In Deep (13 page)

“Brynn, I'm not going to do your work for you. I offered to help, but . . .”

I grip the air in front of me with clawed hands and shake it.

“I'm not asking you to do my work for me. I'll write the summaries. I even know how to do the citations right and everything. You saw me take those notes. All I'm saying is, can you please help me understand what these books are even about? Just describe them to me in normal language? Because I could read until two thirty this morning and still not figure them out. And I have practice tomorrow, and you don't know this, but I'm getting ready for a really big meet. Teachers like Woodham don't understand what it's like. They think we're just a bunch of dumb jocks. But you're exhausted
after two hours of practice, and by the time you get something to eat, which is absolutely necessary—and I mean, like, totally vital—it's already almost seven and in order to get a decent sleep you need to be in bed by ten thirty at the latest, and what about the rest of your homework, huh? It's not like Woodham's the only teacher I have.”

I've gotten a little dramatic, I know. But sometimes the best way to get what you want is to keep talking until the other person agrees, just to make you shut up.

“I don't know.”

“Kate, please. I really need your help.” She probably doesn't know how honest I'm being.

“I have homework of my own, you know.” Though I can hear she's giving in.

“I know. I really do.”

More quiet. I wait.

“I'm not doing this for any kind of . . . sex advice,” she finally says. “That was pretty low of you, to be honest.”

I laugh, surprised. “I know. I'm sorry. It was the only thing I could think I might be able to offer. To make it worth your while.”

“You can make this worth my while by writing a damned good paper and at the same time keep up your practice so you can win the championship or get into the Olympics or whatever it is you're trying to do.”

“I will, I promise. This will help so much. With all this reading, I can't—”

“Hey, I already said I would help you. You don't have to keep laying it on.”

I hope how funny and snarky Kate can be is part of why Connor likes her.

“You're a good person, Kate.” And I mean it. “Really, thank you.”

“Save it for when you get an A on your annotations, okay? But listen, I better go. First though, how did you get my number?”

“We exchanged them at the beginning of the semester, duh. You said maybe we could study together sometime.”

“That's right,” she says. A beat, then: “I just didn't think you'd really programmed me in.”

I don't know what to say to this.

“Well”—she sighs—“I'll see you tomorrow. But keep reading a little, okay? You'll still need quotes for the paper.”

I tell her I will. And at first, I do try—I really do. But the reading is long and boring, and I'll have time to do it over the weekend. In order to not be a total slack-off, I make myself do a few math problems. Also, I finish our vocabulary assignment for English so Mrs. Drummond can stop giving me the evil eye every time I walk in the door. There's actually a good word in there:
vituperate
. To abuse someone with harsh language. I can
think of more than one person I'd like to vituperate right now.

When Mom and Louis come say good night, it surprises me that it's ten already. I wash my face and get in my pajamas, but it's like my post-practice drowsiness has worn off: My mind's not ready to go to sleep, even though I know my body needs it. Once in bed, I pull my laptop back off the floor and spend another hour pulling together a collage for Kate made from stupid dating advice and GIFs I find. (Well, not all of them are stupid. “Not insulting yourself” is a good one she could probably listen to.) I'm not doing it because of the bibliography thing—I'm really not. Instead, picturing her reaction tomorrow, I can't stop myself. Against my better judgment and my discipline, it's something I honestly want to do.

IT'S ONLY BECAUSE I'M UP
working on the Kate project that I hear the quiet ping coming from my bedroom window around eleven. I look up to where the sound is coming from, confused and startled, and wait. About five seconds later there's another one, harder and louder. So loud, I imagine Mom and Louis can hear it from their bedroom downstairs. My heart rate accelerates. Someone is definitely throwing rocks outside.

But I can't open the window and lean out, a la
The Notebook
or whatever dumbass movie, because Louis always sets the alarm before bed, and it goes off if you open the window without turning the alarm off first. I know this from experience.

Still, I go to the window and peer out.

