"I wouldn't mind if he borrowed mine," Hazel says under her breath. I glower at her.
I'm usually a coward, but I despise people who act like jerks just because they can. Also, poor Ms. Evans doesn't deserve this. For the remainder of the class, I work up my courage to walk up to Damon during the break and give him a piece of my mind.
I never get a chance to talk to him. Anna, Ella, Sherry, and Deb corner him after class. They put a lot of effort into getting his attention. They usually only have to smile and play with their hair, and any guy is at their feet. Now they’re just making fools of themselves, and not getting anywhere. Well, they do. By the end of the break, Damon doesn't look bored anymore. He looks pissed.
Trig and Biology go in similar fashion. Both teachers have the unfortunate idea to ask him to introduce himself. His answer leaves Mr. Smith stricken in Trig. Damon doesn't bother to answer at all in Biology.
I detect a disturbing pattern. The ruder he is, the more sighs and ohs the girls let slip. What the hell? My only hope is the other guys in class will take his ego down a notch. They’re all throwing him unfriendly glances as it is.
***
Since it's the warmest end of January ever, Hazel and I sit on the roof during lunch break, each of us enjoying a tuna salad with extra Parmigiano. The roof is above the cafeteria and serves as a terrace in spring and summer, but it's unused now. I had planned to corner Damon at the end of Biology, but he skidded out of the room before I even rose from my seat. He might have vanished into thin air, because he wasn't in the cafeteria when Hazel and I bought our lunch. From below us comes chitchat about prom—dresses, hair, nails, boys. I can’t believe it’s already a topic of discussion. Prom is in May.
Hazel and I listen in silence while we gulp down our lunch, and then Hazel asks loudly, "Have you decided when you'll leave for London, Dani? Will you spend t
he summer here?"
We have an agreement not to discuss prom since it's going to be a sad night for both of us. We'll probably keep each other company—or skip it altogether. Everyone else has dates already, but no one asked us.
Mom insists I don't have a date because I make no effort to look beautiful. She used to be a renowned, highly-paid model in her youth. She secretly hoped for a daughter with long legs and beautiful features she could send on the runway. Instead, she ended up with me, a nerd. To my mother, that's a disease. In high school, there's no greater crime than not being beautiful, or at least very pretty. My mom and my classmates agree.
I love my parents, but they’re toxic. Luckily, my grandfather set up a trust fund for me when I was born. I'll get access to it when I turn eighteen and move to England—my mother’s birthplace—for college. I already received my acceptance letter to Oxford. It's conditional on achieving high grades, but I don't worry too much about that. Surviving prom worries me more. I try to put on a brave face when Mom questions me about it, but I can't deny it—being invisible sucks. I try not to dwell on it.
"Depends. If James has time to vacation with me this summer, I’ll move in September. If he doesn't, I might leave right after school ends and settle in."
"Aren't you nervous? About leaving?"
"A bit," I admit.
"Well, I am very nervous. I can't believe we won't go to college together."
I melt on the spot and put an arm around Hazel. "I'll visit often," I promise, though I know it won't make much of a difference. We won't be there to experience each other's firsts, the way we have for the last twelve years. First college class. First frat party. First kiss. I shudder lightly as the image of Damon's lips pops in my mind. What has gotten into me?
"I still don't understand why you want to leave. We have some of the best colleges around here,” Hazel says. I don't understand myself why I want to move overseas. I guess it's because I never felt at home here, much as I wanted to. Somehow, I don't think the answer to feeling home is moving to a foreign place, but I have to try. “Come with me to Stanford, pretty please," Hazel insists. My father and brother went to Stanford, and it's the closest college, so it would make sense to attend it.
"You haven't gotten your acceptance letter yet," I joke.
"I will," she says. I know she will. If there’s something Hazel and I are confident about, it's our brain. We know what we're worth. We’ve excelled at every subject in school, except for Trig, but that didn’t have any influence on my acceptance to Oxford, and I expect it won’t have any on her acceptance to Stanford. I spend the rest of the lunch break reassuring Hazel that everything will be just fine in college.
Before going to the first afternoon class, I stop by the restroom, hoping to clean off a stain I got on my t-shirt from dropping an oily salad leaf on my left boob. It takes me a few good minutes of rubbing to realize I won't be able to get it off. I give up, swing the door open, and break into a run because I'm already late for class. I collide with something hard head-first.
"You," I bellow when I realize I haven't collided with something. I've collided with Damon, jerk extraordinaire, who currently has a self-satisfied smirk the same size of his giant ego.
"Well, well, well, this is new. No girl tried to hit on me by literally hitting me before."
His comment throws me off-balance, and in the few seconds it takes me to pull myself together, my cheeks catch fire. "I'm not hitting on you; I just didn't see you," I say. His smirk widens. "I'm not hitting on you," I repeat. "Not every girl in this school thinks you're the eighth wonder of the world."
"So you just crashed into me." He jams one hand in the pocket of his jeans, leaning against the wall.
"Yes."
"Then move out of my way."
Stubbornly, I keep my stance, avoiding looking at his lips or eyes. Something about his eyes unsettles me. Maybe it's their intensity, or the fact that I'm afraid he might read my thoughts and discover I find him hot. So ridiculously hot, in fact, that my breath becomes uneven.
In a fraction of a second, he wraps an arm around my waist, turns me around, and pins me against the wall. He presses his palms against the wall on my sides, effectively trapping me. His chest is closing in on me, his hot breath blowing against my temple.
"Mmmm...not the eighth wonder of the world, huh? The racing pulse, the blush in your cheeks, care to explain them?" He lowers his head until his lips are only inches away from my cheek. I try to push him away, but when my palms grope at his chest with that intention, an electrical impulse heats my skin, cutting my breath short.