Dreamland by Sarah Dessen Page B

backing up, keeping his eyes on me.
    I stood there, my breath clouding out around my face, as a police car raced by on the road facing us, the siren screaming.
    â€œWait,” I said, and he stopped. His hands were in his pockets. “You didn’t tell me your name.”
    â€œRogerson,” he said, and then he turned his back and walked away, leaving me to stand there and watch him go.
    When I came back around the corner Rina and Kelly were both right there waiting for me, identical in their letter jackets, stomping their feet to keep warm. I walked straight to the car and climbed into the backseat while they tumbled in behind me, already asking questions.
    â€œWho was that?” Rina said. The smell of Lysol, pungent, was hanging all around us in a big cloud. “I know he doesn’t go to Jackson. I would remember him.”
    â€œI didn’t even get to look at him,” Kelly complained.
    â€œToo bad for you. He is hot,” Rina told her, and there was that smile again, sly and clever.
    â€œHis name’s Rogerson,” I said. Just saying it felt weird, like I suddenly knew him or something.
    â€œRogerson,” Rina repeated, trying it out. “That’s sexy.”
    â€œYou think everything’s sexy,” Kelly said in a flat voice. To me she added, “Do you have my quarters?”
    I was surprised to find that I did: They were clutched in my hand. She held out her palm and I dropped them into it, one by one. She said, “I guess I’ll just skip the vacuum.”
    â€œPlease do,” Rina said, settling into her seat and crossing her legs. She flipped down the vanity mirror and checked her face. “We’re late as it is.”
    Kelly started the engine and pulled around the vacuum station, rolling down her window. As we cut through one of the bays to turn back to the road, we passed him again, standing by his car, hosing it down, the water steaming in the cold. I took it all in again: the curly dreadlocked hair, the bright printed shirt, the cord around his neck. Here I was, on the way to a party where, if everything went according to Rina’s well-laid plans, I could go home with Mike Evans’s letter jacket, all mine. But now, something was different.
    â€œIs that him?” Kelly asked, whispering. We were all staring as we passed him, slowly, like tourists at a wildlife park watching elephants from the safety of their station wagon. He lifted his head, seeing us, and looked right back, still hosing off his car.
    â€œYep,” Rina said. “Isn’t he something?”
    â€œHe looks like a drug dealer,” Kelly said. She was kind of uptight, the mother of the cheerleading squad. Any man not wearing a letter jacket was dangerous, in her opinion.
    â€œHe’s got that wild look,” Rina said in a low voice.
    â€œYes, he does,” Kelly agreed, like it was a bad thing. Then she said, “Does it still smell back there, Caitlin?”
    Rogerson was still watching us, as if the sight of a carful of girls ogling him did not faze him in the least. I wanted to think he was only looking at me, but I couldn’t be sure.
    â€œNo,” I answered her softly, as we rounded the bays and pulled onto the road. Then I turned in my seat and watched this Rogerson disappear, car length by car length, out of sight.
    Â 
    â€œLooks like we didn’t miss much,” Rina said as we came into the party. Most of the football team was in the dining room, bouncing quarters off what looked like an antique table. In the living room Melissa Cooper, school slut, was already making out with Donald Teller, who’d thrown the winning pass that night. Everyone was looking at me, patting me on the back as I passed, and making jokes about my fall. I felt prickly and strange, and each hand that touched me seemed heavy and hot against my skin.
    â€œChad!” I heard Kelly yell from behind me, and then she was off like a shot down the