Chapter 7
Seven
Deja
The next day, Mackenzie starts tutoring Brandon and it’s super uncomfortable hearing her voice drift down the hallway from his room.
She’s using her breathless, flirty voice a lot, which is really annoying.
Not that I care if he starts dating her after telling me I’m the one he wants.
It would be good, actually, because he might leave me alone.
That’s what I want, isn’t it? I push away the memory of his teeth in my flesh. I hated it. I was awful!
When Mackenzie drops by my room on the way out, I say nothing negative about Brandon, just gossip about homecoming and a few other things.
She lets slip that Brandon is way behind the rest of his class.
Of course, no one suggests it’s cause white boys just aren’t any good at math, but I need to be less bitter.
Hate the game, not the player. Well, I hate this player, but for entirely different reasons.
Our schedules keep me and Brandon apart for the rest of the week. I’m at cheerleading practice or some other extra-curricular and he’s got soccer. I’m busy trying to keep up with everything, so I don’t have a lot of free time to be worried about what Devin’s ward is getting up to.
Maybe that’s not quite accurate, though, because I’ve started texting Carmello, initially to spite Brandon, but I’m finding that I really like him.
He’s so damn cute and he sends me pics of him with no shirt on that would have any girl drooling.
He’s really cut, kinda like Brandon, but unlike Brandon he’s not a complete asshole.
He’s got that kinda thick muscle, where Brandon is a little leaner.
He’s funny, too. He’s already tried to edge things towards sexting, but I’ve been holding off.
I’m feeling a little guilty, because I don’t know what I want from Mello, and he’s being really sweet.
I started talking to him because of Brandon.
Now it feels like I’m lying to someone who actually deserves better.
I get a text from Carmello on Thursday.
Mello: Wanna hang out this weekend?
I’m about to text him back that I’m busy, when I hear Mackenzie’s fake laugh.
I know that laugh. It’s the one she uses to make boys think she thinks they’re hilarious.
Why shouldn’t I hang out with Mello? I don’t have to make him my boyfriend, but wouldn’t it be nice to see the look on Brandon’s face when he sees Mello and me together?
Me: I’m going to a party at Brayden J’s house on Saturday. Wanna come?
Mello: Sure. Where’s he live.
I text him the details and smile smugly. See how Brandon likes the shoe on the other foot.
The game on Friday night is a disappointment as usual.
We did well last year mostly due to Jayden, who was a pretty good quarterback.
With him gone, the team is back to their usual mess.
We lose 19-0. The guest team is exuberant and obnoxious as they steam out of the game.
Briarwood fans gather their blankets and empty soda cups and leave more slowly, the mood subdued.
I don’t make it out to the parking lot until about twenty minutes after the game.
I’m tired and lugging my gym bag. I tell the girls I can’t join them for burgers after the game like I usually do.
Lorelei gives me a weird look. It’s the second time in a week I’m bowing out of activities I usually take the lead in, and I wonder what she’s thinking.
I don’t really have much time to ponder it before I get to my car to find Brandon waiting for me.
He’s bent over his phone, his backpack over one shoulder and his hip propped against the side of my car.
He looks around when the car beeps before he spots me and smiles in a way that heats my skin.
I say nothing to him as I stash my bag in the trunk and walk around to the driver’s side door. Lorelei’s Jeep pulls up with Mackenzie hanging out the passenger window.
“Hey guys,” she yells, “Brandon, you wanna come get burgers with us?”
Did she just invite him alone? I mean I know I just told them I can’t make it, but I’m kind of annoyed that they just went, okay, fine, but let’s ask Brandon to come without her. Before I can say anything, though, Brandon responds.
“We can’t,” he says. “Her parents are making us come home.”
I don’t know why, but I like that he said “we.”
“Why?” Mackenzie asks.
“I don’t know.” He shrugs. His facial expression is kind of cold, and I can see it bothers Mackenzie. She shrugs, too, pursing her lips, then says something to Lorelei I can’t hear. She tells us bye and they leave. We get in the car, still having said nothing to each other.
Brandon rests his hand on my bare leg, just below the hem of my tech skirt.
“Relax,” he says, giving it a light squeeze. “Nothing bad is happening tonight, okay.”
Before I can tell him to take his hands off me, he’s already putting on his seatbelt and adjusting the seat for his overly long legs. I guess he thought touching me on the leg would be calming, but it’s the opposite. The low-grade anxiety I’ve been carrying around all day just ramped up higher.
