Date Me (3 page)

"Oh, I'm sorry," I say breathlessly, as I try to push the feel of Aiden's tongue and hips out of my mind.

I listen as Brad goes over more details.

Aiden leans toward me. “Will you save me a dance at the after-party?"

“I don't know," I tease. "Can you dance?”

He puts his head down. Like he can’t.

And I feel bad. Embarrassed for him. “Oh my gosh. Is that why you only wanted to dance to slow songs? Is that all you know how to do?”

He can’t be a god. I’m certain of it now.

Happy Homecoming to him and whoever he asked to go with him.

Although, I’m a bit surprised I haven’t heard about it. Or seen the stars glowing from the ceiling on someone’s Facebook page.

“I’ll get my French homework done before tutoring. You can teach me to dance instead.”

“I don’t really feel like dancing, Aiden. The knee and all."

“I’ve gone above and beyond the call of duty in Social Committee. It’s not something I really had the time to do, but I did it for you. So you owe me.”

I stop for a latte on the way to history and as I'm walking up the stairs, I decide that I'm very concerned that my subconscious believes that acting out a dream in real life is not cheating.

But then I think about it. If you
were
pretending to be dreaming or
were
possibly in a heightened state of consciousness,
would
it be cheating? Like, technically?

That sounds like a question for Brooklyn. If I were ever to speak to him again.

Surely, if this were the case, someone would have figured out that loophole before me. So, probably not.

Then I have an odd sense of déjà vu. I think I said those exact words to Aiden in the dream, and he said, No, you think outside the box. You color outside the lines. For you, it's not cheating.

I wonder if Aphrodite was good in bed.

I mean, we know she was clearly capable of seduction but, technically, once they were seduced, was she?

I have the sudden need to find out.

Passion, nakedness, and sex.

History

Riley and I are working on another stupid history project.

Our project is:
How did transportation affect the Industrial Revolution?

Uh, hello. Who thinks up this stuff?

The answer is pretty simple:
The use of widespread transportation allowed the Industrial Revolution.

Project done.

But, no.

We have to waste our time cutting out little pictures of trains, highways, cars, and boats to glue on a poster. I'm supposed to be looking on my phone for some statistics.

But instead, I just googled:
Was Aphrodite a good lover?

Just as I hit the enter key, Riley grabs my phone looking for statistics. He sees my search and says, “What the hell?”

I bury my face in my palm. “Shut up.”

“Didn't you just have an amazing weekend with my brother?"

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re still obsessing over the god.”

“No, I’m not. I’ve just developed a scholarly interest in Greek mythology.”

“Bullshit.”

I roll my eyes and pretend to put my phone away but, later, when he goes to refill his water bottle, I peek at it.

Aphrodite represents the power of love. The kind of love from which you cannot escape.

No wonder she had so many guys captivated.

She rules all aspects of love, desire, beauty, and sex.

And, oh my.

She is considered the mistress of pleasure. She symbolizes passion, nakedness, and sex.

Oh, wait. There’s more.

Once Aphrodite enters into a relationship, her powers go beyond love and sex to include deep friendship and the connection of souls.

Oh. My. Gosh!
That's
why I thought he spoke to my soul. It
is
just a stupid godly love trick. He can do it to anyone he smiles at!

And now, thanks to my research, I know.

I'm not crazy.

Riley says, "I think I know how I want to ask Ariela to Homecoming."

I light up. I'm so excited for him. "How?!"

"Well, I want to do something at the football game Friday night. While I'm in my uniform and she's in her cute little cheerleading skirt. What should I do?"

"I thought you said you knew?"

"I know
where
. I just need to figure out
how
. Something all her friends will see. And I was thinking it'd be cool if whatever I do had, like, something she could keep. A memento.”

"So cupcakes and balloons are out."

"Yeah."

"You could write it on her megaphone."

"Would she see it?"

"Probably not. Plus, she'd probably get in trouble. Um, what else is out there?" I think for another minute. "Oh, I know! You could change the sign the guys run through. I could even help with that."

He shakes his head. "She'd keep ripped paper?"

"This is hard."

"I know. I want it to make her melt. For her to think it's super sweet."

I raise my eyebrows at him in surprise. “Who the hell are you and what have you done with my friend?”

"Shut up and think. What else is on the field?"

"The scoreboard?"

"Only has numbers."

I get an idea. "A football! You could write it on the football and while you're warming up, call her name and toss it to her. And you could both sign it and date it afterwards. That'd be really cute. It'd be cool to have a keepsake. Speaking of that, I'd like a keepsake to remember how Dawson asked me. Can you stand in my room with your shirt off and an M painted on your chest?”

He flicks my nose. "Hey, that was for you. I was embarrassed to be seen shirtless."

I laugh out loud. "Now that is bullshit. You'd walk around shirtless all day if they'd let you."

He smirks at me. "I'd be better off if they'd let me walk around with no pants. Now that
is
impressive.

Hollywood royalty to trash.

Math

While we're supposed to be doing some math problems towards the end of class, I poke Logan, who sits in front of me.

"Hey, I heard you’re trying out for the play. What part do you want?"

"I'm trying out for the Bad Prince. You know, the guy that screws everything up for the trashy girl you want to play?” He looks down his nose at me, like I'm actual trash, then turns his back on me.

I purse my lips and scratch my temple.

I have to admit, this kind of response from a guy is sort of new to me. At my old school, well, anywhere really, boys who I didn't know seemed thrilled, almost honored when I talked to them.

What happened to me?

Why isn't he flirting with me? Is he like Whitney? Does he think I'm trash too?

I look down and scrutinize myself. Run my hand down a chunk of my hair. It's still blonde and shiny. My clothes are still cute. I check my reflection in my phone. My teeth are still white. My legs still long and tan.

