Chapter 6
Six
Deja
Idon’t sleep very well on Sunday night, my mind going over the things that Brandon said and pondering what he wants from me.
The obvious answer is sex, but that seems too straightforward.
After all, Mackenzie has been very obvious about being interested.
If that’s all he wanted, wouldn’t it be a lot easier to go after her?
Or is it just that we fooled around and now he thinks I’m a low-effort option?
I’m pretty sure he hasn’t hooked up with anyone since he moved in, unless he wasn’t really with his mom the two Saturdays he went home.
But even then, twice in two months isn’t a lot of sex.
I guess him wanting to sleep with me is better than him hating my guts and fighting with me all the time.
Or is it? This has the potential to be way more annoying than trading barbs.
By the time I get downstairs, Brandon has already left.
One of his friends from soccer gives him a ride to school every day because they have the same practice schedule.
I’ve only seen the car, not who drives it, but I wonder if it’s one of the guys from Saturday night.
Carmello was cute, and I found his number on the floor mat when I was cleaning out my car yesterday.
The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of texting him. That should show Brandon that he can’t control me. See how he likes me talking to one of his friends. I find the piece of paper in the cupholder when I get in my car to drive to school and stick it in the pocket of my backpack.
I spot Mackenzie, Lorelei, and Shelby hanging around my locker when I get to school.
Mackenzie is cute in a short denim skirt and cowboy boots.
Her red, off the shoulder top sets off her dark hair perfectly.
She put a little extra effort in today, and I wonder if it's for Brandon's benefit.
I want to ask, but that feels like it could be opening a can of worms. Lorelei and Shelby are wearing everyday uniform of most girls on our team—yoga pants and a hoodie.
Sometimes we mix it up with jeans or sweatpants, but we don't usually dress up like Mean Girls or anything.
Looking like we're trying wouldn't be cool. This is the Midwest; people don't wear flashy jewelry or runway fashions. Well, except for the uber-richies like Rourke van der Hoff and his friends, who weren’t born around here. They dress like they think we’re in New York or Monaco or something.
For those of us from here, it's all about quality brands and understated style.
My three friends are deep in conversation but stop to give me quick hugs as I walk up.
“Hey girlie, love the shirt!” Mackenzie says with more than a trace of sarcasm.
I point at the tacky, bedazzled cross on the front of it with both index fingers and give them a little curtsy. “You know me, just keeping it holy.”
The three of them laugh.
“What's the tea, ladies?” I ask, twirling the combination on my lock.
“Just talking about who's taking who to homecoming,” Shelby says. “I can't believe it's only two weeks away!”
“Ugh, don't remind me,” I groan. I've been nominated to homecoming court, but I really haven't had time to campaign. I was supposed to be going over the flyer designs with Mom last night and planning the treat table, but I was so distracted, I forgot. “I still don't have a date.”
“Really?” Lorelei looks surprised. “Throw a rock and you'll hit a guy who wants to go with you.”
“But do I want to go with him?”
We're interrupted by Gio sauntering up to our group. He leans casually against the locker next to mine and gives us that crooked smile that makes all the girls swoon.
“Bongiorno bellezze,” he says smoothly. “I see the stars have come to Earth.”
Mackenzie and Shelby giggle while Lorelei tosses her hair over her shoulder flirtatiously. I resist the urge to roll my eyes again.
“Hey, Gio,” I say. “What's up?”
“I am drawn to all this beauty; I could not resist to say hello.” His smile encompasses all of us, but he leans against my locker in a way that forces me to angle my body towards him.
“Deja, bellissima” he says, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret, “you glow like the sun today.”
His eyes travel down my figure, and I fold my arms over my chest, silently laughing. I’m dressed like an awkward twelve-year-old and even with makeup on I look tired AF. Mackenzie and the other girls are watching eagerly, waiting to see how I’ll respond.
“Thanks, Gio, but we both know you say that to all the girls,” I reply dryly.
He grins, and it’s like we’re sharing a private joke; he knows he’s a flirt, and he knows I know he’s a flirt. “Not all the girls, and I mean it most with you.”
