The Art of Getting Stared At (16 page)

“Yeah.” Under other circumstances, I'd compliment him on his shirt or ask him where the band is but I'm conscious of the crowd ... of Matt watching me ... so I just smile back.

“It's good to see you,” he says.

My stomach muscles clench. This time it's not the super skinny jeans. It's the way Isaac is looking at me. Like I'm the only girl in the room.

“You have quite a crowd here,” I say.

“Isn't it great!” Breanne tosses her hair and inches closer to Isaac. Matt's lips twist into a fixed, “I'm pretending to be cool with this” smile. “I can't wait to hear Jagged Five,” she adds. “When Isaac texted me, I couldn't say no.”

Isaac
texted
Breanne?

Her eyelashes whir like mini chopper blades. “He said he really wanted me here.”

I look at him. He did?

“The more people we pull in, the better it is for the guys,” he explains as a rail-thin man wearing a headset bounds up onstage to check the DJ equipment. “We have a couple of agents in the crowd tonight so this is a big deal for them.” At the far end of the stage, I see drums, guitars, a fiddle: the band equipment that will presumably be pulled out once Isaac warms up the crowd.

Breanne is staring at me. “You're wearing new clothes.”

I've mentally rehearsed my spiel. “Lexi and I went shopping. I decided it's time to change things up a bit.”

“Huh.” Her critical gaze sweeps over me, lingering on the too-tight jeans. My on-again, off-again stomach pain returns.

“Now I get why you bought the fedora,” Matt says.

“What are you talking about?”

He inclines his head to Isaac. “You're going for the twin thing.”

Breanne giggles. “Oh my God, Matthew, you're right!”

Heat races into my cheeks. If I'd known Isaac was going to wear a fedora, I wouldn't have worn mine.

The guy wearing a headset taps the microphone. “Test, test.” I wince at the screech of feedback.

“I'm not sure how I feel about that,” Breanne adds.

Matt's lip curls. “I think it sucks.”

My self-control snaps. “I'm not sure I care.” What I wear, how I look, is not up for discussion.

“I like it.” Isaac slides closer to me. “I think Sloane looks great.” And then he drops his arm across my shoulder, and I stand there like a statue that's on fire and wonder what is up with him touching me all the time? What is up with me loving it?

“Ladies and gentlemen,” booms the guy with the headset.
“Let's get this party started. Put your hands together for Isaac Alexander!”

The crowd starts to clap. “Ohhhhh!” Breanne squeals. “You're up!”

I go to move away but Isaac won't let me. Instead, he leans down and drops a quick kiss on my lips. My innards do a little dance. “For luck,” he says.

“For luck,” I blurt out, giggling awkwardly. I'm conscious of people staring—Lexi with her open mouth; Matt with his narrowed eyes. But for once I really don't care. “Good luck.” I sound like a babbling monkey, one of those primates we filmed at the zoo the other day.

Isaac takes the stairs two at a time, slides behind a mess of black equipment, and leans into the mic. “Welcome to The Ledge,” he shouts in his sexy-deep baritone. “And tonight's special appearance by Jagged Five.”

I stare up at him. What just happened? Why did he kiss me?

“He's way out of your league,” Breanne mutters into my ear. “Besides, that kiss was just for show. He kisses all the girls.”

Maybe. Maybe not.

Onstage, Isaac directs a smile my way. “First, we're gonna rock out!” He flicks a switch. I hear music. What kind ... what band ... who knows? I don't even know for sure if Isaac is singling me out with his smile or smiling at the group of us. But I'm fine with that.

Because he didn't kiss any other girl tonight. He kissed me. And right now, that's enough.

The only thing that forces me out of bed Monday morning is the thought of the video. My submission to Clear Eye is due a week Wednesday. If it wasn't for that, I'd pull the covers over my head and get up sometime next year.

Isaac's kiss last night wrecked me. Lexi wouldn't shut up about it. Matt kept staring. Breanne wouldn't stop smirking.

I head for the shower, reliving events at The Ledge. My euphoria after that kiss. My daydreaming as I'd watched him DJ. We had a connection, I'd decided. Chemistry. Maybe, just maybe, me and Isaac weren't so far-fetched after all.

But when the band came on and Isaac came off and he dropped his arm around another girl's shoulders, my imagination screeched to a halt. And when he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, I crashed to earth in a furious ball of disappointment.

After I got home, I was too keyed up to sleep. Instead I'd spent over an hour googling Isaac Alexander, looking for anything I could find on his personal life. I'd come up empty. How dumb is that?

Breanne was right. I turn on the tap, adjust the water temperature, and step under the spray. His kiss meant nothing. The Voice's default button is set on flirt. Who needs a guy like that? I don't even
like
guys like that. I reach for the extra gentle, non-toxic shampoo and start lathering. The herbal scent of lemongrass and thyme fills the shower stall.

Seconds later, I feel it—a familiar smoothness on the right side of my head.

Another one? My knees start to shake. Not again. I sink to the edge of the tub and sit down. That makes five. When will this end?

After a minute, Mom's words echo through my mind
. You can handle this. I know you can.
Her confidence steels my resolve. I switch to autopilot. I finish my shower and strategize as I towel off. I'll up my vitamins. Cut out sugar. Do more online research so I'll know what to ask Dr. Paxton when I see her.

Back in the bedroom, I'm in the middle of my morning ritual: standing in front of the mirror going over my head inch by careful inch when my confidence turns to horror. I find a sixth spot on the left side of my head, a virtual twin to the one I just discovered on the right.

My hands start to shake. I twist and rearrange my hair, trying to cover this latest spot.

I can't. This one refuses to be concealed.

