The Book of David (9 page)

Amy is up in the choir loft nodding off. She looks a little hungover from last night. Her dad is wrapping up his sermon now. He's always preaching about how he doesn't even keep booze in their house. He doesn't think it's necessarily wrong to drink, but he thinks it's better to “be controlled by the Holy
Spirit of God” than to be controlled by beer or liquor. He says he doesn't keep any at home because he doesn't want to be tempted by it and possibly put himself in the situation where he might drink too much.

Dad likes Pastor Colbert—he even invited him fishing with us one time—but when this drinking thing comes up, Dad always goes all stiff in the pew. I can feel him tense up. Anyway, Pastor Colbert may not keep any booze in his house, but Amy sure gets her hands on it anyway. I like her just fine, but she's a total party girl.

Sermon's wrapping up now. Going over to Monica's this afternoon so we can study for our English test. How come it's only, like, the third week of school and we've already got tests and quizzes out the ass?

Just got home from Monica's. Girls are so much drama. I mean, we're supposed to be studying for this giant test we have in English, but once we get to her room and pull out our study guides, she leans over and starts making out with me. So that part's awesome and everything, but then when we've been hard-core grinding for like a half hour, I'm chafing in my boxers like crazy. Our shirts are off and she's moaning and groaning, but when I slide a hand down her pants, she sits bolt upright and says, “No! We can't.”

I mean, what the hell?

We've been through this a hundred times before, but something about it today just really annoyed me. I grabbed the pillow on her bed and held it over my face and sorta half yelled into it.

She crawled on top of me and ran her hands over my chest. She kept saying, “Babe, you know I'm saving myself.”

I rolled my eyes and tried to move her off of me. “You gotta stop getting me all worked up like this if you're just gonna leave me with blue balls every time.”

She pushed me back down on the bed and batted her eyelashes. (No, seriously, she actually batted her eyelashes.) “There are
still
plenty of hot things we can do that aren't full-on sex.” She unbuttoned my jeans and pulled the zipper down really slowly, still staring me in the eyes. I just let her. If she was gonna bluff, I wasn't gonna call her on it. I'm sick of this weird game of chicken we're playing with sex.

“You want me to keep going?” She was actually sort of purring it like a B-movie star from the seventies.

“Uh, yeah. I do.” I was sorta surprised by the way I said it, in this kind of no-nonsense way. It cut through all the BS. She was playing around and I wasn't.

I think she must've gotten the message, because Monica actually pulled down the waistband of my boxers. It felt so
good to be out of my jeans after the last half hour that I almost blew when she slid down between my legs and started kissing it. Then she got ambitious and slid it into her mouth, which felt freaking unbelievable for about three seconds before she scraped it with her teeth and I thought she'd bitten it off.

I yelped so loud, she jumped. “What?”

“OUCH! Babe, you gotta watch the teeth.”

“Jeez! I was trying to be careful. You're so sensitive—”

“Uh, yeah, I am. Especially there. Christ.”

“Well, I'm sorry!” She was fumbling for her shirt. Dammit. We were so close.

“Wait! Babe. It's fine. I was just . . . Here.” I grabbed her hands. One I pulled to my mouth and kissed. Then I stuck her finger in my mouth and wrapped my lips over my teeth, sliding them up and down her finger. She instantly stopped squirming around looking for her clothes and stared into my eyes.

She was still straddling me on the bed, and I rocked my hips back and forth underneath her gently as I slowly ran my mouth up and down on her finger. She started to blush, and I could tell this was turning her on. After one more long slurp on her finger, I kissed her fingertip and said, “See? Like that?”

She leaned down and kissed me on the lips, then shook her
head quickly, like she was shaking off a chill, and smirked at me. “We have to study for this test!”

She rolled off of me and grabbed her bra and shirt from the floor. She had both back on before I even sat up.

“What the hell?” I was really pissed.

“What?” She was blinking, big eyes, all innocence, like she had no idea what I was talking about.

“God, I hate it when this happens.”

“Oh, don't be such a big baby,” she said. “We had our fun. Now we need to study.”

I stood up and got everything resituated, then zipped up and grabbed my study guides off the floor.

“Wait—where are you going?”

“Somewhere I can take care of this,” I said, pointing at my fly.

“But what about the test?” she said, all pissy.

“Trust me, babe. No way I can focus on a study guide in this condition.”

“But I don't want you to just go home.”

“Fine.” I winked at her. “Let's take care of this here.”

“Gross,” she said.

For some reason, when she said that, I got so freaking angry. What is it with girls thinking that what happens with dudes and their hard-ons is gross? “Whatever,” I said, and walked out of her room and out of her house. She called my
name and texted me twice by the time I got back here, but I ignored all of it.

Ten minutes alone in my room with the door locked took care of the pressure. I started off thinking about Monica and sort of saw us in my imagination going at it. I was trying to picture what that would look like, and then it was like the picture in my mind shifted and instead of seeing me and Monica, it was Jon and Monica going at it. I kept seeing Jon's face as he was in action, and instead of making me jealous, for some reason it totally turned me on.

Jesus. What is wrong with me? Jerking off to the idea of my friend getting it on with my girlfriend? If Monica knew about that, she'd never go out with me again.

Well, that was a total fail. Crap.

Mrs. Harrison just picked up the tests, and now we're supposed to write in our journals until the bell rings. I should have stayed at Monica's and studied. Way to start off the season. I'm already gonna be in danger of academic probation from the first freaking test. Damn.

Maybe I squeaked by with a D.

Jeez. Who am I kidding?

