Promiscuous (12 page)

When I hear Becca whisper the name “Grant,” I feel my stomach drop. But then I kick myself, because of course Becca is interested in Grant Blue. Who wouldn’t be? That doesn’t mean he gives a flying monkey’s ass about her.

Not that I have any business thinking about that.

Last week, after Prom Watergate, Grant Blue sat down with me in detention and gave me all of his notes from when he was in Pre-Calculus. We’re talking like, four whole notebooks full of meticulous, perfectly legible, handwritten notes. I told him I’d probably need some time to go through them all, so he said to call him if I had any questions, and we’d meet up next week.

Well, it’s next week, and I haven’t had the guts to call him yet. Whenever he asks me how things are going, I tell him I’m still working my way through the notes. But I think it’s obvious that I’ve hit a wall, because my homework assignments are starting to seem more and more impossible. My attitude isn’t really improving, either, especially considering the fact that every time I open up my Pre-Calculus book, I swear to God it smells like Trent.

My palms are sweaty as I plot a course through the halls to Mr. Dodge’s office. I’ve decided to hide out there for the duration of third period, because I really can’t stand any more of Becca at the moment. Also, I might be avoiding Grant Blue. Not because of what Becca said, though. If anything, it’s because I’m avoiding the moment when I have to confess how mathematically retarded I am.

Not that I care what he thinks of me, because I don’t.

I just don’t want him to think I’m stupid. That makes sense, right?

What do you mean, it doesn’t make sense? You know what, nobody asked you. So you can go ahead and mind your own damn business now. Okay?

Anyway, where was I? Oh, right.

I’m sitting in Mr. Dodge’s office with my feet up on the desk, reading my latest guilty pleasure bodice-ripper, when Mr. Dodge suddenly bursts in and scares me half to death. I drop my feet to the floor and scramble out of his chair, but not before he catches a glimpse of the cover of the book I was reading—which is, to my dismay, especially naughty-looking. Glistening abs, torn dress, side boob—the works. Also, it’s called
The Sailor’s Sin
. Ouch.

“Sorry if I startled you Tash,” he says, side-stepping his way around me to get to the coffee pot behind the desk. “But I was getting dangerously low on caffeine in there. And Becca has been talking about her dad’s sponsorship for about twenty minutes straight. Did you hear about that, by the way?”

“About what?” I’m distracted by my attempts to hide the evidence of my most humiliating, girly obsession.

“Apparently, Becca’s dad is giving money to whoever wins prom court.”

He turns his back to pour a cup of coffee, and I use the opportunity to stuff the book into my bag.

“You should think about running. For college tuition. Every little bit helps, you know.”

“Right, sure.” I perch on the edge of his desk, because his extra chairs are nowhere to be seen. “I’d be a shoo-in for prom court. Sometimes, I think I should try out for Miss America too, you know, because I’m just so graceful.”

“Why not?” Mr. Dodge steps around the desk to stand in front of me. “Don’t sell yourself short, Tash. You’ve got a lot more going for you than you know. Not just looks, either.”

At his words, a thousand alarm bells go off in my head. Without planning to, I hold my breath. Hoping, against all hope that he didn’t mean that the way it sounded, that he’s not about to do something that will destroy my last vestige of faith in mankind.

He takes a step closer, until I can almost inhale the steam rising out of his coffee cup.

“You know, with the right attitude, and a little bit of direction, I’m guessing there’s almost nothing you couldn’t accomplish.”

A chill goes through me, and I honestly can’t tell if it’s a good or bad feeling. I’m staring up at his bow-tie, because I can’t bring myself to look him directly in the eye.

“Really?” Something prickles at the back of my eyes, but I blink it away, as hard as I can. He doesn’t mean that. He’s just trying to be a good teacher, telling me what he thinks I need to hear. Or trying to get in my pants. Maybe all of the above.

I sniff, then shrug noncommittally, looking away. “I guess.”

Mr. Dodge sighs. “Someday, you’ll realize I’m right.”

