the bell rings, I turn around to see if Oliver fully appreciates my last comments, but he’s already heading for the door. Ainsley, however, is staring straight at me. For no reason that carries even a semblance of sense, I have a sudden flash of guilt, like I’m doing something wrong.
But I’m not.
• • •
Lily is meeting with her private music instructor, and Darbs is stalking Yana-the-new-girl, and Shaun is in the yearbook room, so Itch and I are enjoying a rare solo lunch. And by “lunch,” I mean “make-out session.”
Itch sits with his feet on the next bleacher down, and I am half reclined across his lap so all he has to do is tilt a little to reach my face. It’s too warm and humid to be messing around on the metal bleachers, but we’re doing it anyway. Itch’s legs are sticky hot under my back, and I can feel my black-Converse-clad feet baking in the sun, but the whole thing is familiar and public and easy. Kind of like our relationship. I have a flash of remorse as I remember the boy I kissed over the summer, but I hastily pack it away. Itch didn’t ask, so I didn’t tell. It’s not like I’m lying.
I hear clacks and feel vibrations beneath me. Itch removes his mouth from mine and a sigh of disgust puffs out of him. “Is this going to become a regular thing?”
I push off him and sit up. The clacks are the sound of high heels ascending the bleachers, and the person wearing them is Ainsley Powell. She’s clearly headed toward us, because there’s no one else anywhere near, plus her brilliantly green eyes are locked right on us.
“I’m out,” says Itch. He starts to stand, but I lock on to his wrist and pull him down.
“Don’t be rude,” I hiss.
Itch settles back as Ainsley arrives on our row. “Hey, guys,” she says in a voice that is somehow made for both shouting cheers over packed stadiums and whispering poetry into the ears of worshipful boys.
I tense up. Is she here to start something with me? I’m pretty sure she could take me physically—she’s taller and probably stronger from cheerleading—but she
is
wearing those heels. Maybe I can catch her off balance. “What’s up, Ainsley?” I ask like it’s no big deal.
She gestures to the row in front of us. “May I?”
“Of course,” I say graciously.
“It’s a free country,” Itch says, and I elbow him.
Ainsley lowers herself to a graceful sitting position like she’s a peacock feather drifting to the ground. “Are you going to the first game?”
“The
football
game?” It comes out of my mouth in a tone of incredulity. Is she trying to figure out where to deploy her band of evil pom-pommed henchwomen to kick my ass? Or is she warning me away, staking her claim to anything sports-related…anything that involves Oliver?
Itch speaks for me. “We don’t do tournaments of brutality.”
Ainsley turns her dark-lashed gaze on him. “High school
is
a tournament of brutality.”
Itch looks surprised at her comeback. “I’ll give you that.”
Ainsley taps me on the knee. “You should go.”
“Why?”
“It’s the first game of the season. We’re trying to have a big crowd to show support for the team.”
I somehow think there’s a little more to this invitation than school spirit, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out her angle. “Maybe,” I tell her.
“There’s a bonfire after,” Ainsley says. “You guys can catch a ride with us.”
“Us?”
Itch repeats.
“Oliver and me.”
“Like a double date?” I ask, and watch Ainsley’s smile grow even wider.
“Exactly like that.”
• • •
I guess Itch and I had to have our first fight sometime. I just didn’t think it would happen in the middle of a Rite Aid.
I’m standing with my hands on my hips, watching him browse a rack of corn chips. “It wouldn’t kill you,” I tell him. “It wouldn’t actually make your heart stop beating and your blood stop pumping.”
“It might. You don’t know.”
“One game. One
But I’m not.
• • •
Lily is meeting with her private music instructor, and Darbs is stalking Yana-the-new-girl, and Shaun is in the yearbook room, so Itch and I are enjoying a rare solo lunch. And by “lunch,” I mean “make-out session.”
Itch sits with his feet on the next bleacher down, and I am half reclined across his lap so all he has to do is tilt a little to reach my face. It’s too warm and humid to be messing around on the metal bleachers, but we’re doing it anyway. Itch’s legs are sticky hot under my back, and I can feel my black-Converse-clad feet baking in the sun, but the whole thing is familiar and public and easy. Kind of like our relationship. I have a flash of remorse as I remember the boy I kissed over the summer, but I hastily pack it away. Itch didn’t ask, so I didn’t tell. It’s not like I’m lying.
I hear clacks and feel vibrations beneath me. Itch removes his mouth from mine and a sigh of disgust puffs out of him. “Is this going to become a regular thing?”
I push off him and sit up. The clacks are the sound of high heels ascending the bleachers, and the person wearing them is Ainsley Powell. She’s clearly headed toward us, because there’s no one else anywhere near, plus her brilliantly green eyes are locked right on us.
“I’m out,” says Itch. He starts to stand, but I lock on to his wrist and pull him down.
“Don’t be rude,” I hiss.
Itch settles back as Ainsley arrives on our row. “Hey, guys,” she says in a voice that is somehow made for both shouting cheers over packed stadiums and whispering poetry into the ears of worshipful boys.
I tense up. Is she here to start something with me? I’m pretty sure she could take me physically—she’s taller and probably stronger from cheerleading—but she
is
wearing those heels. Maybe I can catch her off balance. “What’s up, Ainsley?” I ask like it’s no big deal.
She gestures to the row in front of us. “May I?”
“Of course,” I say graciously.
“It’s a free country,” Itch says, and I elbow him.
Ainsley lowers herself to a graceful sitting position like she’s a peacock feather drifting to the ground. “Are you going to the first game?”
“The
football
game?” It comes out of my mouth in a tone of incredulity. Is she trying to figure out where to deploy her band of evil pom-pommed henchwomen to kick my ass? Or is she warning me away, staking her claim to anything sports-related…anything that involves Oliver?
Itch speaks for me. “We don’t do tournaments of brutality.”
Ainsley turns her dark-lashed gaze on him. “High school
is
a tournament of brutality.”
Itch looks surprised at her comeback. “I’ll give you that.”
Ainsley taps me on the knee. “You should go.”
“Why?”
“It’s the first game of the season. We’re trying to have a big crowd to show support for the team.”
I somehow think there’s a little more to this invitation than school spirit, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out her angle. “Maybe,” I tell her.
“There’s a bonfire after,” Ainsley says. “You guys can catch a ride with us.”
“Us?”
Itch repeats.
“Oliver and me.”
“Like a double date?” I ask, and watch Ainsley’s smile grow even wider.
“Exactly like that.”
• • •
I guess Itch and I had to have our first fight sometime. I just didn’t think it would happen in the middle of a Rite Aid.
I’m standing with my hands on my hips, watching him browse a rack of corn chips. “It wouldn’t kill you,” I tell him. “It wouldn’t actually make your heart stop beating and your blood stop pumping.”
“It might. You don’t know.”
“One game. One
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