“If you want me to not worry,” I tell him, reversing out of the space, “touching me on the thigh without asking is probably not the right way to go about it.”
“Okay,” he says, sounding amused. “Should I add that to the list of things not to do until you beg me?”
“Yes.” My voice is firm, but now he’s grinning as he reaches for the radio. He laughs, turning up the volume. It’s a hip hop station and I try to ignore him, letting the beat and flow relax me.
“I’m hungry,” I say as we approach a strip with a bunch of fast-food restaurants. The light from the street lamps flickers through the windows—light, dark, light, dark. “Can we hit the drive through?”
“Fast food’s nasty,” he says. “I can make something better in ten minutes.”
“You cook?”
“Of course. You don’t?”
“I do, a little, but I’m a girl.”
“I don’t think it’s a boy-girl thing,” he says. “At some point we’re all going to be living on our own and we should know how to take care of ourselves.”
“Did your Mommy teach you that?”
“She did. Taught me how to cook, clean, the works. I do most of the cooking at home, actually. She…ah… Anyway, I don’t mind making you something. What are you in the mood for?”
“Burgers,” I say, because that’s what I always have on Friday nights. It’s a special treat for me because I have to watch my diet all the time.
“I’m sure I can do better than that.”
“Okay.” I don’t see the point of arguing about it.
We pull into the driveway a few minutes later, the house dark. Brandon gets out and helps me with my bag before we head inside.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell him, running upstairs, leaving him alone in the kitchen. Feeling a little grimy, I take a very quick shower, slather on some lotion, and get dressed in an oversized tee and an old pair of leggings.
In fifteen minutes, I’m back downstairs. Brandon is chopping something on the counter. He sniffs in my direction and smiles.
“Vanilla,” he says.
“You’re making something with vanilla?”
“No.” He chuckles. “You wanna get some plates out? It’s almost ready.”
“That fast?”
“It’s a simple dish.”
There’s a sizzle as he tosses whatever he was chopping into a pan. The smell of garlic fills the kitchen. I place the plates on the kitchen island and get cutlery out of the drawers. The sizzling intensifies again, and I peek over to see that he’s added halved grape tomatoes to the pan.
“You want something to drink?”
“Got beer?” he asks, as if Devin and Tanisha Thompson wouldn’t tan our hides for drinking their beer.
“I’ve got sparkling water.”
“That’s fine.”
A few minutes later I’m presented with a plate of pasta. It smells amazing and I’m totally impressed. He even serves it with a sprig of fresh basil on top. He sets his plate next to mine and sets down some extra grated Parmesan.
“This is good,” I tell him after taking a bite. It’s bowtie pasta with a bunch of chopped vegetables. The pasta is perfectly cooked, and the flavor is amazing. “You really know what you’re doing.”
“I told you,” he says, grinning.
I’m still really curious about what he wants from me tonight, but I decide to just wait for him to tell me when he’s ready.
I am really hungry, and I give the food all my attention.
It’s quiet in the kitchen except for the hum of the refrigerator and the clink of silverware on porcelain.
I glance over at him sitting next to me.
He’s wearing a faraway expression, focused on a spot high on the opposite wall.
He takes a bite and chews, his firm jaw tightening.
I notice his hands, large and long-fingered with blunt-cut nails.
I suppose he feels my eyes on him because he turns his head, meeting my eyes frankly.
“What’s your favorite color?” he asks.
“Why do you want to know?” I’m mystified by this question. What’s his angle.
“It’s just a basic getting to know you question.”
“What if I don’t want you to get to know me?”
“Do you need to make everything a fight? It’s a pretty innocuous question. What’s your favorite color?”
“Bite me!”
“Happily. But I thought you might like just telling me something about you instead of me putting my mouth on you.”
Fucker.
“Yellow.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Cause you don’t have a single yellow item in your room. You hate yellow.”
Observant.
“So why ask me? You probably already know.”
He sighs. “Just tell me.”
“Purple. I know, it’s cheesy, but I like purple.”
“What shade?”
“Brandon!”
“Come on...”
“It’s a bluish purple, but with some shimmer. Like this.”
I pull out my phone and show him a picture of a piece of fabric I’ve been considering for my prom dress. A smile plays across his lips.
“Mine is forest green,” he says, and starts clearing the table. I put my hand over my glass to let him know I want to keep it.
“I didn’t ask,” I tell him.
“You don’t have to ask,” he says. “I don’t mind telling you.”
“Let me help you clean up,” I say, sliding off my stool.
“That’s not necessary.”