He turns to leave, and I’m frozen on the edge of his desk, like a sullen gargoyle with very poor posture. I don’t know what to say. There’s nothing I can say. I should have thanked him for his kind words, or at least for everything he’s done for me. But instead, I just keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because deep down, I know it will.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my eighteen-point-whatever years of life, it’s that people always have an ulterior motive.
Always
.

I can’t believe I let myself forget that lesson, even for a second.

###

Later that day, I meet Grant Blue in the library during my free period for our first ‘official’ tutoring session.

After Mr. Dodge’s little guilt-trip pep talk, I was feeling particularly shitty about myself, so I finally texted Grant during lunch and told him I’d meet him if he was free. But by the time I get to the library, I’m already having second thoughts. I go in through the fake metal detectors and wave at Shelly, the librarian—aka my smutty paperback dealer—before spotting Grant Blue at a table in the corner.

As I approach, he looks up and smiles. That’s when it hits me: he’s sitting in the library
because
of me. He went out of his way to come here during his free period, for
me
. I feel like I’ve been tasered. My heart skips a beat, and my legs feel suddenly weak. It’s ridiculous that someone could make me feel this special, like I’m the heroine in some cheesy book. I’m starting to hate myself for having this reaction.

Jesus, Tash. Lock that shit down. Grant Blue is not Prince Charming. He’s just another guy, just one more slightly remarkable face in a sea of leering, pimple-covered teenage faces. This isn’t a fairy tale, and you sure as shit aren’t anyone’s damsel in distress.

I shuffle up to the table and drop my backpack on the floor. I don’t return his smile, because that would just encourage him to keep giving me more of his. And I’m like
this
close to a fatal Grant Grin overdose. My circulatory system can’t take it, I’m serious. Grant Blue pulls back a chair for me, right next to him. But I pull out the one directly across from him instead. Even then, I’m too close—close enough to see a fine, light brown dusting of shadow across his otherwise velvety-looking jaw.

Okay, so he’s not even slightly pockmarked—his skin is perfect. I wonder what it would be like to touch it.

Fuck me, this is getting to be a problem.
It was all well and good to fantasize about him from afar, but now that I’m actually getting to know him, I’m starting to like him. In a very real, non-fictional way.
Fuuuuuck.

“You weren’t in Leadership today.” His remark isn’t really a statement or a question, but something in between.

My mouth opens to say ‘No shit, Sherlock,’ but instead, what comes out is an excuse. “No, I uh, I had some things I needed to do. For Mr. Dodge.”

Liar
, says the asshole Jiminy Cricket.
Why don’t you just tell him you were avoiding him, because he makes you nervous?

“Anyway,” I clear my throat. “Let’s get this over with, okay?”

“Sure.” He opens up his Pre-Calculus book, which is on top of a stack of a bunch of other books. There’s no way he’s taking that many classes.

“Seriously, who lugs that many textbooks around by choice?” I don’t mean to make that observation out loud, but well, shit happens when Grant Blue is around.

He laughs, and the throaty perfection of that sound makes me grit my teeth.

“Yeah, I have a hard time getting rid of things.” He looks at me expectantly. “Where’s yours?”

“My what?” Oh, right. My attempted murder weapon. The textbook that launched a thousand curse words.
That
book.

I lean down and unzip my backpack and pull out the hated tome using only two fingers. It’s heavy though, so I end up dropping it. I mutter a few choice swear words under my breath, then heave the thing onto the table with a loud thunk.
Ta-dah!

 “Okay, why don’t we start on page…three-fifty?”

I shrug, opening up to the appropriate page. Ugh, functions. I seriously hate those.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he says, with that annoyingly sympathetic smile. “Functions suck, right?”

And bingo was his name-o. “Yeah, they really do.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll show you how to break them down until they seem like the simplest thing in the world. Promise.” He flips through his book, all the way to the back. “See, graphing functions is kind of like making a treasure map….”

A treasure map, seriously, like in
The Goonies
? Okay, so that’s kind of awesome. I crane my neck to see what he’s looking at, and he fixes me with this look.

“You know, it would be a lot easier for me to show you if you’d sit over here.”

Would it?
I seriously doubt he knows what he’s asking. Sitting next to him and breathing his soapy, minty wonderfulness—that’s only going to make me stupider. But I don’t want to raise his suspicion by balking, so I sigh and move over.