How did coming to a new school cause me to go from Hollywood royalty to trash?

Classy is overrated.

Ceramics

Jake folds his arms across his chest and sits on the stool next to me. "So now I have to figure out a way to ask Whitney to Homecoming that is classy but compares to what Dawson did for you. You're stealing her spotlight, Monroe. She doesn't like it."

"You must be high if you think I'd help plan anything for her."

He shakes an adorable freckled finger at me. "See, that's where you're wrong. I am asking you to help
me
. Because I gave you vodka for your knee. Because I came back with Dawson and because I helped him ask you. That's what friends do. They help each other."

I sigh. He's right. I need to be a friend back.

"I doubt I’ll be much help. No one did this kind of stuff at my old school. My last boyfriend didn't even ask me to the dance. He just told me to tell him what color my dress was so we could match."

"Come on. You have good ideas. Brainstorm with me. Think romantic."

"You could spell out Homecoming in rose petals on her bed. She could take a picture of it. She'd like that, wouldn't she? It'd be private. Classy."

"I think she's thinking classy is overrated."

"She wants you to top the dean's sizzling ass and a bunch of naked chests?"

"I think so."

"Hmm. You could jump out of a plane with a heart-shaped parachute. You could streak across campus in nothing but a raincoat. You could . . . You know, it's really hard because she isn't really in anything. Like, guys have put stuff in the girl's dance locker. Or one guy asked on stage during drama. It was so cute. So that leaves you with lunch or maybe at a football game."

"Keep going," he says. "You're thinking big now. And it's good you haven't been here to see all the ways people have asked. That means you should be able to come up with something new and creative.”

I shake my head. Trying to come up with something.

"Paint it on the football field?"

"I can't do that."

"Do it with rose petals then."

"They'd blow away."

"Balloons?"

"Not original."

I throw my hands up in the air in frustration. “Then why don't you just hire a freaking airplane and fly a banner over the field?"

He gets a big smile on his face and fist bumps my ceramic deer. "I knew you'd come up with something."

Embarrassment protection program.

4:40pm

Aiden is standing in front of me, expecting me to teach him how to dance. Why did I ever agree to this?

“This is silly,” I say. “I can’t teach you how to dance. Plus, I’m injured.”

“I saw you jogging at soccer practice, even though I doubt you were supposed to.”

I laugh. “I took another pain pill. Felt healed.”

He stands there and stares at me. Knows he wins whatever game he’s trying to play. If I could jog, then I should be fine to dance. I sigh and figure I'll just get it over with. I turn on my favorite dance playlist, grab his hips, and move them to the beat. Move them with mine.

He moves awkwardly. Strangely. With no rhythm whatsoever.

Um, okay.

This is not working.

I turn around, stand in front of him, push my back into his chest, and pull his arm around to my stomach, where it presses against my bare skin.

Leaving a scar, I'm sure.

I shake my ass into him, and he finally seems to be getting it. He’s moving with a little more rhythm.

What can I say? I’m a good teacher.

I put my hands on top of his and move them around on my body in the name of dancing.

This would be even funner if we were naked.

Shit.

Hello? You can’t think that.

This is you helping a dance-disabled friend.

It’s practically philanthropic. I bet I could get community service hours for this.

After about six songs, Aiden spins me out of his arms and breaks out boy band dance moves.

“What the hell?” I say, shocked. “Do you used to be in a boy band? Are you here in some embarrassment protection program?”

He gives me a radiant smile.

I shake my head at him. “Don’t tell me you can sing too.”

He walks close to me. “We’ll have to save that for another day, Boots. I don’t want to overwhelm you with all my talents at once.”

“Everyone says you have great hands,” I blurt out.

“These?” he asks, holding them in front of my face.

I look at his hands.

Really look at them.

They’re beautiful.

Seriously, is there any part of him that's not complete perfection? I run my hand across them, searching for something. Then I find a scar that runs across his pinkie and middle finger. “What happened here?”

He laughs. “Knife attack. In the war.”

“Very funny.”

“Fine. Cleat attack.”

“Now I know why you’re such a good goalie,” I say, further examining his hands.

“Because I'm fast.” He quickly slaps the top of my hands. Like the game Damian and I could play for hours when we were kids.

I slap his hands back quickly before he can pull them away. “Not fast enough,” I say with a smirk. I grab his hands again and hold them up, scrutinizing them. “They’re too big for your body.”

“What do you mean?”

“Proportionately. They’re off. They’re too big.” I tilt my head and look at him. Size up his six-foot-two-inch frame. “That, or you’re not done growing yet.”

“I’m probably not done growing yet,” he shrugs, then starts doing the robot to the music.

It makes me laugh. “You
so
know how to dance.”

“Naw, you’re just a really good teacher. I couldn’t do this until today.”

“You’re such a liar. How do you know how to dance like this? You dance alone in your room to music videos or something?”

“No. I have a bossy older sister.”

“So?”

“So, instead of wanting to play school or Barbies, she wanted to play dance instructor. If I played nice, she snuck me cookies.”

“So everyone at school knows you can dance like this but me, right? Very funny. Ha. Ha. You tricked me.”

He takes a step closer to me, wraps his arm around my waist, and pulls me in. His leg moves between mine. Our lower halves have never been entwined like this except for in my daydream. His leg feels even warmer than it did in the dream. Like it's radiating energy into my thighs.

“You’re the only one at school who knows I can dance like this. Well, besides my sister.”

“Why?”

“Because it's embarrassing. You asked me if I was in a boy band witness protection program or something.”

“Ohmigawd, did your mom video tape it? I'm so asking your sister.”

He tries not to laugh. “You are not. Or you'll be in trouble.”