Shit.Shit. I shouldn’t have said anything. I just…I just wanted everyone to get along.
“Alright, message received,” Ricky says.
“Don’t get mad at Aaron,” Ethan says. “Especially right after your moment.”
“What moment?” Jude’s voice is vicious.
“When you were wiping his face.”
“It kind of looked like you were lovers,” Mimi says with a smirk.
“So what about him?” Ethan asks.
“What about what?” Jude replies.
“Aaron. We talked before about how you must find at least one person at school hot. So, what about Aaron? You looked all tender when you were wiping pizza sauce off his face. D’ya reckon he’s a looker?”
Jude doesn’t even look at me, but his face twists in disgust. “Absolutely not,” he says, voice as cold as an icicle. It feels like a kick to the gut.
I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. It’s just Jude.
“You sure?” Ethan asks.
“I’m sure,” Jude replies, his voice like steel. “Besides.” He flings me a bored look. “He’s taken.”
My lips part. What?
“Taken?” Ethan repeats.
At the same time, Ricky says, “He’s not taken. He’s the most single fella we know.”
“But I saw you on a date.” His eyes flick to Lily before meeting mine. Slowly, he drags his gaze from the top of my head down to my torso, assessing me like I’m an object. “It’s a relief you no longer have any hickeys on display. It was awfully tacky.”
When school starts, I feel like I can finally breathe. On Monday, I have tunnel vision, barely paying attention to classes or the people around me. Instead, the only thing I’m focused on is lunchtime. I count the minutes down, the way I’d look forwardto bed after a tiring day. All I want is to relax for the rest of my life to melt away.
Once I’m in the storeroom, the door locked behind me, F pulls me to the floor. All my stress disintegrates, leaving me with nothing but sweet calm. I shuck my blazer off, shove it to the side, then F crawls on top of me and kisses my cheeks, nose, and lips.
“I missed you,” he whispers.
I grab his hips, holding him tighter than usual, like maybe I’m afraid he’s going to disappear. “I missed you too.”
We spend the next several minutes not talking, our mouths occupied by other activities. I kiss him until my lips start to hurt and run my hands all over him — his long torso and the curve of his bum and the firmness of his upper arms — and inhale the scent of him, nose brushing against his collarbone.
He grabs my hands and pins them against the carpet above my head, then licks a stripe on my neck. It feels right, being like this, and not just in a sexual way. It’s the weight of him, the sensation, the knowledge that it’s him on me. He’s the only one who should be touching me like this, no one else.
Earlier today, in homeroom, I wrote F an email in the style of our Locker 99 letters.
Dear F,
I can’t wait to see you this afternoon. I can’t wait to undo your tie and unbutton your shirt.
Love,
R.
I sent it impulsively, but a few minutes later, when homeroom had started, and Mrs Burke was in the middle of reading the daily bulletin, my phone buzzed with a response.
Dear R,
