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I reach out and graze my hand along the spines of the books as I pass. My mom’s going to wonder why I haven’t even started Fahrenheit 451. Not that I’ll get into trouble, but she’ll wonder what’s been distracting me.
“You know, that kid,” I hear someone say, and I jerk my head to look behind me.
Masen approaches, and my heartbeat picks up pace.
“The one writing on the walls at night?” he continues. “We have something in common. I like to write on things, too.” He stops in front of me and takes my hand. “But you know that, right?”
My skin warms where he touches it, and I try to jerk my hand free, but he holds on tight.
He likes to write on things, too? What? And then I remember the wall at the Cove, my chalk wall in my room, my locker that first day…
I jerk my hand harder, yanking it free. “What? Did you find Trey a bit too big and scary, so you’re going to take your fight to me instead now?”
He gives me a casual grin and snatches my hand again, pulling out a Sharpie from his pocket with his other hand.
“Let go.”
He sticks the marker in his mouth, bites off the cap, and flips the pen around, shoving it back inside the cap. “But I thought you wanted my phone number. For the drive-in, remember?”
He looks down at me with an innocent expression
on his face, and I don’t know what he’s doing, but I have to admit I’m kind of afraid to put up a fight this time. Throwing me into a pool when no one’s around isn’t that embarrassing, but I highly doubt he’s going to give a shit that we’re not alone right now if he deems it necessary to put me in my place again. I don’t want his fucking number.
He takes my left index finger and starts writing on the inside of it, while I grind my teeth and glare at him.
“You know, I remember so much of what was in that diary,” he muses as he writes. “I can say whatever I want. I don’t need proof. Not with them.” He jerks his chin, indicating all the students sitting over in the table area that we can’t see.
I pull away again, but he tightens his hold.
“Don’t worry.” He smiles down at my finger as he sketches. The velvety tip tickles my skin. “I have no interest in tormenting you. Not like that anyway. I just have one question.” And then he stops drawing and looks up, peering at me. “Who’s Delilah?”
I freeze and stare at him, forgetting that he’s holding my hand as the hair on my neck stands up.
“What?”
“You had her name doodled all over your notebook,” he tells me. “Who is she? Secret girlfriend? Secret shame?” He drops his eyes and continues writing. “A regret?”
“You read my notebook. You should already know.”
“I didn’t read anything,” he retorts.
I glare at him. He didn’t read it? But…
“I flipped the pages and saw her name on the inside cover,” he explains. “You think I give a shit about what goes on in your mind? I’ve got better things to do.”
Then why are you asking if you don’t care?
I yank my hand away, growling under my breath. “You’re an asshole.”
I keep my voice low, even though I don’t see anyone around.
But before I can walk away, he places his hands on the bookshelves, locking me in. “You know I could’ve taken him and his friend in one breath just now. What was I waiting for?”
He stares into my eyes, searching for something.
“Maybe the same thing that Cortez kid waits for when your boyfriend’s pushing him around,” he says in a low voice, his lips inches from mine. “Maybe for someone in their perky, little ponytail”—he flips my hair—“and come-fuck-me short shorts to grow a dick and stand up to the asshole.”
I knock his arm away, my stomach tight with anger. But he locks me in again, bearing down.
