Emerge (8 page)

I’m not obsessing about Clay. I don’t notice the way his dark hair meets the creamy skin at the nape of his neck. I don’t notice the stubble dotting his jaw or the arresting, serious expression he gets when he’s listening to someone, the way he is now. I definitely don’t notice the way he subconsciously strokes Melusine’s hand as he holds it across the desk. I’m focusing on social studies class. I’m dutifully taking notes. Is it my fault Clay and Melusine sit between me and the board?

“Watch the drool,” Kelsey whispers from the seat next to mine. She’s right. I thought I crushed this crush last year when I made myself stay away from Clay. I give Kelsey a look of wide-eyed innocence, like I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about, and try to concentrate on what Mr. Reitzel is saying.

“After reading your last round of papers, I got the impression that many of you feel disconnected from the material we’re studying.”

“No offense, Mr. Reitzel,” Kelsey says, “but we are kinda disconnected from it. By a couple hundred years.” Everyone chuckles, including Mr. Reitzel.

“It does seem that way, doesn’t it? So I guess my job is to help you realize that just because something happened a few centuries ago doesn’t mean it can’t affect you on a personal level today. That’s kind of a hefty order.”

I smell an assignment coming on.

“And your next assignment should accomplish just that.” He picks up a stack of assignment sheets and passes them out. “These explain the project that will take us through the end of the quarter.”

He hands me my assignment sheet. “Your Family History.” Oh, no! My family history is more suitable for a marine biology class than it will ever be for social studies. How am I going to flounder my way through this one? I make a conscious effort to keep my breathing even and not let my face show anything more than the typical annoyance most students are exhibiting at the extra work load. “You’re each going to go back as many generations as you can, using research tools that I’ll teach you about. Then, you’ll draw connections between every generation of your family and something you’ve learned in class about the historical events of the time. To keep things interesting,” Mr. Reitzel continues, “you’ll be working in teams of two.”

The room fills with subtle but discernible noise as everyone shifts toward their desired partners. Kelsey and I have already leaned close together over our assignment sheets, and Melusine has pushed her seat so close to Clay’s their thighs are touching.

“Not so fast,” Mr. Reitzel says, holding up a hand. “Since the point of this project is to learn new things and make new connections, I’d like you all to get to know someone new.”

Typical. Why do teachers wait until you’ve finally gotten accustomed to their routines before yanking the sea grass out from under you? As if I weren’t nervous enough about this assignment already. Kelsey and I exchange disappointed glances. Then again, maybe this is for the best. Maybe I’ll get a stupid partner who won’t get suspicious when I have to fabricate my entire half of the project.

Mr. Reitzel starts reading off a list of pairs, and soon Kelsey is moving across the room to sit with Matt Greene. Matt’s nice and he gets good grades; the two of them will make a good team. Melusine looks none too pleased as Laurie Kennish sits down next to her. I smile. I wouldn’t want to have to put up with Laurie’s caffeine-fueled energy levels for an entire quarter.

Then Mr. Reitzel says my name. “Lia Nautilus and … Clay Ericson.” Now I have a whole new reason to be nervous.

Breathe
, I tell myself as Clay’s eyes meet mine and he smiles at me. Time skips and he’s lowering himself into the seat Kelsey vacated. The seat next to mine.

“So, I guess we’re partners,” I say. Way to state the obvious.

“Yep. Got any family secrets I should know about now, Nautilus?” he jokes.

“You’ll just have to wait and find out.” Except that can’t happen. “How about you? Anything poster board worthy?”

“Oh yeah, tons.”

“Like what?”

He leans in close and whispers, “I’m a prince in disguise.”

“Really?” I ask, making my skepticism evident. “I didn’t know princes liked to wear jeans with so many holes.”

“I’m keeping a low profile.” He winks at me, and I hope I’m not blushing. What would he say if he knew I was the distant cousin of the ocean’s most infamous princess?

We read through the requirements of the project together: a poster board, oral report, and fifteen-page research paper.

“It’s going to be an awful lot of work,” I say. “We should probably get started sooner instead of later.”

“For sure,” he agrees. “I can’t today. I’m gonna check out this cello rock band up in Santa Cruz, so I gotta cut out before bio, but why don’t you come over tomorrow after school?”

“You’re,” I lower my voice, “ditching?”

“I read ahead. No harm, no foul. So, tomorrow?”

“Yeah, tomorrow.”

I know this is just some random partnership for a school project. I know spending time with Clay can’t possibly help me get over the way I feel about him. But I can’t help looking forward to tomorrow.

“Lia, get your butt downstairs. We’re going to be late again,” Lapis calls out before her platform shoes clack back down the stairs.

This is the third outfit I’ve tried on. I’m usually not picky, but today I keep changing my mind. I want to look fashionable, but not too trend-obsessed. Pretty, but also sexy—but not like I’m trying to look sexy, you know? Above all, I have to look like I don’t care how I look. I don’t want Clay thinking I dressed up to go over to his house because that would be super lame.

I settle on a pale blue, formfitting sweater and skinny jeans. I don’t normally wear jeans (it feels strange to have layers of denim separating my legs), but I figure it’s a good idea in case we sit on the floor while we work. As I slip into white ballet flats, I wish again that I could wear heels.

