Delicate

January

I trudge into fifth period more pissed-off than ever. I mean, okay, so she has no idea how I feel about her.

Probably.

But still. It pisses me off anyway. Why can't I just make a move? Why? I feel like such a fucking coward.

But it's a bit of a delicate situation. It's one thing to be rejected by a girl you kind of like. But if you're rejected by this girl you've been infatuated with for months? Where does a guy go from there once she rejects him? At least when I fantasize about her now, I still don't know, for sure, that she doesn't want me. But once I know, for sure, then it ruins the whole damn fantasy. I don't think I'm at the point where I'm willing to sacrifice the dream for the reality.

What if the reality doesn't live up to the dream?

I'm standing at our station with my back to the door. She'll be here any minute.

I know it instantly when she walks in the room. The electricity crackles in the air, just like before a violent storm. I feel her energy pulsing towards mine.

I turn to her, giving a curt nod.

"Okay, everyone, I want to say some things before we start the lab." Ms. Pickle sniffs.

Ms. Pickle is wearing a chef's apron that has a screen print of a giant 3-D pug in sunglasses and gold chains hovering above the lines I didn't choose the pug life. The pug life chose me.

Peyton nudges me, probably to snark about the apron, but I'm really not in the mood.

"Today, we're finishing our first food preparation unit. I'll be coming around to evaluate you on your cold prep—the organization of your workstation, ability to follow instructions, and cleanliness. This is a quiz grade. I suggest you take it seriously."

Okay, focus on the task at hand. Resist the urge to turn to her and yell "why the hell were you hugging Marshall?"

First come the frozen strawberries—I count out fifteen, just like it says in the recipe, then slowly place them in the bottom of the blender on top of the blades. Then I cut the banana in ten uniform chunks.

Precision.

I'm boxing her out. I don't want her damn help. I don't even want to be near her right now. I straddle in front of the cutting board, ingredients, and blender, and carefully add the banana chunks to the strawberries.

I still can't look at her.

Peyton clears her throat. "Seems like you could just throw all that stuff in there together. I mean it's not an exact science."

Pickle waltzes over. "Nice job, Chaplin. Very meticulous. I like how you've kept your work area clean and clutter free. And Thomas, this is an exact science. You must place the frozen fruit first, focusing on layering the fruit by degrees of density, or your blender will jam," Pickle says this with a big sniff.

I glance over at Peyton, feeling slightly vindicated. Then I measure out a cup of vanilla yogurt, scraping out every last dollop on top of the fruit.

Ms. Pickle ambles away.

"Degrees of density," Peyton says, sarcastically.

I don't respond.

"Jack, are you mad at me? You haven't said one word to me the whole class."

"Nope."

"You seem mad."

"I'm trying to concentrate," I say through gritted teeth.

"It's not astrophysics," she says, "it's just a damn smoothie."

I exhale loudly. "Well, it would help if I had a partner."

Her mouth gapes open. "Are you kidding me? You won't even let me near your work area."

I pour a cup of chocolate milk into the blender, just like the recipe says. "You could try to do something."

She nudges me over so she can see the recipe. Chocolate milk is the last ingredient. So, she does something. She reaches over and presses the button on the blender. The motor kicks on just as we notice the lid is missing. All hell breaks loose. Chocolate banana smoothie is flying everywhere, but mostly all over the front of my "Texas Forever" T-shirt. I jump back, arching inward.

"Turn it off!" Pickle yells.

But instead of switching it off, Peyton accidentally presses high, which shoots more smoothie out onto my hair. Pickle's shaking her head like a mad woman and marching in our direction. Peyton finally finds the right button. It stops.

Just breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe.

I'm covered in chocolate strawberry banana goo. It's dripping from my face and ears onto my torso that is thoroughly saturated already.

Peyton's eyes are wide, full of amusement, and she puts her hand over her mouth like she's trying to cover a smile, while the rest of the class has erupted in talking and laughter.

I want to crawl under the table.

"Chaplin, looks like we've got quite the mess here," Pickle says, sniffing. "Why don't you go back to the laundry room and clean yourself up. Thomas will tidy the workstation." She glares at Peyton.

"Yes ma'am," Peyton says sheepishly.

I storm to the door of the laundry room and shut myself inside to assess the damage. My shirt is covered, so I peel it off and rinse it in the sink. Once all the goo has washed down the drain, I wring out the excess water and throw it in the dryer, stabbing at the buttons to turn it on.

Now, for my hair and face. As I'm leaning over the sink scrubbing the muck away, I hear the door creak open. I ignore it.

My spine twitches with sparks, so I know it's the irresistible pull of Peyton's electromagnetic field.

My back is still to her as I hover over the basin and let the excess water drip off my hair and nose.

"So I guess your degrees of density weren't quite right," she says softly.

I pinch my mouth together to stifle a smile. She's such a smartass.