I can't help smiling at his cheesy response. He reaches out and brushes a braid back from my face. His fingers linger for a moment against my cheek. I'm actually disappointed that I feel nothing. Brandon makes me tingle; Gio's touch leaves me cold.
He winks before pushing off from the lockers. "See you soon, Deja."
"When are you going to put him out of his misery?” Mackenzie asks, her eyes on his departing figure.
"Gio flirts with anything that moves. You know that."
"Yeah, but he seems extra thirsty today. I think he wants to ask you to homecoming."
I scoff. Last week I'd have been pleased, maybe even excited to hear that, but today I have other concerns. I'm on tenterhooks about what Brandon will ask me to do, and the anxiety is taking up too much space in my mind and body to leave room for much else.
I close my locker, and as the first bell rings we head to our first-period class.
It's English, and I'm looking forward to it because my teacher, Mr. Lewis, is one of the few here who isn't just going through the motions.
It's an excellent school, but most of the teachers lost their enthusiasm for kids before I was even born.
I float through most of the morning in a daze.
After fourth period I reluctantly walk back to my locker, barely paying attention to the people around me.
There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach that I hate.
When I get to my locker to stash my books, I look at my phone like I always do.
I think I’m stalling a bit as well. We’re not supposed to have phones at school, though most people keep them on them anyway and try to be discreet.
I got detention freshman year and my phone confiscated, so I’m not going to risk it.
I can wait a few hours to see social media updates, and if it’s something really important my parents will call the office.
I do always take a quick look before lunch, though, just in case one of my friends texted me. That’s what I’m focused on when Shelby pops up next to me, her pale blonde ponytail swinging.
“I heard they have chicken fingers today,” she says, cheerfully. “I know we’re not supposed to eat fried food, but they’re so good.”
“Oh,” I say, looking up from the screen. “I have to skip lunch today. I have a thing in the library.”
“A thing?”
“Like a project.”
“But you have to come. What if somebody was going to ask you to homecoming?”
“They can ask me tomorrow.” Shelby is so cute. She’s not dumb—hardly anybody at this school is—but she’s really naive. Everything is simple and uncomplicated to her.
“Okay, well,” she says, backing away in the direction of the cafeteria.
“I hope you don’t miss out.” She does a little wiggle with her neck and shoulders that makes me laugh.
She gives me a wave and hops away towards Lorelei, who is waiting at the end of the hall.
I turn my attention back to the phone. There’s a text from Brandon (filed under AH) telling me to meet him in the classics section.
If you went to a regular high school, this probably sounds weird to you, but Briarwood has the kind of huge two-story library you’d usually see on a college campus.
Our library is a neoclassical monument to learning (I’m quoting the brochure here) constructed of Indiana limestone and white marble.
The facade features columns and friezes that conjure the symmetry and grace of ancient Greek and Roman public buildings, yada, yada.
Here’s the takeaway—it’s huge and there are a lot of little nooks and crannies where you can have a private conversation.
The classical section is right next to a set of private study rooms, so maybe that’s where we’re meeting?
I’m not necessarily looking forward to being alone with Brandon, but at least if we’re in one of those rooms we won’t be overheard.
It would be beyond mortifying for anyone to find out that he had something over me, even if they didn’t actually know what.
It takes five minutes just to get to the library building.
I push through the heavy wooden doors, pause for a moment, still overwhelmed after three years by the grandeur of this space.
The ceilings soar thirty feet to a glass domed roof.
Sunlight streams in, giving the room a bright, airy feel.
The foyer alone is about 1000 square feet and around it, wooden shelves extend in both directions.
Large oak tables lie in rows from front to back of the room, stopping in front of a grand staircase leading to the second floor.
Just inside the entrance is the check-in desk, where one of the librarians sits, sharp eyes focused on her computer screen.
She glances up at me and I hand her my school ID, which she quickly scans.
My tennis shoes make the occasional squeak against the polished marble floors, earning me curious glances from a few of the kids at the tables.
I jog up the stairs to the second floor, aware that I only have forty-five minutes total for lunch, and I’ve already burned through ten.