Pucker Up Page 14

  “Is that you in there, Charlie?”

  I love Emily to death, but if she needs to talk to me, could she not have waited five minutes? “I’m in the shower.”

  “Yeah, I got that. Hurry up.”

  I heave a sigh and rinse the conditioner out of my hair. I left it in extra long to get rid of the snarls from my very significant bedhead. When I’m done, I grab the towel I slung over the door and wrap it around my body. With my shower caddy in hand, I unlock the door and swing it open.

  Emily stares at me with a grin on her face that I haven’t seen since the first time a guy gave her oral sex behind the mall on Canada Day. That silly grin was spray-painted on her pretty face for nearly two weeks. Back then, I rolled my eyes at it. It couldn’t possibly be that amazing, I thought. I know better now. If getting a woman off with your tongue was an Olympic sport, Ozzie would win gold.

  “Emily Templeton, what is so important you have to interrupt me in the shower?” I’m not annoyed, not really. My tone is teasing.

  She leans forward and looks deep into my eyes before circling me. Then she starts to laugh. “You totally got laid.”

  “What? How do you know?”

  “Trust me. There is a glow around a girl who’s been sufficiently satisfied, and you have it. In spades.” She folds her arms over her chest, proud she’s proven right.

  Now it's my turn to laugh. “I had no idea it could feel like that. I get it now. The fuss? If my first had felt anything like sex felt last night, I’d be out picking up at the bars every night.”

  “Is he that good?”

  “Better.”

  “I knew it. Sam’s been with at least two dozen guys, and she said he’s the only one who gave her multiples.”

  For the first time since I met Ozzie, the thought of him with someone else is hard to swallow. “Emily, I don't really want to know what Sam and Ozzie’s sex life was like.”

  “Someone’s in love…” She says this like she’s singing a song. I pluck a brush from my caddy and slap her on the ass.

  “Ow!”

  We pass by Sam’s room on the way back to ours. I want to be quiet so we don’t catch her attention, but it’s impossible with my flip-flops slapping against the tile. I don’t want to run into her. I feel as if she might be able to see my glow too, and the sympathetic side of me does not want to hurt her. Although her door is ajar, she’s not inside, so I hurry up a little bit and pull Emily along. We disappear into our room before she comes back.

  Emily wants details, and I give her as much as I can. She’s my best friend, but some of her questions are a little personal. Finding out whether or not Ozzie's penis is crooked, hooked, or straight isn’t something she needs to know.

  “Did you ask about the fire?”

  Sighing, I plop down on my bed. I’m dressed now and my hair is brushed. I braid it while we continue talking. “He told me bits and pieces. I don’t get it. You and Sam—and Jack even—made it sound like this guy is a vault. I’ve known him less than a week, and he’s told me some pretty personal stuff. He’s not at all who I thought he’d be.”

  “But in a good way?”

  “Yeah, in a really good way. There are still things I need to know. Like why he was doing community service, for one. But I don’t even think the reason would matter to me. He’s been through a lot, and I don’t think I’d blame him if he acted out as a kid. He’s not a criminal now. He’s…he’s…he’s…”

  “He’s what?”

  There is only one word I can think of, though I know it sounds corny and stupid. “I don't know. Perfect?”

  Emily frowns. “No one is perfect. People who pretend to be are usually hiding something.”

  “But he is hiding something. Only instead of lying, he’s upfront about it. So I can’t really judge him for that. Honestly, I have yet to find a single flaw in him, but I’m sure he has his fair share. I certainly do. But it’s weird. He said he actually noticed me in English class. Like at the beginning of the year. He said he always wanted to know who the pen-clicking girl was. The girl who had her hand up for answers to every question. Some people would see that as a flaw of mine. I’ve been called a suck-up, a teacher’s pet, a know-it-all, but he seems to like it. Maybe he has flaws I’ve seen and haven't recognized them as flaws. You know?”

  “Oh, God. You’re a goner. You’re falling for him, aren’t you?”