I turn around and shake my head. "Yeah, density was definitely the main problem."

"You need any help?"

"No thanks. You've helped enough already."

Her eyes rove over my face and down to my chest and then my stomach. They come to rest on the waist of my low-slung jeans. She bites her lip, glancing back up at my face. Her pupils dilate, then she leans forward, ever so slightly tilting her head.

Holy shit. She's going to kiss me right here in Pickle's laundry room.

She reaches behind my head and grabs the towel hanging on a hook.

Huh. Guess I misread that one.

She puts the towel over my head and rubs it furiously back and forth. The contact is too much. I step back and take the towel from her hands to finish the job.

"You get all of it out of your hair?"

I shrug. "I tried rinsing it in the sink."

"Ah. And your shirt?"

"Also sink. Just waiting for it to dry." I nod toward the dryer.

I turn and lean my butt against the machine, arms crossed over my chest. She hops up on the washer next to me and sits there with her legs dangling.

The monotony of the dryer motor combined with its warmth make me sleepy. I stare off into the distance in some kind of trance. I feel her studying me, trying to figure out what the hell my problem is.

"So," she says. She pauses.

"So, what?"

"What's going on?" she asks.

"Nothing."

"Jesus, what is it, Chaplin?" She sounds irritated, which is ridiculous. I'm the one who should be irritated.

I sigh. I'm not getting out of this one. Besides, the suspense is killing me. I may as well get it over with. "So, you and Marshall a thing now?" I have a hard time keeping the edge of anger out of that question.

"A thing?"

"You two seemed real chummy in the hallway earlier. And...in the weight room yesterday." There's still an edge to my voice.

"Yeah. I mean, we're friends. He's probably, like, my best friend."

Whatever.

I glance at her over my shoulder. "Looked like more than friends to me."

She shrugs. "I was kind of upset. He was trying to help."

I shake my head and roll my eyes. "What were you upset about?"

She quiet for a minute. Then she takes a deep breath. "He asked me about spring football. I told him I don't know if I want to play."

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Well, because Cash is better now. He'll be playing. I don't know if I can handle that."

Damn, I'm an idiot.

"I can protect you from Cash," I say softly.

"I don't need anyone to protect me," she snaps.

"Except Marshall," I clap back.

"What the fuck, Jack? You know Marshall and I are good friends. Why does it bother you so much?"

"It doesn't," I lie.

"Clearly," she snarks.

"Peyton, just tell me what's going on with you and Payne. It seems like he's really into you."

She scoffs. "Uh, no. I don't think I'm his type."

"You don't know that," I say, shrugging.

"I'm pretty sure I do. I mean, I don't think I'm really any guy's type."

"Is Marshall your type?"

"I mean, he's a great catch. I'm sure lots of girls are attracted to him."

Fucking Batman.

"Are you one of them?"

She pauses, reads the energy in the air. "We're just friends," she says quietly. "Besides, I've kind of already got someone else in mind."

Better not be fucking Logan Lowery.

"Why do you even care?" she asks.

"I don't care. Just curious."

"Oh. Okay."

I keep standing there, stiffly, so, I uncross my arms to let loose some of the tension in my body. My hand accidentally brushes against her thigh. It makes me dizzy, every nerve ending buzzing with that familiar electric current.

All I hear is the rhythm of her breathing along with the whir of the dryer.

Her fingers reach out to touch the skin on the back of my neck. I startle, like I've just gotten a shock. But then I go still, waiting.

All my nerve endings tingle as her hand trails slowly down, between my shoulder blades and along my spine until it finally comes to a stop at the scar above the waistline of my jeans.

My breath intakes sharply.

Then all the tension melts from my body. My head drops forward as I exhale.

"I think you might be my type," I whisper. I turn slowly and shift my weight so I'm facing her, my hip bones leaning against the washing machine, flanked on either side by her knees. I still can't look at her.

"Last summer. That day you showed up at football tryouts. Man, that totally messed with my head," I finally say.

"What do you mean?"

"I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on. I was drawn to you like the second I saw you." My heartrate skips a little faster.

"But you didn't know I was a girl."

"No shit. I thought you were a dude. Totally fucked with me." My heart's thumping practically out of my chest.

I still can't look at her.

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"Because. You didn't seem interested in me at all. I thought maybe you didn't like guys. Or just didn't like me."

I'm studying the outline of her quads underneath the denim trying to figure out what to say. And how to say it. I suck at this.

No words come.

She places her hands on my shoulders, her thumbs moving along the edges of my collar bones.

I finally let myself look at her face, at her mouth, then back to her eyes. Trying to interpret the expression in them. Curiosity. Understanding. Maybe longing. 

I gaze at her mouth again, lean closer, and rest my hands on her thighs.

Then the fucking dryer buzzes loudly, waking us both out of the dream.