Gavin.

I feel both pissed and a little victorious. As I'm standing there, another rock hits so hard, I'm afraid it may chip the glass. I signal to him that I'll come out, but I don't know if he can see. I hurry downstairs as quietly as I can and punch in the code for the alarm, praying Mom doesn't hear it but getting my excuse ready in case she does.

Opening the front door seems impossibly loud, though I also know from experience that if Mom doesn't hear the alarm code deactivating, she won't hear this. One step, two, and I'm outside. Gavin's standing in the driveway, looking between my bedroom window and the front door, poised with another pebble from the driveway in his hand, just in case.

“What the hell?” I spit. “This isn't 1950, you know. Or even 2004 or whenever you first heard of that trick.”

Thanks to the streetlamp, I can see his smile, though most of his body is in the shadows. “Yeah, but it still works, right?”

It's not cold out—it's not even cool—but I feel my nips harden under my cami, anyway. Suddenly I'm very aware of the thinness of my boxer shorts. I cross my arms over my chest and try to look pissed.

“Whatever. What are you doing here?”

“I was bored.”

Somehow, in that small statement, he's crossed the lawn and is now standing in front of me. I can't actually smell Grier on him, but I imagine I can. I glance at the house in case the
hallway light's been flicked on, which means Mom really is awake. I'm both relieved and a little disappointed to see that it's not.

“Look,” I whisper to Gavin. “This is more Grier's bag than mine, you know? I actually have parents who still believe in things like groundings.”

“Aw, they can't ground you.” He smiles. I realize he's not totally sober.

“I told you anyway”—I toss my head, trying to feel as confident as I know it makes me look—“I'm not interested in my best friend's sloppy seconds.”

I sidestep toward the driveway, where it's harder for anyone to see us from the house, but not so far that I trigger the automatic outside light. Somehow, in my doing this, Gavin also closes the distance between us. He's here, over me, hands on my hips like that time at the party. Like they were meant to be there.

“Oh, you're not sloppy. And you're definitely not second, either.”

I keep my voice steady, mean, though my pulse is rapid. “Doesn't seem to be the case, since I guess you're back with Grier.”

He doesn't say anything. His face doesn't even shift.

“What's up with you and all this partying anyway? I thought you were in summer training.”

“That's the operative word,” he drawls. “Summer.”

“Yeah, well, some of us are still in season.”

He laughs. “Yeah, I know you're seasoned.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I just think you know exactly what you're doing.”

He leans in then, kissing the sharp curve of my collarbone. His hands slide down just enough to make my hipbones pop out from the elastic edge of my boxer shorts. Goose bumps rush along every inch of my skin, including what feels like over my face. His mouth on my neck knows all the right places. I can envision how red his lips are. I think of his hand on me, in Grier's pool.

“What are you doing?” I murmur, unable to stop myself from stepping closer to him, raising my chin so he can get at more of my neck.

“Only what you want me to.” Kissing toward my sternum. His hands dropping even lower. The way he's holding his hips away from me, I know he's hard. It helps bring me back to myself, helps me get control of the heat.

“I'm not calculating anything.” I make myself take almost a whole step back.

He laughs. “Okay. Like you don't like it better when I'm with her.”

“I'm not sure I know what you're talking about.” My pulse shifts its pace.

“Oh, sure. Like I haven't noticed how it always gets a rise out of you, the two of us together. You think I don't think about that when I'm with her?”

A curl of disgust wells in the back of my throat, even as he bends in to kiss the curve of my neck again. When I realize I've grabbed a handful of his T-shirt, I let go but don't exactly step away.

“I'm not trying to make you fuck over my friend. You're doing a plenty fine job of that on your own.”

He looks amused. “Doesn't look like you're trying to stop me, either, is all I'm saying. I kind of think you want me to.”

My eyes narrow. “You have no idea what I want.”

