“You've got to be fucking kidding me…” I slide past, dipping under his outstretched arm, caging me against my locker.Damn, do you really have to wear so much Axe Body Spray? Your fumes are giving me a headache.
“Baby, that wasn't me! You've got to believe me! I meant what I said when I said I'd never do it again!” His voice carries behind me, echoing in the halls.
“Get away from me, Zane. It's over!” I yell, and I don't look back. He doesn't deserve it. Zane and I have been off and on for two years. Two years of up and down mood swings, cheating, and backhanded compliments. I can't wait to have him out of my life!
Tears well in my eyes as I walk to class. Maybe if I keep my head down, I won't have to explain to my friends and Mr. Ferguson why I've been crying. I tilt my head down and look blankly at the white tips of my pink Converse sneakers. The smudged navy heart I doodled in language arts blurs more in my vision the closer I get to my desk in the back row of the class.
“Hey. Are you okay?” Andrew asks as I wipe away my tears with the back of my hand. He considers me with full concern while he sits up in his seat.
“Yeah,” I mask with a smile. “Just a lot going on.” It's not a lie, but something about him says he can read through my bullshit.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Andrew scans me up and down, and I swear it gives me butterflies.
“No, that's okay. I'll be fine…” My fake grin leaves my face when I slide into my desk and fish out my history notes.
“Talk to me about it later on MySpace?” His broad smile warms up his otherwise pale face as he spins his pen through his fingers.
“I have cheer practice…”
“All night?” He asks, flipping through his green spiral notebook to an empty page.
“Don't you have anything better to do than talk to me? Practicing your bass, maybe?”
“I can play my bass while you're at practice… Come on…” His playful whining tugs at the corners of his mouth. “You know you want to talk to your new pal, Andy…”
“Fine. Not so late this time, though. We have school tomorrow.”
“Promise. Just until the sun rises…”
“Andy… One hour.”
“Candi, you're killing me.” He grips his chest where his heart would be. “Fine, you owe me an hour.” The wink he sends me heats my face, and my cheeks feel like they're on fire. No matter how hard I try to hide the new rouge on my alabaster face, I'm sure he caught my wide beam.
Andrew Miller and I have been talking on MySpace every night since Friday. I swear he waits for me to get on and immediately sends me a “Hey,” or a “Wassup, Candi?!” Or maybe it's the other way around.
To say my stomach doesn't do little flips when the little red notification pops up on the envelope icon would be a lie. The truth is, I haven't been more excited to talk to someone since he randomly added me late Friday night. I can talk to him for hours, and it feels like we're the only two people online. In person, however, we've barely spoken two words to each other.
It's not a secret, Andrew and I don't walk in the same crowds. His friends slowly stalk the halls behind everyone else when the bell rings. Andy's edgy clothes and facial piercings may make my heart beat quickly in my chest, but they would send my mother into cardiac arrest.
He looks so serious when he sketches. The sharpened tip of his pencil digs harshly into the lined pages. I wonder what he could be drawing today. Maybe more band names and nautical stars in the side margins. I take turns from eyeing the chalkboard to sneak glimpses of his desk. It's my sad guise at not seeming so transparent, but I know I'm not fooling him.
Every so often, he gives me quick glances and his dimple in his cheek that combines with his big smile. “Taking notes?” Andy whispers while Mr. Ferguson drones on with the lesson.
“Something like that.” I match his expression with a leer of my own.
“You’d better stop talking to me. You're going to get me in trouble.”
“I thought you liked talking to me.” I pause, signaling with my eyes to the spiral notebook in front of him. “What are you drawing?”
“What can I say, you got me there,” he admits, shifting in his seat and moving his notebook so that it's out of my view. “It's not great, just something I've been working on for our new demo.” He nervously taps the end of his pen on his notebook.
“Can I see?” I inch closer to him without falling out of my slick blue seat. My goosebumps hide under my white hoodie when I move further in. A large knot forms in my throat as I realize how close my Chuck Taylors are to his Doc Martins.
“Sure. But you have to promise not to laugh.” He quickly slides over his notebook while looking at the front of the class. “Take it before Ferguson sees.” I nod before grabbing it and bringing it over to my desk.
It's different from what he usually draws. There aren't any anarchy symbols or roughly sketched versions of the “Superman S.” No, this looks more thought out.
Two masculine hands grip onto a black heart and pull it apart in the process. Ripped seams narrowly keep it held together. “I like it,” I scribble my words in the corner of the page before handing it back to him. “Psst.” He turns in his seat, grabbing the notebook out of my hands.
