[ 3 ]
Excitement thundered into me like a horrid sickness and my legs turned to overcooked fettuccini. To my left, I saw boys partnering up. To my right, boys and girls and everyone partnering up. Straight ahead, Andrew sat there, bored, tight-shirted and muscular and … waiting.
I couldn’t believe it. No one was going for him and no one was approaching me. Maybe it’s a fluke. Maybe I should wait. Maybe someone was headed for my desk right now and as soon as they’d ask, I’d weakly agree to be their partner while longingly staring at Andrew from across the classroom and swallowing all my what-ifs. What is it about a sick concoction of courage and horniness that drives us to do stupid things? Was I about to do the stupidest thing of all?
I was up from my seat and began to move. The world was falling to my left, falling to my right, and the classroom was a blur of noise and voice and colors. As I approached his desk, I felt myself getting sicker and sicker, shaking all over. I’ve never been this nervous before, I remember thinking. Still no one approached him. Why? Didn’t anyone else see this beautiful hunk of beefsteak just waiting to be claimed?
Halfway to his desk, he turned. That’s when our eyes connected for the first time in my life, and I stopped. He just sat there, fierce and beastly, his blue-steel eyes pinning me in place. He made no effort to move or get up, even while we stared at each other, both of us waiting—waiting for what?
He wanted me to finish my walk toward him. He wanted me to humiliate myself. Even this early on, teaching me that he always gets what he wants.
I started moving again. The rest of the walk to his desk took seven forevers. Walking toward him, he neither spoke nor smiled; he just sat there, his bright eyes locked on me, waiting, almost bored.
And then I was in front of his desk. He hardly made the effort to lift his chin. I felt the throbbing of my nervous system in my fingertips and if I didn’t get the words out soon, I was going to faint.
“Do you …” Already ran out of breath. I braced myself, noticed I had put a hand on his desk—perhaps to ensure that I wouldn’t fall over—then finished: “Do you want to b-b-be partners?”
He regarded me lazily. The muscles in his shoulders flinched. His arms twitched deliciously as he shifted his body around to have a better look. I was breathing funny and my palms were so sweaty I thought they’d fall off.
After what might have been the length of a sentence to hell, he finally said, “Alright.”
Oh fuck, his voice. Deep, smooth, strong. Involuntarily, I lowered into a seat next to him. I didn’t even check to see if anyone was sitting in it and I’m super glad no one was because I’d be in their lap now. “Cool,” I finally allowed myself to say, grabbing my fingers, unsure what to do with them, resting them on my thighs. “I’m Michael.”
“Andrew,” he said back, but of course I already knew that. Every day’s roll call told me so, again and again: Andrew Knudson.
I took a second to peer across the rest of the class, surveying all the other partnerships that had been formed. I still couldn’t believe no one else thought to approach Andrew. He had no friends in the class, I figured. Maybe he intimidated everyone else just as much. Maybe he was put in this class just for me.
I was self-centered and horny, I don’t care.
“So?”
I returned my attention to him, realizing I was losing myself in my own head. “Yeah, okay,” I said, bringing myself into focus. “So, uh … next we need to, uh … we need to figure out a subject for our paper.”
“Yeah,” he grunted, playing with a pencil in his hand. The way his fingers moved, making the pencil dance between them, among them, under and over them, I should’ve known right there how expert he could be with his fingers. He has clever fingers. Wicked fingers. Playful fingers …
“So … do you have any ideas for … um …?”
He shrugged his big muscular shoulders and focused his bright, cold eyes at the ceiling. I couldn’t tell if he was in thought, or just so horribly uninterested that he was counting the minutes until class was over. Was this a mistake? I wondered. Did I steal him away from someone else? Was he hoping some hot chick would’ve asked to pair with him? I felt guilty instantly.
But despite my guilt, I also felt lucky as fuck. I felt special. I felt like I’d won something. Yeah, he’s probably straight, and I had half a mind to sneer at all the girls that could’ve partnered with him, even the other dudes in class, anyone that could’ve come between me and the object of my desires. I had a sudden and hungry possessiveness take hold of me.
It was a game of partners and I’d won.
Noting his clear lack of enthusiasm for the tedium of work, I began to suggest ideas for our psychology project. Andrew was very, very little help. He wants me to do all the work, I realized, but somehow I wasn’t annoyed by it. If the price of being within his proximity was doing the work, I’d pay it happily. I’d pay it all year long, just to make sure we’re partners every time.
Of course, every idea I had Andrew shot down. “Dumb,” he said to one. “Lame,” he said to another. Then finally he cuts me off and says, “Games.”
“Games?”
“The psych behind them,” he said, a tinge of annoyance in his voice, as if I ought to have followed his train of thought perfectly with just the few unhelpful words. “Games we play.”
“I don’t get it. Video games?”
“You think I’m hot?”
My mouth was opened with my next words on my tongue, but his question froze me in place. A hundred thoughts raced through me and my heart was in my throat. Was he onto me? Did he, all this time, know that I was some horny, lonely, drooling guy in the back of the classroom waiting for this one sad moment to throw myself at him? Did he know I was stalking him that whole time, following him to math and then to the food court?
I realized even now, he could still decide not to be my partner and go find someone else. I could lose him.
“What—What—What do you mean?”
“You hoping this project’s gonna get us close or something?” he asked, his voice so low I could swear his words were being submitted to me by telepathy. He’s inside my head, I told myself. I was shaking so bad, I could feel my pulse in my fucking eyeballs. Still, he went on, almost gently: “Wanna touch me, Michael?”
“I don’t—I don’t know what you—why you—”
“I’m playing with you, get it?” His eyes burned with their furious hot-blue irises. “The games we play with each other. Teasing. Button-pushing.”
“Oh. The … the psychology of games,” I said back, studying him uncertainly. Question was, was he still fucking with me, or was he serious? My pulse blinded me, making my eyesight unclear. I wondered if my vision was the only thing all this excitement was making unclear. “I … I don’t think they have a study specifically for that.”
“That’s what I want our project to be.” The way he said it, I got the feeling there was little room for negotiation. It’s always been Andrew’s way or no way. It’s Andrew’s game or no game at all.
“Games, it is,” I agreed.