She tucked a strand of her short brown hair behind her ear. “Let’s hang out after school.”
I nodded as she dashed off to her seat.
The class filled up minus Train, and my pulse slowed until he swaggered through the door at the sound of the final bell.Well, darn.He zeroed in on me as he ran his fingers through his damp hair, which was curled at his nape. My pulse sped up, ratcheting up even more as I gawked, wanting nothing more than to run my hands along Train’s strong jaw, which looked to be as smooth as a baby’s bottom.
His long, thick legs carried him across the room, his jeans riding low on his hips. He wore a gray T-shirt that read Puck This.
My pulse was speeding at a hundred miles per hour as he got closer. If there was air conditioning on in the room, I couldn’t feel it. My body broke out in perspiration, and I tried to remember if I’d put on deodorant that morning. But the closer he got, my hygiene and anything else went out the window, especially when he practically snarled at me.
Now my pulse was racing a different tune. I bit my tongue, afraid I might blurt something out and get sent to the principal’s office. Then I scolded myself. The principal’s office didn’t scare me. After all, I was an expert when it came to dealing with principals. I was Montana Smith—spunky, courageous, and brazen. That last word was how my mom would describe me. She’d always said that in the little time she knew my father he’d been brazen.
Train plopped down into his chair, which was, at most, an arm’s length from mine. It didn’t matter if he was two arms’ length from me. His ocean scent knocked me back in my chair, idling my ire for a moment. I would bet he went surfing that morning before school. Or maybe that scrumptious odor was all him with no colognes or salt water.
Mr. Salvatore passed out papers. “Today, we’ll discuss HTML coding that will help with your senior computer project.”
Papers shuffled around as whispers followed.
I knew how to use a computer. I knew how to get around on my phone, but I’d only heard of HTML from Mom when she was discussing her website with her web designer. She’d explained that HTML was computer language that bolded letters or changed font colors.
I raised my hand.
Mr. Salvatore picked up a sheaf of papers. “What is it, Ms. Smith?”
“I thought we were learning about Photoshop.” I’d read that was one of the topics in computer class. I’d been interested to learn the program since an artist could do some neat things with Photoshop.
“You will. But for your project, you’ll also need to understand HTML.”
I flipped through the two-page document he handed out as he continued to talk. On the top of the first page was the definition of HTML—Hypertext Markup Language.
Mr. Salvatore rested on the edge of his desk as he scanned the room. “You’ll pair up with a partner to build an app. The requirements are no games, nothing related to sports, and the app has to be something unique that could benefit an organization or company. For example, think business; think school. What app might benefit a business owner or maybe a college student? Some of your parents run big companies. Start to pick their brains. Go through the App Store and see what’s out there. And no copying code from other apps on the web. You’ll be given a program that will help you build the app from scratch. But the brains behind it and how you build it come from you and your partner. I want to see a preliminary outline in two weeks. Any questions?”
All I got from his speech was the word “partner.” I had to pair up with someone, which meant my partner could be the panty-wetting boy next to me. A droplet of sweat trickled down my lower back.
Elvira raised her hand. “Do we get to pick our partners?”
“I’ve taken the liberty of pairing you up,” he said.
The class protested. “We want to pick our own partners,” one boy said. “I don’t want my grade affected by someone who isn’t going to do the work.”
Mr. Salvatore pushed down his hands as though he were bouncing a basketball. “Quiet. I choose the teams. Call it a primer for the adult world you’ll be facing soon. You won’t always get to work with friends.”
Another boy on the far side of the room said, “This is bullshit.”
“Mr. Radcliffe, would you like to pass this class?”
The red-haired boy clammed up.
Please don’t put me with Radcliffe.I would be in hell trying to get that boy to work with me.Andplease don’t put me with Train.Otherwise, I wouldn’t learn anything. Instead, my panties would be damp the entire time. Or with my luck, Nina would clobber me for working with Train. Or after the way he’d snarled at me, we would be dueling it out. The latter would be quite fun. But then I wouldn’t pass the class.
Mr. Salvatore picked up a notebook. “The partners are as follows.” As he began reading off names, nausea swirled inside me. Kids began to whisper their excitement or dread.
“Ms. Smith and Mr. Everly, you two are a pair.”
Train choked. The blood drained from my face, I think more because of his disgust when Mr. Salvatore had read my name. I jerked my head at Train. He narrowed his eyes at me, and they seemed to turn a wretched pukey green.Yippee.We were going to be a great pair at nothing other than failing. I sneered at him. He grimaced. I was ready to throw down because I wasn’t about to fail.
“Okay, I want you to get with your partner and start brainstorming,” the teacher said.
Everyone moved around until they were with their partners. I popped out of my chair and stormed up to Mr. Salvatore.
