AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“You didn’t tell me when,” he adds, in that authoritative tone of his that was kind of hot on the basketball court. But now, it makes me want to hit him over the head with his own duvet.
“Dawn, tomorrow,” I answer, trying and failing to sound polite. If he doesn’t care how he talks to me, then why should I?
I thought that no longer having to be polite would be freeing, and it is. It is also kind of devastating.
“Right,” he nods. Doesn’t protest. “And?”
“And what?”
He sighs, grabbing the back of his neck, as if this is so exasperating he can’t even.
“Where to, my queen?”
“Oh,” I say, suddenly disappointed.
“Now what?”
“Never mind,” I say. Honestly, I had hoped he would negotiate some more. I had hoped… No, I did not want to have to exchange ‘favors’ or whatever for the ride, but the idea that he is not even remotely interested in that…with me… Yeah, it crushes me. “Yale,” I tell him. “I want to go to Yale.”
He goes white. My eyes narrow. Why does Yale matter? Why does he turn so pale and swallow so hard, as if he’s seeing spots?
Okay, this is seriously getting weirder and weirder by the second. None of his reactions make any sense to me. What is going on with him today?
“You what?” he says, and it comes out as a croak.
“I want you to take me to Yale.”
“What’s in Yale?” His back is turned to me, and once more, he leans out the window, lighting another cigarette. His Adam’s apple bobs as he inhales, exhales, inhales, exhales. He shuts his eyes.
How to answer his question? I might as well tell him the truth—he’s the one person who won’t care, after all.
“Answers,” I say. And add silently, in my head:I hope.
“Right,” he says with a smirk, as if that was too cheesy of an answer. It was, but who is he to judge? “Five o’ clock, tomorrow.”
***
Five o’ clock (in the morning, yes, morning) on the next day is when hell freezes over. I mean, not literally. Nothing earth-shattering happens, except that I manage to slip away from Bianca, Hector and the rest of my guards. I wear my jeans, my red sweater (the warmest one I own), and about a million layers of cardigans and jackets on top of it.
I also grab a pair of gloves and a cap.
My hair is straight and long, and I don’t think that’s a good idea for the bike ride from (and to) hell, so I quickly twist it in a braid that reaches down to my hip.
I walk to Marco’s dorm, the night thick around me. My breath clouds in front of me, and the trees smell of cold and rain. It’s the last day of October.
Marco is already there, waiting for me. His bike is idling.
He looks me up and down and nods, once. What was that nod for? Did he check to see if I’m dressed ok for the ride? Ugh.
Way to go, making me feel like an idiot again.
He climbs onto his Ducati, and waits for me to climb behind him.
I’ve never climbed on a bike before. It feels strange, the machine pulsing between my legs. I am way too close to him: actually, my entire body is pressed up against his.
“Hold tight.”
He shouts the words over his shoulder, and then he revs up so much, I can barely breathe, let alone ‘hold tight’. But I try to do it.