“Liii-aaa!”

I stick my clear but uber shiny lip gloss in the front pocket of my backpack and hurry down the stairs.

Once I’m at school, the day slogs by. Each class drags on and on until finally I’m dismissed. As soon as I see Clay waiting in the parking lot, it’s like the time continuum decides to play catch up all at once and suddenly my heart is racing.

“Hey, Nautilus. You ready to get our study on?”

“Sure am.”

He holds open the passenger door of his blue Mustang convertible and I slide in, thankful I stuck with the jeans. As he settles into the driver’s seat, Clay pushes a button, and the top of the car folds back. Within minutes, we’ve turned onto the Pacific Coast Highway, and the ocean air whips through my hair. The waves sparkle through the window, and it’s like we’re in a movie scene or something. The Beach Boys should be crooning about California in the background. Then the wind lashes a strand of my hair into my freshly glossed, highly sticky lips. I smash back to reality and bat the hair out of my face. I must look so spazzy.

“And guys think we have problems,” Clay says with a grin as he brakes at a stoplight. His hand moves toward the button that will put the top back up, but I place my hand on his, stopping him. This small touch of my skin against his shouldn’t feel so electrifying. I inhale sharply, taking in a full breath of the salty sea air.

“Leave it open,” I say. “I can handle it.” Clay has a stack of napkins from a local coffee house sitting in his cup holder under a tin of mints. I grab one, swipe off the offending lip gloss, and throw my head back, welcoming the rush of wind that makes my hair fly out in all directions.

The light turns green, but we don’t move. I look over at Clay in time to see him staring at me.

A honk from the car behind us jolts him into awareness, and he steps on the gas. The wind gets stronger as we pick up speed, and Clay’s smile tells me he’s enjoying the feel of it as much as I am.

Clay’s house isn’t as close to the water as mine or as ridiculously huge, but it’s gorgeous all the same. His mom bought it after the book deal for her latest fantasy series about fairies earned her a cool six figures. My dad read about it in the
Malibu Surfside News
.

“Is your mom home? I should introduce myself.”

“No. She usually writes at this café around the corner till it gets dark. You hungry? Want anything from the kitchen?”

A couple minutes later, armed with two bottles of water and a bag of sweet potato chips for Clay, we head up to his room.

I’ve never been to his house before, let alone in his room. I’m expecting it to be the way I’ve always pictured a guy’s bedroom—messy with a smell like gym socks or sweaty sheets. When he opens the door, I’m pleasantly surprised.

The room is pretty neat, with the exception of a somewhat disorganized looking desk, and all that meets my nose are the faint scents of laundry soap and … something I can’t quite place.

“Is that … cinnamon?”

“Hmm? Oh, I polished my guitar earlier. My grandfather’s old polish kind of smells like cinnamon.”

I don’t see a guitar anywhere. He must have put it away. “I didn’t know you played.”

“Yeah, since I was a kid.” He unpacks his backpack and spreads the books and materials we’ll need across his cluttered desk.

“Is that your band?” I ask, indicating the t-shirt he’s wearing, which features some sort of indie group.

One corner of his mouth twitches up. “I’m not in a band. This,” he points to the shirt, “is a fellow musical prodigy.” I shake my head at his arrogance but lean in and examine the shirt. The different band members are actually the same person over and over.

“Mozart?”

“The late and great. You seem to love staring at my chest, Nautilus.” He’s only poking fun at me, but I pull back.

“You wish,” I say. “Let’s get to work.”

He brings in another chair, and we sit at his desk, creating a study schedule. Then, we start writing out family trees with names we’ll research in computer lab.

A while later, I’ve made a list that’s a good combination of fake names and names of real ancestors who never set foot on land and won’t come up in any databases. I feel Clay’s eyes on me, and I look up just as he looks down. It’s probably nothing. Maybe he was staring off into space, or maybe I have lint on my sweater. I turn my attention back to my work.

We continue in silence, but I still feel like Clay’s watching me.

“Lia?” he finally asks. “Can I ask you something?” His voice is quiet and uncharacteristically serious.

“Sure.”

“Why … why did you stop hanging out with me last year?” He’s looking down now, his eyes fixed on his paper.

Because you’re human. Because I can’t like you
. “Because I got super busy. Y’know, first year at a new school.” That sounds lame even to me. “Everything was a little overwhelming.”

“I wasn’t trying to overwhelm you.”

“No, I didn’t mean it like that. I just had a lot going on.”

“So, you just stopped returning my calls?” He’s trying to keep his tone casual, but hurt slips into his voice. I wish I could explain to Clay that I put distance between us for his own good.

“I’m sorry.” It’s the truth. He finally looks up, and his eyes bore into mine. For a second, they’re filled with something raw and sad. Then, just as quickly, he breaks eye contact, and his trademark smirk slides back in place.

“Well, I just had to find out how anyone could blow off a guy as awesome as me. I’ve been wanting to ask you for a while, but we’re somehow never alone.”

“I didn’t blow you off.” Except I did.

“Hey, I just thought we were friends, Nautilus, that’s all.”

“We are friends.” We shouldn’t be—not when I feel this way. But I say it anyway.

“Promise?” His small smile is genuine now.

“Promise,” I say. And I mean it.