Chapter 5 Grabby Hands
Grabby Hands
Gracie
The disco ball spins and glitters high over our heads. I spend half the night staring at it over my date’s shoulder, wondering how the decorating committee got it up there. The gym ceiling has to be at least twenty feet tall. I didn’t know ladders came that big.
Jimmy’s hands are everywhere, on my hips, my waist, constantly trying to slide around to grip my ass.
Right in front of everyone. The part that really bugs me, the part that actually pisses me off, is that he’s doing it because he likes it and because he wants everyone to see.
So he can brag later. That he bagged the prom queen. That he can touch me like he owns me.
Fuck that.
“Stop it, Jimmy,” I snap as I plant both hands on his chest and shove him back. Hard. Let the rest of the school see that. Let them gossip about it tomorrow at lunch. About how Gracie Smith made a scene at senior prom. About how I had the audacity to reject the great Jimmy Hamilton.
All-state quarterback. Football golden boy. Future NFL player.
As if any of that matters to me.
I have my own things to be proud of. My own future to care about.
“Come on, Gracie,” he whines, grabbing for my hand, but I’m already gone.
I push through the crowd, ignore the friends calling my name, dodge the boys asking me to dance.
Along the wall, cookies and snacks are laid out beside a massive crystal punch bowl.
Someone pours a generous scoop of unnaturally red liquid into my cup, and I drink it so fast I hit the bottom before I feel the burn.
Fire tears down my throat.
I cough into my fist once. Twice. Then glance around, wondering who was bold enough to spike the prom punch. It’s like something straight out of an ’80s rom-com.
The drink doesn’t cool me down. I’m still sweaty, angry, buzzing, so I shove open the metal doors leading out of the gym and burst into the night.
Cool air hits me, lifting the ringlets Suzy and my mom spent hours putting into my hair earlier, the two of them lingering over every pin and curl, dabbing at tears, emotional because this was my last school dance. The air dries the sweat at my neck and slows my heart to something closer to normal.
Once my eyes adjust, I head around the corner of the building to the back, where I know there’s a metal picnic table the janitors use for smoke breaks.
Beyond it, the land drops away into an open field, dark and wide, the grass rippling softly in the night breeze.
A farmhouse sits in the distance, one porch light glowing like a steady watchful eye, and farther still I can make out the low shapes of barns and fence lines cutting across the land.
Crickets hum. Somewhere out there, a cow shifts and snorts, the sound carrying easily in the quiet.
All I want right now is to be alone.
When I see someone already there, I almost leave.
Then his head turns.
Even in the half-moon light, I know that silhouette. The curve of his jaw. The bump of his nose.
“Hi, Beck.”
“Hey, Gracie.”
He scoots over without me asking, and I climb up beside him where he’s sitting on top of the table, facing the field with his feet resting on the bench.
I hesitate for a second, worrying about ruining my dress, the same turquoise one I wore to homecoming three years ago.
Mom lost her job a couple of months ago, so we couldn’t afford a new one.
When I realize it’s probably the last time I’ll need a dress like this, I sit down with a thud and let out an overly dramatic sigh of relief.
Beck chuckles. “Rough night?”
He lifts a cup to his lips and takes a small sip. Three more empty cups sit beside him.
I eye them warily. “You know the punch is spiked, right?”
Beck smiles into his drink. “Oh, I know.”
“So…” I pick one up, sniff it, wrinkle my nose, then set it back down. “You having a party out here, or just drinking by yourself like a sad man?”
“By myself,” he says, unbothered. “But I’m not sad. Just needed a break from all the noise.”
He turns toward me, and I do a double take. For a second, I can’t figure out why he looks different, then I realize it’s because he isn’t wearing his glasses. He only wears contacts on special occasions, and I guess this counts.
I tilt my head and look him over, lingering on the details.
The single white rose pinned to his lapel.
How his tux fits perfectly. How his hair is freshly cut and gelled back except for one piece that falls over his forehead.
He looks like he stepped off the cover of one of his mom’s romance novels.
The ones she lets me borrow sometimes.
I almost reach up and brush the strand back into place, but I keep my hands folded in my lap. He’s not my date tonight. Or any night.
Which is fine.
But still…he looks really handsome. Less like a boy. More like a man.
“What about you?” Beck asks. “Why’d you come out here all huffing and puffing?”
“Stupid Jimmy Hamilton’s got grabby hands, and I’m about to chop them off.” I fold my arms over my chest and don’t bother hiding my pout.
Beck straightens, his expression darkening. “What?” He half-stands, voice sharp. “I’ll go talk to him.”