Tears well behind my eyelids. Holy shit.

Clutching my towel, I sink onto the edge of the bed and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My skin is still flushed from the shower. My eyes are overly bright. I blink back my tears and stare at my image. I look different. Not like me anymore. I lean closer and study every inch of my face. I'm trying to figure out why bald spots on my head would make my face look so strange.

You're imagining things now
. I jump up.
You're being stupid.

But as I reach for the familiar comfort of my cargo pants and deliberately turn my back on the pot of blush resting on the vanity, again I'm struck by an overwhelming urge to stay home.

Only I can't. We have that interview with the professor at USF later today. The laughter yoga shoot to line up. Plus, I'm reading at the hospital this afternoon. I can't miss that. I need to talk to Jade's parents.

I'm so late getting to school I miss homeroom. I slink into math and take a seat at the back of the room, praying
that the teacher doesn't notice me or, more specifically, my hat. For once, luck's on my side. He's too busy explaining today's lesson to care.

My quasi calm lasts until Mandee leans across the aisle and whispers, “Did you get your hair cut?”

My heart starts to thrum. “No.”

“Huh.” She gazes at my hat, the hair that's visible below. “It looks shorter.”

The bottom falls out of my world. “It's not.” There's a thousand-pound weight on my chest. I can hardly breathe, never mind talk. “It's probably the hat.”

She nods. “Probably.”

The rest of the class passes in a blur.
It looks shorter.
Different. My fingers slide up to check that the spray is holding. It is. My hair is as hard as a baseball; the spots are hidden by the hat. So what did Mandee see?

My worry roars back. What will others see?

As if I don't have enough on my mind, Isaac doesn't meet me in the foyer after math as we planned. Doing voiceover work probably. I wait ten minutes and then text him.
Where are U?

Running late,
he replies.
Meet you out front soon.

The delay ratchets up my unease. I call the university and push back our interview by an hour. Good thing too because it's another twenty minutes before Isaac pulls up. By then my stomach is a mess of butterflies and I am pacing back and forth in front of the entrance. “Good morning, sunshine,” he says when I open the door to his beater van. “Sorry I'm late.”

“I can deal. I pushed our interview time back.” I cannot meet his gaze; I swear I still feel the imprint of his kiss. “No
doubt one of your adoring fans kept you busy, Flirt Man.” I shove a pile of papers off the passenger seat and sit down. A Styrofoam coffee cup crunches under my foot.

He winks and smiles. “You have no idea.”

A funny kind of heat swirls through me.
Who was she and why did you kiss her and for that matter why did you kiss me?
“Oh, I think I do. Clearly you were too busy to shave.” I yank on the seat belt, annoyed that he looks even better this morning than he did last night. Between the stubble and the gold hoop winking out from under his dreads, he looks like a pirate. A damn hot one. Better than Johnny Depp in
The Curse of the Black Pearl
. I force those thoughts away and scramble for neutral territory. “Hey, you know that video I was telling you about? The one about the deaf artists?
See What I'm Saying.
”

He throws the van into drive and pulls away from the entrance. “Yeah?”

I look everywhere but his lips. “Well, I happened to be online the other day”—
last night when I was obsessively googling you like a stalkerish fan girl
—“and you can buy it on Amazon, plus there are four copies in the San Francisco Library. Two are available right now. One at Noe Valley and the other at Glen Park. So if you want to see it ...”
With me, maybe.

“Sounds like a plan. But not for a while. I'm super busy this semester. I'm juggling trig and physics.”

Mr. I'll-Coast-on-my-Charm wouldn't last five minutes in Mr. Barrett's physics class. “Get serious.”

He laughs. “I
am
serious. You should see the prerequisites for architecture school.”

Architecture school?
I shoot him a look. “Really?”

His grin deepens. He coasts to a stop at a red light. “Hey, I'm more than a pretty voice.”

“Could've fooled me.” The directness of his gaze makes me uneasy. I look out the window at a woman walking her grey Weimaraner.

He reaches behind me, grabs something from the back seat, and drops a grease-stained brown paper bag into my lap. “I brought breakfast. Brioche.”

The bag is still warm. My traitorous mouth starts to water. I have a weakness for brioche surpassed only by my weakness for film. Simply put, I could live on brioche for the rest of my life and not miss food.

“Consider them my penance for being late. Does that help?” he asks.

It's only coincidence that he has brought them. My logical side knows it. But my emotional side, the side that roared to life after he kissed me last night, wonders if maybe we're soulmates after all.

Not.

In spite of myself, I start to laugh. “My God, I can't believe it. You're buttering me up with bread? Seriously? Do you know how pathetic that is?” I put the bag on the console between us.
And do you know how gorgeous you are? And how crazy that makes me?

“You know you want them.”

“I'd rather have a guy who's reliable and shows up on time.” Like Matt. He was never late. He never flirted with anybody when we were together either. Only when I turned my back. Then he got naked in the library stall.

He laughs. “Boring.”

Come to think of it, Matt
was
a little boring.

The light changes; he steps on the gas. “Would it help if I told you I stopped to check out that laughter yoga class?”

A cottony warmth balloons in my chest. “You did?” I'm stunned he's taken the initiative.

“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “And we just saved ourselves ninety minutes because it's not going to work.”

I wait as he slows to let a car merge in front of us. “Why not?”

“They sound like those barking seals we saw the other day.”

I giggle. “Really?”

“It's totally fake. Something about opening up the diaphragm. Nothing remotely funny about it.”

“Okay. I'll start searching for funny outtakes or bloopers from movies and stuff.”

“Sounds like a plan.” He taps his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel. Then he slides me a sideways look and asks, “Are you really going to let those brioches get cold?”