while we work. As I slip into white ballet flats, I wish again that I could wear heels.
“Liii-aaa!”
I stick my clear but uber shiny lip gloss in the front pocket of my backpack and hurry down the stairs.
Once I’m at school, the day slogs by. Each class drags on and on until finally I’m dismissed. As soon as I see Clay waiting in the parking lot, it’s like the time continuum decides to play catch up all at once and suddenly my heart is racing.
“Hey, Nautilus. You ready to get our study on?”
“Sure am.”
He holds open the passenger door of his blue Mustang convertible and I slide in, thankful I stuck with the jeans. As he settles into the driver’s seat, Clay pushes a button, and the top of the car folds back. Within minutes, we’ve turned onto the Pacific Coast Highway, and the ocean air whips through my hair. The waves sparkle through the window, and it’s like we’re in a movie scene or something. The Beach Boys should be crooning about California in the background. Then the wind lashes a strand of my hair into my freshly glossed, highly sticky lips. I smash back to reality and bat the hair out of my face. I must look so spazzy.
“And guys think we have problems,” Clay says with a grin as he brakes at a stoplight. His hand moves toward the button that will put the top back up, but I place my hand on his, stopping him. This small touch of my skin against his shouldn’t feel so electrifying. I inhale sharply, taking in a full breath of the salty sea air.
“Leave it open,” I say. “I can handle it.” Clay has a stack of napkins from a local coffee house sitting in his cup holder under a tin of mints. I grab one, swipe off the offending lip gloss, and throw my head back, welcoming the rush of wind that makes my hair fly out in all directions.
The light turns green, but we don’t move. I look over at Clay in time to see him staring at me.
A honk from the car behind us jolts him into awareness, and he steps on the gas. The wind gets stronger as we pick up speed, and Clay’s smile tells me he’s enjoying the feel of it as much as I am.
Clay’s house isn’t as close to the water as mine or as ridiculously huge, but it’s gorgeous all the same. His mom bought it after the book deal for her latest fantasy series about fairies earned her a cool six figures. My dad read about it in the Malibu Surfside News .
“Is your mom home? I should introduce myself.”
“No. She usually writes at this café around the corner till it gets dark. You hungry? Want anything from the kitchen?”
A couple minutes later, armed with two bottles of water and a bag of sweet potato chips for Clay, we head up to his room.
I’ve never been to his house before, let alone in his room. I’m expecting it to be the way I’ve always pictured a guy’s bedroom—messy with a smell like gym socks or sweaty sheets. When he opens the door, I’m pleasantly surprised.
The room is pretty neat, with the exception of a somewhat disorganized looking desk, and all that meets my nose are the faint scents of laundry soap and … something I can’t quite place.
“Is that … cinnamon?”
“Hmm? Oh, I polished my guitar earlier. My grandfather’s old polish kind of smells like cinnamon.”
I don’t see a guitar anywhere. He must have put it away. “I didn’t know you played.”
“Yeah, since I was a kid.” He unpacks his backpack and spreads the books and materials we’ll need across his cluttered desk.
“Is that your band?” I ask, indicating the t-shirt he’s wearing, which features some sort of indie group.
One corner of his mouth twitches up. “I’m not in a band. This,” he points to the shirt, “is a fellow musical prodigy.” I shake my head at his arrogance but lean in and examine the shirt. The different band members are actually the same person over and over.
“Mozart?”
“The late and great. You seem to love staring at my chest, Nautilus.” He’s only poking fun at me,
“Liii-aaa!”
I stick my clear but uber shiny lip gloss in the front pocket of my backpack and hurry down the stairs.
Once I’m at school, the day slogs by. Each class drags on and on until finally I’m dismissed. As soon as I see Clay waiting in the parking lot, it’s like the time continuum decides to play catch up all at once and suddenly my heart is racing.
“Hey, Nautilus. You ready to get our study on?”
“Sure am.”
He holds open the passenger door of his blue Mustang convertible and I slide in, thankful I stuck with the jeans. As he settles into the driver’s seat, Clay pushes a button, and the top of the car folds back. Within minutes, we’ve turned onto the Pacific Coast Highway, and the ocean air whips through my hair. The waves sparkle through the window, and it’s like we’re in a movie scene or something. The Beach Boys should be crooning about California in the background. Then the wind lashes a strand of my hair into my freshly glossed, highly sticky lips. I smash back to reality and bat the hair out of my face. I must look so spazzy.
“And guys think we have problems,” Clay says with a grin as he brakes at a stoplight. His hand moves toward the button that will put the top back up, but I place my hand on his, stopping him. This small touch of my skin against his shouldn’t feel so electrifying. I inhale sharply, taking in a full breath of the salty sea air.
“Leave it open,” I say. “I can handle it.” Clay has a stack of napkins from a local coffee house sitting in his cup holder under a tin of mints. I grab one, swipe off the offending lip gloss, and throw my head back, welcoming the rush of wind that makes my hair fly out in all directions.
The light turns green, but we don’t move. I look over at Clay in time to see him staring at me.
A honk from the car behind us jolts him into awareness, and he steps on the gas. The wind gets stronger as we pick up speed, and Clay’s smile tells me he’s enjoying the feel of it as much as I am.
Clay’s house isn’t as close to the water as mine or as ridiculously huge, but it’s gorgeous all the same. His mom bought it after the book deal for her latest fantasy series about fairies earned her a cool six figures. My dad read about it in the Malibu Surfside News .
“Is your mom home? I should introduce myself.”
“No. She usually writes at this café around the corner till it gets dark. You hungry? Want anything from the kitchen?”
A couple minutes later, armed with two bottles of water and a bag of sweet potato chips for Clay, we head up to his room.
I’ve never been to his house before, let alone in his room. I’m expecting it to be the way I’ve always pictured a guy’s bedroom—messy with a smell like gym socks or sweaty sheets. When he opens the door, I’m pleasantly surprised.
The room is pretty neat, with the exception of a somewhat disorganized looking desk, and all that meets my nose are the faint scents of laundry soap and … something I can’t quite place.
“Is that … cinnamon?”
“Hmm? Oh, I polished my guitar earlier. My grandfather’s old polish kind of smells like cinnamon.”
I don’t see a guitar anywhere. He must have put it away. “I didn’t know you played.”
“Yeah, since I was a kid.” He unpacks his backpack and spreads the books and materials we’ll need across his cluttered desk.
“Is that your band?” I ask, indicating the t-shirt he’s wearing, which features some sort of indie group.
One corner of his mouth twitches up. “I’m not in a band. This,” he points to the shirt, “is a fellow musical prodigy.” I shake my head at his arrogance but lean in and examine the shirt. The different band members are actually the same person over and over.
“Mozart?”
“The late and great. You seem to love staring at my chest, Nautilus.” He’s only poking fun at me,
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