From my new vantage point, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Grant Blue, I can clearly see the graph he’s pointing at in the back of his book. Along with a bunch of black squiggles, red numbers and hand-written notes in the margins. Jesus, if there was a few more curse words in there, his book would look a lot like my shoes.

“Hey, wait a second,” I reach over and slide my Pre-Calculus book toward me, flipping through to the back. “Why does yours have all those numbers in red? Mine doesn’t have those.” I roll my eyes, exasperated. “Well shit, that’s my problem right there. Mr. Bogart gave me the wrong damn book!”

“No,” he laughs. “Mine is the teacher’s edition.” He holds it up to show me the cover, which I now realize is slightly different than mine. “See?”

Meaning, his book has all the answers in it.
Cha-ching!
“That’s awesome. Where did you get that?”

“I bought it online.”

His totally innocent response seems so genuine, it makes me want to hit him.

“Well, no wonder you passed the class.”

Again, he seems to think my totally serious outburst is a joke, and he laughs. “No, I didn’t have it when I took the class. That would’ve been cheating.”

“Oh, right.” Cheating, which is bad. Therefore, Grant Blue would never be caught dead doing it. Kind of like me. He’d never be caught doing me, either.

Whoa, where did that come from?

“So…functions.”

Grant Blue nods. “Let’s start by sketching out a simple graph.”

He pulls out his notebook and turns to a sheet of pristine, white lined paper. I pull out mine, too, which—unlike his—has doodles around the corner of almost every page.

“Okay,” I say, when my pen is ready. “Hit me.”

“That’s really cool.”

“What?” I look up to find him staring down at my notebook. I follow his gaze. This page is ringed with thorny vines and drooping roses, with a few birds perched around here and there.

“Is that what you do in class, instead of taking notes?”

I bristle at the implication of his words. “Only when the class is too asinine to satisfy my attention span.”

“Sorry.” He looks like he means it. “I just wish I had a talent like that, otherwise I wouldn’t have to entertain myself by color-coding all my notes.”

Eyes narrowed, I inspect the organized little piles of papers and notebooks that surround him. Damn, I hadn’t noticed it before, but Grant Blue has a serious highlighter habit. Everything—even down to the page numbers—in some cases, is either circled, underlined or highlighted with meticulous precision.

“Wow, it’s like the homework version of
A Beautiful Mind
.”

He does that slightly uncomfortable, wince-smile thing. “Kind of, except that guy was crazy, remember?”

I find myself being mesmerized by his green-brown eyes and humble sincerity, and it makes me angry all over again.

“Sure, you’re perfectly sane. That’s why you offered to tutor me, even at the risk of becoming a social leper.”

Then again
, the voice of my self-hatred whispers,
maybe that’s why he wanted to meet you in the library during free period, instead of lunch. Maybe he knew none of his friends would see him here.

“Tash, you shouldn’t say things like that.” He leans toward me, and his knee brushes my leg under the table. The momentary contact—subtle though it is—sends an electric thrill through my entire body, strong enough to make me shudder. As always, that rush of sexual excitement sets off warning bells in my brain.

I’m doing it again. I’m ruining everything. It’s going to happen all over again, just like with Christopher in the third grade. He’ll pretend he likes me. He’ll say he just wants us to be friends. But then I’ll bring out the worst in him. He won’t be nice, anymore. He’ll just be hungry. Then he’ll be ashamed. Angry. Eventually, he’ll start to hate me for the things I made him do to me.

“No, I
should
say things like that,” I tell him, as I push back with my feet, shoving my chair away from the table. “How else am I going to warn you about what a huge mistake you’re making?”

I stand up and shove my notebook into my backpack, not even bothering to zip it shut before I swing it over my shoulder.
I should’ve known this wasn’t going to work. Hell, maybe I should’ve just offered to go behind the stacks with him right now and get it over with.

“Get…
what
over with?” Grant Blue is standing now, too, a concerned expression on his face.

Fuck, did I say that last part out loud? Oh, God. I’ve got to get the hell out of here.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it.” I go to leave, but he stops me with a gentle hand on my arm.