fingers. “I can never face him again,” I say to no one in particular.
Unfortunately, Mom thinks I’m talking to her. “Why? Did he break up with you?” She sits down next to me and pulls my hands from my face. “Is it because you wouldn’t sleep with him?”
“Mom!” I screech. “No!”
She snatches her hand away. “You mean you did sleep with him?” Her lips quiver. This can’t be happening.
“Mom, I told you, we’re not dating!” Shouting is a dumb idea. My heartbeat ripples through my temples.
“You’re not even dating him and you slept with him?” She’s wringing her hands. Tears puddle in her eyes.
One Mississippi … two Mississippi … Is she freaking serious? … Three Mississippi … four Mississippi … Because I swear I’m about to move out. … Five Mississippi … six Mississippi … I might as well sleep with him if I’m going to be accused of it anyway. … Seven Mississippi … eight Mississippi … Ohmysweetgoodness, did I really just think that? … Nine Mississippi … ten Mississippi … Talk to your mother—now .
I keep my voice polite when I say, “Mom, I haven’t slept with Galen, unless you count laying on the nurse’s bed unconscious beside him. And we are not dating. We have never dated. Which is why he wouldn’t need to break up with me. Have I missed anything?”
“What were you arguing about in the hall, then?”
“I actually don’t remember. All I remember is being mad at him. Trust me, I’ll find out. But right now, I’m late for school.” I ease out of the chair and over to my backpack on the floor. Bending over is even stupider than shouting. I wish my head would just go ahead and fall off already.
“So, you don’t remember what you talked about? You definitely should stay home and rest then. Emma? Emma, don’t you walk away from me, young lady.”
She doesn’t come after me, which means this conversation is over.
* * *
I pull into my parking spot and check my makeup in the rearview. The porcelain foundation hides my blush as well as a magnifying glass. It’s bound to get worse if I run into Galen. Taking a deep breath, I open the door as the bell rings.
The front office smells of fresh paint, crisp notebook paper, and coffee. I sign in as an unexcused tardy and wait for my hall pass. Mrs. Poindexter, a nice older lady who’s worked in the front office since she was a nice younger lady, pulls a pad from a drawer and scribbles on it. She’s recognizable in old faculty photos because, like then, she still stacks her white hair into an honest-to-goodness beehive, using enough hairspray to get the attention of the EPA. Oh, and she shows more cleavage than most prom dresses.
“We’re all so happy you’re feeling better, Miss McIntosh. Looks like you still have a good bump on your noggin, though,” she says in her childlike voice.
Since there is no bump on my noggin, I take a little offense but decide to drop it. “Thanks, Mrs. Poindexter. It looks worse than it feels. Just a little tender.”
“Yeah, I’d say the door got the worst of it,” he says beside me. Galen signs himself in on the unexcused tardy sheet below my name. When his arm brushes against mine, it feels like my blood’s turned into boiling water.
I turn to face him. My dreams really do not do him justice. Long black lashes, flawless olive skin, cut jaw like an Italian model, lips like— for the love of God, have some dignity, nitwit. He just made fun of you. I cross my arms and lift my chin. “You would know,” I say.
He grins, yanks my backpack from me, and walks out. Trying to ignore the waft of his scent as the door shuts, I look to Mrs. Poindexter, who giggles, shrugs, and pretends to sort some papers. The message is clear: He’s your problem, but what a great problem to have. Has he charmed the sense out of the staff here, too? If he started stealing kids’ lunch money, would they also giggle at that? I growl through clenched teeth and stomp out of the
Unfortunately, Mom thinks I’m talking to her. “Why? Did he break up with you?” She sits down next to me and pulls my hands from my face. “Is it because you wouldn’t sleep with him?”
“Mom!” I screech. “No!”
She snatches her hand away. “You mean you did sleep with him?” Her lips quiver. This can’t be happening.
“Mom, I told you, we’re not dating!” Shouting is a dumb idea. My heartbeat ripples through my temples.
“You’re not even dating him and you slept with him?” She’s wringing her hands. Tears puddle in her eyes.
One Mississippi … two Mississippi … Is she freaking serious? … Three Mississippi … four Mississippi … Because I swear I’m about to move out. … Five Mississippi … six Mississippi … I might as well sleep with him if I’m going to be accused of it anyway. … Seven Mississippi … eight Mississippi … Ohmysweetgoodness, did I really just think that? … Nine Mississippi … ten Mississippi … Talk to your mother—now .
I keep my voice polite when I say, “Mom, I haven’t slept with Galen, unless you count laying on the nurse’s bed unconscious beside him. And we are not dating. We have never dated. Which is why he wouldn’t need to break up with me. Have I missed anything?”
“What were you arguing about in the hall, then?”
“I actually don’t remember. All I remember is being mad at him. Trust me, I’ll find out. But right now, I’m late for school.” I ease out of the chair and over to my backpack on the floor. Bending over is even stupider than shouting. I wish my head would just go ahead and fall off already.
“So, you don’t remember what you talked about? You definitely should stay home and rest then. Emma? Emma, don’t you walk away from me, young lady.”
She doesn’t come after me, which means this conversation is over.
* * *
I pull into my parking spot and check my makeup in the rearview. The porcelain foundation hides my blush as well as a magnifying glass. It’s bound to get worse if I run into Galen. Taking a deep breath, I open the door as the bell rings.
The front office smells of fresh paint, crisp notebook paper, and coffee. I sign in as an unexcused tardy and wait for my hall pass. Mrs. Poindexter, a nice older lady who’s worked in the front office since she was a nice younger lady, pulls a pad from a drawer and scribbles on it. She’s recognizable in old faculty photos because, like then, she still stacks her white hair into an honest-to-goodness beehive, using enough hairspray to get the attention of the EPA. Oh, and she shows more cleavage than most prom dresses.
“We’re all so happy you’re feeling better, Miss McIntosh. Looks like you still have a good bump on your noggin, though,” she says in her childlike voice.
Since there is no bump on my noggin, I take a little offense but decide to drop it. “Thanks, Mrs. Poindexter. It looks worse than it feels. Just a little tender.”
“Yeah, I’d say the door got the worst of it,” he says beside me. Galen signs himself in on the unexcused tardy sheet below my name. When his arm brushes against mine, it feels like my blood’s turned into boiling water.
I turn to face him. My dreams really do not do him justice. Long black lashes, flawless olive skin, cut jaw like an Italian model, lips like— for the love of God, have some dignity, nitwit. He just made fun of you. I cross my arms and lift my chin. “You would know,” I say.
He grins, yanks my backpack from me, and walks out. Trying to ignore the waft of his scent as the door shuts, I look to Mrs. Poindexter, who giggles, shrugs, and pretends to sort some papers. The message is clear: He’s your problem, but what a great problem to have. Has he charmed the sense out of the staff here, too? If he started stealing kids’ lunch money, would they also giggle at that? I growl through clenched teeth and stomp out of the
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