  I slump back onto the bed and stare up at the fine cracks in the plaster on the ceiling. Falling for him? God help me, I already have.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I pack my bags for school, almost forgetting my day-timer. I grab it at the last second before I grab a banana and some yogurt at the cafeteria. Then I head to class. Coincidentally, I have English first period after lunch. With Ozzie. I never noticed him before he told me he was in my class. Only after he said this to me, did I remember the few times I’d walk in and some guy would put his bag in the aisle so I’d have to walk around it. It was as if the guy did it on purpose to trip me. I remember him wearing a hockey letter jacket. I remember glancing at his bright eyes and wispy hair and, in my mind, I called him a jerk while I ignored him.

  Now I can connect the dots, I realize it was him. And he was trying to get my attention. How foolish I’d been. Traumatized by years of high school bullies, my mind went dark and assumed he had to be a jerk, some guy who wanted to torment me. He couldn’t have put his bag there on accident or to get my attention. No. Couldn’t possibly.

  I’m eight minutes late for class. I like to be early so I can arrange my desk. I’m the same way for every class I take. When I get inside, I see him in the third row from the back of the auditorium. I always sit in the front, and I feel like I still should. I mean, I want to. I pay attention much better up there. And I don’t want to assume he wants me to sit with him. I start down the aisle, and when I get to where he sits, he holds out his arm and puts his bag down in front of me. There is no doubt now. He wanted to get my attention.

  I give him a meaningful stare as he turns his head and winks at me. He picks up his bag then and moves it out of the way. “I won’t be offended if you sit up there.” He nods to the front of the room.

  His friend Michael sits to his left. I say a quiet hello to him, and he returns it with a nod and a smile.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, feeling the need to apologize. “I never sit at the back. And I wouldn’t be able to read the board.”

  “I’m not offended.”

  “I am,” Michael says, jokingly. Ozzie bumps him with his elbow.

  “I'll catch you after?” Ozzie asks, sincere.

  “I’ll be here.”

  I keep moving forward. I sit in my usual seat, front row, at the table on the end, the chair closest to the aisle. I open my bag and set my planner on the upper right corner, my binder in front of me. A pencil and pen to the left and an eraser on the right. I sit with my hands folded and I wait. Only once or twice during class do I look back at Ozzie. Even up front, it’s hard to focus when I feel his presence around me. I almost regret sitting up here. I can’t pay attention anyway.

  Halfway through class I flip to a back page in my day-timer and start drawing cubes and cylinders. Then I write a list of things to do that turns into something else.

  Bone Ozzie. Twice. Today.

  Study for French. You’re going to fail!

  Does Ozzie have a birthmark?

  How awkward would a sixty-niner really be? Bottom or top? Research.

  When class is over, I start to pack up and my professor, Mr. Brinks, calls out my name. “Can I see you a moment?” I start to sweat. Did he notice me doodling all class?

  I give him a nod and wade through the sudden tide of students who rush to collect their bags and make their way to the exit doors. The room is mostly cleared when I finally get to him at the front of the auditorium.

  He packs some thin books and a copy of our English book into a leather satchel. A smile touches his lips when he looks up to find me.

  �
�Am I in trouble?” I ask, holding my breath.

  “Of course not,” he says with a chuckle. He reaches into a compartment inside his satchel and pulls out a thin stack of papers that are stapled in the corner. He hands it to me, and immediately I recognize the paper as my own. At the beginning of the term we were told thirty percent of our term mark would be based on a short story we had to write. It was a longer piece, 15,000 words to be exact. We could choose any topic, but it had to be fiction, and it had to be a complete story. I wrote a romantic comedy about a girl’s high school reunion where she steals the prom king away from the prom queen and then dumps him when she realizes he was never as good as she’d built him up to be. It was poetic justice for me. And I loved writing every minute of it.

  “My paper? I thought we weren’t getting this back until the last day of class.”