I laugh and grab his arm, tugging him back down. “Wow. Now I see why they call alcohol liquid courage. Jimmy would end you in two minutes. He’s got at least a hundred pounds on you.”
I let the dark hide how my eyes move over Beck’s body, long and lean where Jimmy is thick and blocky.
When my gaze stalls at the notch at the bottom of Beck’s throat, then drifts to his chin, no longer smooth but shadowed with coarse stubble, something lights up low in my belly.
A warmth. An awareness that wasn’t there a minute ago.
My pulse skips, then speeds. An irregular thump, thump.
Beck is watching me, one brow raised, and suddenly I realize I’ve been staring. Not saying anything. For way too long.
My head snaps down. My cheeks blaze.
“You okay?” he asks quietly, because of course he notices. He always does. He knows me better than anyone besides our moms.
“What? Yeah. I was just preparing my speech for when I dump Jimmy tomorrow morning,” I lie.
Beck lets out a slow breath. “Good choice, Gracie Ann.”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks, Oliver. I know you never liked him.” Which is true. Beck never likes any of my boyfriends.
He doesn’t bother denying it. He just gives a small, unapologetic shrug.
“How about you?” I bump my shoulder into his, sending him swaying. “How’s everything going with Esther?” I think about the petite Asian girl who’s his date tonight. She’s smart. She’s nice. So why am I suddenly searching for a reason to dislike her?
He stiffens and clears his throat. “She wants me to kiss her later. Maybe more…”
My stomach turns sour, rolling uncomfortably.
“Oh?” I work hard to keep my tone even, like I’m only mildly interested. “What’s the problem with that?”
“I haven’t exactly…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Uh, done that before. Kissed.”
“What?” I laugh, then immediately rein it in when I see him flinch. “Wait…like, for real? We’re eighteen, Beck. About to graduate. How have you never kissed a girl?”
“I don’t know. It just never came up.” Beck shrugs, then hunches in on himself. “What if I’m terrible at it? Kissing, I mean. What if I suck? We can’t all be prom queens, you know?”
The resentment in his voice stings. I jerk back. “Hey.”
I reach up and untangle the small gold tiara from my hair, turning it over in my hands. The plastic is cracked in a couple of places. One red rhinestone is missing, probably lost sometime during the night.
“That’s not fair,” I say quietly. “You know this is the first time I’ve gotten this thing.” I hold the crown out to him, and he recoils like it’s dynamite. “Every other year I was runner-up. Don’t be mad that I finally got it. Besides, what does that have to do with you kissing Esther, anyway?”
I shove the crown into his hands just to make my point.
Beck takes it, turning it this way and that. Out in the field, a cow moos, and we both glance up at the sound.
“The point is,” he says slowly, “that you, prom queen, have already been kissing boys.”
He swallows. Pauses.
“How would you know?” I ask, suddenly alarmed.
Beck and I talk about everything…just not that.
Not kissing.
Not making out.
Not sex.
I have a feeling that if it were daytime, I’d see him blushing when he says, “People talk, Gracie. Guys talk.”
I go still, suddenly fragile. Breakable. Because I have been kissing guys. Making out. Having sex. Not a lot. Not enough to be labeled a slut—at least, I didn’t think so before this conversation.
“What do they say about me?”
Shame and dread coil tight in my chest. Panic climbs fast.
“Tell me, Beck,” I say again, louder now. “Tell me what they say.”
He looks over, really looks at me, and his expression changes. Immediately his hand is on my arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Calm down. It’s nothing that bad. Just that you kissed Justin last year. Stuff like that.”
I don’t say anything. My pulse pounds. I don’t believe him.
He reads me easily. His hand tightens on my arm, more pressure this time. Grounding. Steady.
“Seriously,” he says. “I promise. I’d tell you if there was more.”
Slowly, I let my shoulders relax. I force my breathing to slow.
I glance down and notice Beck is still touching me. Still leaning closer. His gaze drifts to my eyes, then my lips, then back again.
I freeze. Hold perfectly still.
“Gracie.” Beck licks his lips, and suddenly I can’t look away from them.
“What?” I whisper.
He inches closer until his chest brushes my arm, his heat burning through the thin fabric of my dress. “What if… what if…” He closes his eyes, like he can’t actually look at me and say the words. “What if you show me how to do it?”
I blink, certain I misheard him. “How to do what?” I ask softly. “Kiss?”
His eyes stay shut as he nods.
My gaze drops to his mouth, full, a deep red in the shadows.
What would it be like to kiss Beck?