I jolt as if pushed, my heart racing.Am I in trouble? Did she notice me zoning out?
I’m not much of a daydreamer, but I can’t stop thinking about last night.
The room gets warmer. My cheeks must be so red. I redo my ponytail and push up the sleeves of my long-sleeve shirt.
Will has haunted me since I woke up today. While I was brushing my teeth, I got a flash of his hands skimming my ribs. On my walk to class this morning, my stomach flip-flopped when I remembered the way his fingertips dug into my hips, and just now at my desk, I zoned out thinking of the feel of his lips on my neck.
I’m getting all hot and bothered thinking about his touch. I don’t remember ever feeling like this when my ex-boyfriends touched me. I thought it would come with time and maybe we just broke up before we got to the part where we had that kind of chemistry. I thought chemistry was something you built with someone, but maybe you either have it or you don’t, and the rest is what you build.
Whatever it is, I’m on cloud nine today, and only this, the prospect of being in trouble with my professor, has knocked me clean off the cloud. Well, that and the fact he still hasn’t texted me and it’s nearly 9:30 a.m. It hasn’t stopped me from checking my phone every ten minutes or so. But my only texts are from my mom and Jade.
And I have a lot of texts from Jade.
YOU LIL SLUT
????????????
I saw you hook up with that guy last night
Deets?????????
Coffee after class?????????
Jessie.
You cannot ignore me.
You cannot hoe it up and then go radio silent.
I know your class schedule.
I know where you sleep.
Ok fine, twist my arm, I’m bringing you coffee. I’ll meet you outside your class.
I click my phone off and try to quell the rising disappointment. He might not even be up by now. It’s still early. He could still text.
There’s a jab on the back of my arm. I know exactly who it is without having to look. Sighing, I turn to face Mackenzie Baldwin.
“Why did you poke me?” I ask, not masking my annoyance.
“You did great,” Mac says, pointing to my quiz, 99% in bright red at the top. There’s a wide smile on his face, but in his eyes there’s something mischievous.
He’s always doing this, making snarky little comments disguised as compliments. I don’t have the patience for it this morning. It’s wearing thin as I wait for Sexy Shakespeare to text me.
“How did you do?” I ask, knowing that if I got a better grade than him it could buoy me for the rest of the day.
I’ve been in competition with Mac for two years. At first it was fun. We had nearly every class together freshman year by some weird scheduling fate, and every time there was a test he’d ask me how I did. For months we compared quiz scores and test results, egging each other on. Because I was partying a little too much, Mac did better than me a lot that first semester, but by second semester I had him beat at nearly everything.
I worked hard in high school. My grades were so good there the school created an award to give me at the end of the year. So when I got to college and found the classes to be surprisingly hard, having something to focus me—beating Mackenzie Baldwin—made me a better student. It was fun, actually. A little game.
Until The Incident. Then it stopped feeling like a game.
Mac flashes his paper at me. 98%.
Ha.
Smirk on my face, I turn back around to face the front of the classroom. I adjust in my seat, straightening my back and rolling my shoulders. When my phone buzzes I nearly drop it trying to check who the text is from.