  He taps his finger on the mark in the right-hand corner.

  An A+. Not to be conceited, but I’ve always been an A student so I expected an A at least. I’m pleasantly surprised to find the +. I read the comments underneath.

  A very engaging story. I don’t normally enjoy these types of stories and I had my doubts, but I couldn’t put it down. You have a very real talent for entertaining. Consider publishing.

  My eyes flash up at him. A massive lump builds in the back of my throat as my jaw drops a fraction. My eyes itch, and I want to cry. Consider publishing?

  “This is...really...kind of you,” I tell my professor, struggling to get the words out.

  “You earned it. If you could read all the drivel I’ve read over the years…” He groans. “Half of the people in this class take it because they think it’s an easy A. My marks are subjective, of course. Any story with a beginning, middle, and an end passes the course. Who am I to mark students on anything other than grammar and sentence structure? I have a guide, of course, but most of the students in my class get a B for completing their book. Finishing a novel is tough, and I reward their effort, but you, Ms. Morrison…you have a talent. You should consider applying to apprentice at Tide and Time’s publishing house this summer. They take one student every year, based on professor recommendation and the submission of a writing piece. You’d work as an editorial assistant, and it might be a great way to make some contacts.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know that apprenticeship existed.”

  “The only pay you’d receive is in the form of experience. If you could manage it, I would apply. And I’d be happy to write your recommendation.”

  I hug the paper against my chest and am at a loss for words. I’d given up on this, but his encouragement has me pushing a door open that’s been closed for a very long time. “This is...really great of you to think of me for this. I’ll definitely think about it. This could be life changing.”

  “For someone destined for a very exciting future, yes, it could be just that.”

  He holds out his hand, and I shake it, firm and confident, like my dad taught me as a kid. When I let his hand go, he scoots out of the room, but I am still rooted to my spot until the next professor enters and drops his things on the table in front of me. I hurry back to the front row to gather my things.

  Piper sits in my seat now. I force a smile and quickly grab my things. I glance at the back row of the auditorium and see Ozzie. I don’t want her to see him and me together. She couldn’t have noticed him because she’s grinning ear to ear, staring at me like she knows something I don’t.

  “What?” I say, wondering if I’ve got egg on my face.

  “Oh, nothing,” she says sweetly. “See you back at the dorm.”

  I frown at her. Weird. But I can’t linger, debating the inner workings of Sam’s bestie’s mind. I shrug her off and jog up the stairs, slinging my bag over my shoulder along the way. The rest of the class are still filing in as I reach Ozzie at the back doors.

  He holds the door open for me and I brush by him, loving the subtle scent of aftershave and soap that surrounds me. He smells as yummy as he tastes.

  “Thanks,” I say when I’m on the other side.

  He lets go of the door and wraps his arm around me. “What was that about?”

  I immediately forget about Piper, and I’m about to tell him about what Mr. Brinks said, but I don’t feel I can do my conversation justice. I’m still holding my paper so instead I hand it to him.

  He lets out a long whistle. “Consider publishing? That’s pretty amazing.”

  “I didn’t know what to say,” I say, my voice squeaky and excited. “Then he stunned me even more when he told me he’d write a recommendation for me to do an apprenticeship for this small publishing house in Digby if I’d apply. I almost died. Literally.”

  “One, you have to apply. And two, you need to let me keep this story.”

  I snatch the paper back and halt. He stops with me, turning in to face me. “There’s no pay. I would literally be working for free for the summer. And why would you want to read it? It’s just a silly fantasy story about a high school reunion.”

  “Can’t be that silly. Mr. Brinks couldn’t put it down.”

  I lightly punch his shoulder and shake my head at him. My cheeks flare, and I look to my tennis shoes.

  With a finger, he forces me to look up at him. He lowers his hand to touch my shoulder, massaging it lightly. “You have to apply. You’ll figure the rest out. I don’t live far from there. You can stay with me if you need to.”

  “What?”

