"I see," Donna said, making it clear she didn't care about his excuse as she headed off to her room without another word.
"Sorry," I said, walking Dean to the door. "It's not you, it's me," I said, trying to explain her behavior.
"No, actually it's not you, it's her," he answered, looking troubled.
"She has her reasons," I said, defending her.
"No reason justifies that," he said, placing a kiss on my lips. "I'll be here in the morning," he said, stepping outside. I knew he would be waiting for me to lock the door behind him.
Chapter nineteen
Dean showed up as promised to pick me up the next morning with homemade biscuit sandwiches. "My mom sent me bearing gifts," he said, holding the napkin-wrapped sandwich for me. "So are we walking or driving?" he asked, shouldering my backpack for me.
"Driving," I answered, taking a bite of my sandwich. "Mmm, this is good," I said, taking a bigger bite.
"They're my favorite, for sure," he said, pulling into a parking spot in the student lot.
"Can't we walk in together tomorrow?" I asked in a last-ditch attempt as I watched our classmates pile out of their vehicles.
"Not a chance. I let you keep our friendship secret over the last few weeks. Now that were dating, I want people to know."
"They're going to hate it. Your reputation will be in tatters."
"You're wrong, but I don’t care," he said, taking my hand as we left his vehicle behind.
Conversations stopped as we made our way down the halls, hand in hand. I could hear snide remarks and incredulous comments as Dean first walked me to my locker. I kept my eyes averted from his. I may have foreseen this kind of reaction, but it didn’t make it any easier.
Twirling the dial on my locker, I finally looked up at Dean as I reached for my backpack that he still carried. My eyes meet his, and I wanted to hurt someone when I saw the pain reflected in his eyes. His jaw was clenched, and I could see his knuckles were white where he gripped my backpack strap. Anger welled up inside of me. Hurting me was one thing, but hurting someone as decent as Dean was just wrong.
"Fuck them," I said, smoothing my hand over his tense jaw. Whether it was my statement or my rare touch, the tension seemed to evaporate inside him.
"Fuck them," he repeated, dropping his lips to mine for a quick possessive kiss. If there was any shadow of a doubt in anyone's mind that we were together, the kiss we shared made our relationship abundantly clear.
"Let's get you to Whore Cat's class before the tardy bell rings," Dean said with a grin. All my worries drifted away at his smile. Who cared what everyone said? I'd ridden the wave of gossip before, I could ride it again.
"I'll see you at lunch," Dean said, dropping a last kiss on my lips.
I nodded before heading into the room and claiming my seat.
The whispers from the hallway followed me into the room, although the octave level of them seemed to have risen.
"Once a slut, always a slut," floated toward me. I kept my eyes down, not giving anyone the satisfaction of responding.
"Wonder how many lives she'll ruin this time?" a distinctive voice asked from the back of the room.
I didn’t cringe and I didn’t turn to look at the voice that belonged to my friend from long ago. As a rule, I hadn’t acknowledged Katie's presence since I discovered we were both in the same world history class. I never looked at her or showed any sign that I knew she was there. I knew my indifference drove her nuts, which is why she had chosen to ignore me the last four years. The note thrown at my head a few weeks ago was unmistakably her handiwork.
Ms. Jones started the class as soon as the bell rang.
"We only have three weeks before Christmas break begins to cover the material for the next grading module. All of your projects will be due on the twentieth and will count for eighty percent of your grade," she droned on, writing the criteria on the whiteboard for all of us to see.
I was not enthused about the end-of-term project. Projects blew. For one thing, they were way too time-consuming, and the fact that you had to present them in front of the class was like being thrown in a field with a bunch of starving zombies. I had opted out of projects that had been assigned since I entered high school. I always took the much lesser grade by opting to write a paper instead.
Listening to Whore Cat with half an ear, I considered actually participating in this one. I'd bet my life on the fact that Dean was a pro at projects, and I was pretty sure he'd have no problem helping me with mine.
I was in the middle of jotting down the criteria for the project when the first crumpled up ball hit me in the head. I watched as it rolled to a rest by my foot, taunting me to pick it up. I wanted to see what insults were being thrown at me now that their golden boy was mine. I could practically hear the rolled-up ball calling my name, but I resisted picking it up. It was time to let the past go. I didn’t need to see what the note said. It no longer mattered. Dean was interested in me, despite it all.
Resuming my note taking, I wasn’t surprised when another paper ball hit me in the head. This time I didn’t even look up.