Kiss Me

“Yeah?”



Bryce chimes in. “We needed a fine arts class and thought playing around in the clay with hot girls sounded fun last year when we signed up.” He waves his hand in front of him. “But, so far, no hot girls.”



“Oh, gee, thanks,” I tease.



“Well, besides you, of course,” Jake says. “But I think Whitney would kill me if she heard that.” Then he pats the empty stool next to him. “Sit here.”



“Do you like Whitney? I heard you’ve been making out with her a lot. At the dance. At the party.”



“We’ve been making out. And why not? She’s gorgeous.”



Jake is pretty much gorgeous himself, but he seems way too nice to be with someone like Whitney.



“What about her college boyfriend?”



“He’s not here. So who cares? Besides, she’s going to break up with him.”



“You know Dawson’s still in love with her, right?”



“Yeah, but we’ve talked about it. We’re not going to let it interfere with our friendship. Plus, she’s hot.”



Bryce grins. “I don’t know what Jake will do, but I know I’d step up my game for a shot at that.”



“What do you mean?”



“She’s a hot piece, if you know what I mean.” Bryce pushes his elbow into my arm and grins again. Like I couldn’t possible know what he means and his grin somehow clarifies it for me. “And Jake isn’t the only one she’s been kissing.”



I look at Jake. “So, do you just want her for sex, or do you actually like her?”



“Why can’t it be both?” he says simply.



I contemplate that.



And come to the same conclusion I always do.



Guys make no freaking sense.



After class, I walk with Bryce and Jake to the café and go through the lunch line with them.



Jake says, “Come sit with us.”



I follow him to the table. The table I swore I would never sit at again.



I stand in front of it and look down. It’s just like any other long wooden table in the place.



We’ve celebrated holidays all over the world. Mom once told me that it doesn’t matter where you are, what matters is who is sitting with you.



I think about who’s sitting at our table at my old school. I imagine Vanessa hitting on Cush. Running her long nails through his hair and telling him all the things she wants to do to him.



“We don’t have assigned seats,” Bryce says to me, tearing me away from my thoughts. “Just sit anywhere.”



I don’t want to be rude, so I sit down next to Bryce and across from Jake.



The boys are telling Tyrese about what a joke Ceramics class is going to be when Whitney, Peyton, and three other pretty girls sit down. The three girls all scrunch up their noses at me, like they just smelled sour milk.



Whitney gives me that you-don’t-belong-here look.



It’s a look I know well, having worn it on numerous occasions myself.



What the heck am I doing here?



I’m trying to come up with a graceful exit strategy when Dawson sits down on the other side of me and whispers in my ear, “You look adorable today.”



And I can’t help it. It makes me happy.



Mostly because I was a bit worried about how I look today. I’m wearing the little plaid pleated skort, a fitted blue and white pinstriped oxford, and the navy blazer. Then I have on white lace over-the-knee socks and navy suede Rag & Bone platform Mary Janes. My accessories are a combination of long gold and pearl necklaces, gold bangles, and a red leather Proenza Schouler bag. I adore the lace socks and the platforms, but no one else is wearing them. Whitney has on pantyhose—seriously, do people still wear pantyhose?—and a pair of navy square-heeled pumps. The leather looks buttery and expensive, but they still look like the kind of sensible shoes your grandma might wear to the country club.



Make that great-grandma.



But I don’t care. I’m not trying to fit in. I want to be me. And this version of their uniform is totally my style.



Whitney glares at me.



Dawson is oblivious to Whitney’s glares. He puts his hand on my knee, touching the top of my socks, and says in his you’re-so-going-to-fall-into-bed-with-me voice, “These are especially sexy.”



I am about ready to tell him to stop flirting with me when Whitney speaks to Jake in a loud voice. “Oh, Jakey, I just love the tie you have on today. Is it Fendi?” Then she rubs her hand down the front of his shirt and looks at the back of his tie.



She fawns over him and even gives him a kiss on the cheek.



Her fawning is aimed directly at Dawson. She’s talking and flirting with Jake, but her eyes are on Dawson, who hasn’t looked at her once because his attention has been focused on me and Bryce. He tells us all about his morning classes, then starts talking about the kind of wheels I should buy for my new Range Rover. That conversation morphs into an animated one about all the hottest cars they have ever seen.



The lunch-is-over bell rings.



I haven’t seen the Hottie today, but as I’m heading off to my next class, I spy him.



He’s dumping his trash into a trash barrel.



And looking way too sexy doing it.



But, still.



I’ll be damned if I am going to speak to him. He hasn’t spoken to me or texted me since the dances. He turns in my direction and I quickly look away. I certainly don’t want to look like I’m creeping on him.



That becomes an easy task when Dallas comes wandering over, throws his arm around my shoulder, and says, “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”



As we’re walking, he goes on and on about how he was able to see up some girl’s skirt in his last class. And how her panties were bright neon blue, and how She just didn’t look like the kind of girl to wear neon blue.



Then he starts trying to guess the underwear color of every girl we pass.



We get to my class and he says, “So what color are yours today?”



“I thought the whole point of your little game was to guess.”



“Hmm, do they match your socks, white and lacy?”



“Damn, you’re good,” I lie.



He grins big and walks off to class feeling all good about himself.



I’m wearing red lace, really, but, shh . . . don’t tell.



Mom always says red lace panties make you feel confident and sexy, even if no one ever sees them.



The back of my hair.



French.



I walk into French class and don’t see anyone I know, so I sit in a mid-row seat.



I feel my phone buzzing in my bag and take a peek at it. We aren’t supposed to use our phones during class, but I have a couple minutes before the last bell rings.



I see that Brooklyn has sent me a photo of himself. He’s in my favorite pair of Billabong board shorts and the only other thing he’s wearing is his leather cord necklace with the chaos symbol charm. I reach down and touch the tattoo on my hip, close my eyes, click my platforms together three times, and wish myself back home.



I open my eyes, see that I’m still here, sigh, and read his text.



B