“That's true. But I sure am interested in finding out.” His lips hover over mine, and I really think he's going to kiss me—I picture it, us, by the fire—but then just like that, he steps away, just some guy in jeans and a T-shirt, laughing at me.

“Good night, champ. I understand you've got a big meet coming up. You better get your rest. I'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

He heads to his car in no hurry. I should go back into the house. I should. But I stand there, making myself watch him until he's gone. Seeing him finally leave is the only thing that quiets the heat in my shorts and the steam I think might be coming out of my ears.

AS SOON AS MY ALARM
goes off,
wiped
is the only thing that comes to mind. I hit snooze three times, which I hardly ever do once. I could stay here. I probably should stay here. I need to be sharp, rested. These last few practices before next weekend's meet are no joke. But then I remember Gavin last night—that cocky laugh. I can't back down, pussy out. I cannot let him faze me. Plus, it'll be fun to show Kate the collage.

Downstairs in Louis's office, though, right before we have to leave, the freaking printer is out of both red and yellow ink, so Kate's poster comes out all weird. There's no time to change it and try again, and I'm so tired and so annoyed—still flustered from Gavin—I almost cry. But instead I suck in a breath, press down the frustration, and go grim-faced to the car, because I
still need to face Woodham and the library and the homework I actually did for once, plus Kate and those summaries, and on top of that, figuring out what the hell is wrong with Charlie and why he didn't want to hang out with me yesterday. Not to mention practice later, and how to deal with Gavin and Grier. God damn it. I hate people. I hate people so much.

When Charlie sees me in the lunchroom, though, it doesn't seem like there is anything wrong with him. His smile is just as happy as it always is. Like there wasn't anything weird at all about him turning down an afternoon make-out in order to hang with Ethan. Like I don't partly blame him for my inability to sleep, for me still being up when Gavin came over, for my light being on, for Gavin being able to figure out so easily which window was mine. Though I half-dozed through my first three periods, now my eyes are grit and I feel heavier than I did getting out of bed this morning.

I stiffen my spine, clench my butt. I can't let any of that rule over me now, and I definitely don't want Charlie to think I'm uncool about him hanging with his friends.

“Where's the gang?” I try to say brightly, though it doesn't come out near as friendly as I mean it to.

He reaches for me. “Off campus, I think.”

I stay standing, beside my chair. “Did you want to go?”

“There isn't really enough room for us in Maria's car, and I know they're not totally your thing anyway.”

Why he has to say something like that, I don't know. I've been totally fine with them. Jesus.

“I like those guys plenty, it's just—”

“Maybe I wanted some time with you, huh? You let a guy just have that?” His eyes are sparkly. “Come on. Let's get our food.”

I pile on potato salad, even extra chicken breast this time. Boiled eggs. Anything that will give me some energy. While we eat, I decide to tell him about Kate and Connor and the collage I did for her last night so I won't just sit here and bitch, letting anything about Gavin slip. After I explain the whole thing about Kate, though, surprisingly Charlie gives me a couple of good, from-the-source pointers to add in. Real boy-perspective stuff I hadn't thought of.

“Of course, she should also make sure and talk about her period.” His face is completely serious, though he's having trouble keeping the laugh out of his voice. “If there's any way to work that in there.”

“Oh, absolutely,” I deadpan back. “Even if you're not on it, you should let him know where you are in your cycle, right? Plus the heaviness of the flow?”

He nods but doesn't even hint at grinning. “Make sure to clarify whether you're a pads or tampons girl, too. It really helps set the tone for the rest of the relationship.”

That he's so unflinching about it is the part that cracks me
up. That or plain old delirium. And once I start laughing, something unhinges in me and I can't hinge it back. I sound like a hyena. Which, of course, Charlie eats up. The rest of lunch, we think up the grossest, most disgusting things Kate could do on their date this weekend. Everything that comes out of Charlie's mouth is hilarious. I'm like Maria, laughing at Ethan with tears streaming down her face, right there in the cafeteria. I know I sound crazy, but I can't stop.