheerleaders that’s across from us, immediately throws mean looks my way.

“Careful,” I say, turning around. “I wouldn’t want to make your fan-club too upset.”

He looks over to the group and then back at me, smiling. “Aren’t you a part of my fan-club, too? Is this making you upset?”

I blush. “No, that’s...That’s not what I mean. You know, athletes date cheerleaders, outcasts date outcasts and—”  I don’t get a chance to finish that sentence because his lips are suddenly on mine and he’s kissing me. He slips an arm around my waist and pulls me as close as possible.

I lose all sense of where I am, and he gently bites my lip before pulling away.

“I’ll date whoever I want,” he whispers. “And if I haven’t made this clear enough over the past few weeks, I want to date you.”

I’m speechless. It takes me a minute to form coherent thoughts again. All I can think about are how his lips felt way better than I could’ve ever imagined, how I really wish he would do that again.

As if he can tell that I’ll be useless for the next few minutes, he takes the opportunity to kiss me again—slightly longer this time, and then he opens the passenger door of his car.

I get inside and stare straight ahead, not saying a single word as he pulls out of the parking lot and onto the street.

We don’t say anything to each other as he drives, but at every red light I can feel him looking over at me. And I’m pretty sure I hear him say the word “beautiful” at one of the stops, but I ignore it.

When he pulls up to my house, he opens my door and walks me up my front steps.

“What are you doing tomorrow morning?” he asks.

“Going to school.” My logic has finally decided to return. “Aren’t you?”

“I am,” he says, looking as if he’s going to kiss me yet again, but he holds back. “I’ll pick you up.”

“How about asking me if I want you to pick me up? You know, so I can make the decision for myself?” I start to unbutton his letterman jacket so I can give it back, but he grabs my hand and holds it still.

“Keep it,” he says, smiling. “I’ll get it back tomorrow. You know, when you want me to pick you up. Goodnight, Mia.

I manage to get the word “Goodnight” out and then I rush inside once more, feeling my heart beat a brand new rhythm it’s never felt before.

After that night, a sort of new routine develops between Dean and me. On the afternoons that he doesn’t have football practice, we’re in the library working on our research papers or studying for an exam. On the afternoons that he does, he meets me afterwards at the café I frequent and we talk about nothing for hours at a time.

He always insists on driving me home after we hang out together, and he always picks me up for school in the morning.

I’ve stopped objecting altogether. It’s easier to just go along.