Soalive.
Like his hair, for example.
His spiky, dark hair. The strands of which have little droplets sitting on the tips, making me think that he just had a shower, right after the game.
And maybe he was in a rush to get to his party.
Because he didn’t bother with a shave and his jaw is stubbled with a five o’clock shadow.
I don’t think he likes it though.
Because I always catch him touching it, rubbing and scratching it as if irritated.
A gesture that’s more like a habit to him. That he’s performing right now even, as he talks to the girl, his face turned toward her, a smirk lurking on his ruby-red lips.
A gesture that makes me think that maybe he likes smooth things. Soft things.
Things like his hoodie.
His white hoodie, to be precise.
So his hoodies are famous around school and in town. They’re always white or cream colored and they always seem thick and cozy.
And of course soft.
Also, his hoodies are his favorite thing to wear.
Because he always has them on — well, except in summers but still. That and his dark jeans.
Black and white.
And needless to say, girls around town are obsessed with his hoodies.
They stare at them. They talk about them. They want to touch his hoodies and play with the strings. They want to wear his hoodies too.
Which from what I’ve heard is a privilege.
Not every girl gets to wear them, only the special ones, and so it’s a coveted thing: Reed Roman Jackson and his hoodies.
Even now the girl who’s wrapped around him is tracing the fabric, pulling on the strings, fingering the edge of his sleeve at his wrist as she laughs at something he’s said.
Stop staring, Callie.
Right.
I need to stop staring. But the thing is that it’s very hard to do.
See, that’s his magic I think.
The dark magic that I was talking about.
It makes him glow.
Like his very skin absorbs whatever light is in the vicinity, leaving the rest of the world in darkness.
So much so that the only thing you can see, the only thing that youcanfocus on, is him and nothing else.
But.