  “I said you can stay—”

  “I heard what you said.” I look deep in his eyes. The noise of students buzzing around us dies down as most of the students hurry to duck into their next classes. “We barely know each other.”

  “I know what I need to know.”

  “Which is?”

  He presses his lips to mine. My body relaxes. I should care that people can see us. I’ve never liked PDA. I used to roll my eyes at it. But I don’t care who sees me right now. His soft lips are like air to my lungs, and I need more. I wrap my hand around the back of his neck and pull him in for another one, this time slow and deep. When we break away, his breathing changes and his eyes darken with hunger. I feel that same hunger, too. I take a step back to stop myself from pushing him down on the tiled floor and straddling his hips.

  I shake off the tingle between my thighs as the image in my mind sparks a wetness I’m not prepared for. I gasp and take another step back. He laughs at me and shakes his head.

  “What are you doing?” he says, his brow furrowed.

  “Stop kissing me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’m going to be late for my next class.” I look at my watch. I am late for my next class. Fantastic. He’s turning my world upside down, and now he’s willing to let me stay with him for the summer. Things are moving fast. I need to get my bearings. I hurry along, with him jogging to catch up behind me. I would have to have another class on the opposite side of campus. I push through the exit doors and hurry along the pathway outside.

  He grabs my hand and forces me to stop. “Don’t run away.” He grips my shoulders and pulls me in close. “Now, about that story...”

  “If I let you read it, will you let me go to class?”

  He smiles wider. “Hand me the story and I’ll walk away.”

  I slap it against his chest.

  He mouths the words “thank you” after licking his lips, and all I can think about is where those lips were last night. I’m aroused again. Maybe it was a good thing I never got horny in high school, or I would never have made valedictorian—not that high school guys would have slept with me if I’d been interested. Then again, a teenage boy would probably sleep with any willing girl, no matter what she looked like. Like one of my sister’s boyfriends said to me in our basement rec room when she ran to the bathroom, “All girls look the same from behind.”

  “Meet me after practice!” Ozzie calls at my back.

  I walk away, spinning around to answer him. “I’ll think about it.”

  �
��You’re killing me.”

  “I will be if you make me any later.”

  He chuckles and holds my paper up in the air. “Enjoy your class. I’ll be reading my next favorite book.”

  I pick up an acorn on the grass and chuck it at him. Unfortunately, my aim is awful. I never played sports. The acorn hits a guy in the back of the head and he stumbles, loses his balance, and falls forward. I gasp and cover my mouth as Ozzie chuckles and turns and walks away. “Killing me!” he calls out before jogging off.

  “I’m sorry!” I yell to the poor guy.

  The guy rolls over and grips the back of his head with one hand while wiping off grass and dirt from his dark clothes with the other. He shakes his head at me and says something, but he’s so quiet I don’t hear him. I’m pretty sure—if my lip reading is accurate—he’s just called me a bitch.

  “It was an accident! I swear.”

  “I’ll bet,” he says as he pushes to his feet.

  I let out a sigh. This guy isn’t going to forgive me any time soon so there’s no point in dwelling on it.

  As I run to class, it finally hits me what I’ve done. I’ve given Ozzie a piece of me in that story. Yes, it was fiction, but there was a lot of truth to go along with it. All the stories the main character tells about high school are my own stories. Suddenly, I feel bare and vulnerable, more vulnerable than when I let him undress me last night.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Emily and I meet at the cafeteria for supper. She’s elbow deep in ribs. We only get them on Fridays. She texted me earlier to say her weekend with Brad is called off and she’s not happy about it. Up until now, she refused to tell me what happened over texts.

  I stab some lettuce and put it in my mouth.

  Emily moans and takes another bite of her ribs. I finish swallowing and put down my fork. “Please tell me what happened. How can I help if you won’t talk to me?”

  She pouts a moment before speaking. “His sister promised to let him borrow her car, but she switched shifts with someone else so she’s going to be home this weekend and needs it now.”