Mrs. Harrison handed back our English tests this morning. I have no idea how she graded all of those essays overnight, but she did it. No D for me. Straight up F. When she dismissed us from class, she walked over to my desk and said, “Let me know when you want to retake the test.”

I sort of couldn't believe it.

“Really?” I said.

“No, I'm just standing here teasing you.”

Jon heard her say that and tried to stifle a laugh unsuccessfully. She glanced at him and said, “You can have Mr. Statley here help you study.”

Jon smiled. “My pleasure.”

Mrs. Harrison smiled at Jon. “Excellent. Can you have him ready by Friday?”

“Friday? But I have a game and—”

“Not if you have an F in my class, you don't.” Mrs. Harrison smiled. “Jon, I leave the success of our football team in your capable hands.”

Jon saluted. “Can you start tonight after my rehearsal and your practice?”

“Sure he can,” said Mrs. Harrison. “Clear your schedule. You need to pass this test.”

My brain keeps telling me there's a reason to say that I should just study on my own. Something about the idea of hanging out with Jon alone is dangerous—but enticing. Am I excited? Or scared? If I were going to study with Tyler, I wouldn't be either. I'd just be . . . what?

Jesus. Get a grip.

I just need to pass this test so I can play.

Alicia Stevenson left me a message last night. She's bringing the head of recruitment to the game this week. He wants to meet me. I didn't tell anybody yet. I don't want to let my dad down if it doesn't work out.

Plus, Tyler's been really moody. His surgery is scheduled for next week, and he's throwing a preknife party on Friday night after the game. The last thing I want is to ruin his big fun night before weeks of physical therapy by reminding him that I'm talking to scouts when he should be too.

The whole situation totally sucks. I want to be excited about all this great stuff that's happening, but I just feel stressed out by it. It's like I can't be happy about the good things I'm getting because I'm afraid of what everybody else will think.

I thought Jon would be done with rehearsal by the time I hit the showers after practice, but when I got to my truck, there
was no sign of him. I walked over to the performing arts center and stepped inside one of the side doors that was propped open. They were just finishing up, and when Mr. London dismissed everybody, Monica came bounding over.

“Want to go get some food?” she asked.

“Can't,” I said. “Jon and I are supposed to study tonight so I can retake the English test on Friday.”

“I'll come help you study,” she said with a grin.

“Absolutely not.” Jon had walked up behind me, and I turned around to see him smirking.

“What? Why?” Monica tossed her hair with a huff.

“Because if you're there, this one won't be able to focus on anything but your lips and boobs, and he'll never pass the test.”

Monica pleaded and begged all the way out to the parking lot. “I'll wear a big baggy sweatshirt and sit in the corner. You won't even know I'm there.”

Jon shook his head and held firm. “The fate of the Hillside Lions hangs on this study session. No girls allowed.”

Monica opened her mouth to protest again, but Jon held up a hand. “No! Go flaunt your great and terrible beauty elsewhere. There must be other boys in this town you can torment just for this one evening.” He said it in a way that made all of us laugh, and Monica realized further argument was futile. She kissed me on the lips and then got into her car.

“You boys have fun tonight.”

Jon's face was a mask of no-nonsense. “Not a chance without you, sugar lips.”

Monica dissolved into giggles and drove away.

“How did you do that?” I asked Jon in disbelief.

“Do what?”

“Tell her no and make her happy all at the same time,” I said.

He winked at me, and his smirk returned. “Years of practice. Got to stop by my place and grab my study guides. Then I'll head your way. See you at your place?” He jumped behind the wheel of his Jeep without waiting for an answer.

As I started my truck, I couldn't help my smile. Somehow, I am relieved that it's just going to be me and Jon tonight, but I'm not sure why. I thought about it all the way home just now. I put more stuff in my hair and brushed my teeth right when I got here, then ran around my room throwing dirty clothes in the hamper and cleaning up for some reason.

Am I nervous about hanging out with Jon? Jeez. This isn't a freaking date. He just pulled up in the driveway. I have to chill.

It's after eleven p.m. and Jon just left.

That boy kicked my ass with the English. We studied for an hour and a half straight, with him quizzing me from his study
guides. He let me get up to pee when my mom brought some Cokes and a plate of brownies up to the room. She wasn't too happy when she found out about the F on the English test, but somehow having Jon here has made her forget all about that. She's totally thrilled that he's helping me out. Even my dad came up to say hi and invite Jon to come along on the hunting trip. I mean, my dad hasn't stepped foot in my bedroom since I was in junior high.

Jon finally pushed them all out. Then we got back to studying for another hour and a half. He made me do a timed essay on the major themes of
Fahrenheit 451
, which I actually read over the summer from the reading list Mrs. Harrison gave us but didn't really understand. Then he made me read the essay out loud and called bullshit when I got to parts where I'd just pulled crap out of my ass.

“Dude. That's a total snow job.”

“What?”

“What does that sentence even mean?” He was laughing, and something about the way he gave me criticism didn't make me feel shitty or defensive. It cracked me up too. He was totally right. The whole night, he just patiently explained things in a way that really made sense to me—and kept making me laugh. It didn't feel like a chore, or even like we were studying really. It felt like I was hanging out with a friend, only instead of talking
about TV shows and drama at school, we were talking about big ideas—stuff that really matters.

Jon makes me feel like I have good ideas—like I'm not just some big dumb jock—even when I was totally wrong about whatever the hell we were talking about.

When we were going back through the essay together and talking through better ways to express what I was saying, Tracy started blasting that crazy Boison album. I yelled at her to turn it down, and she poked her head in the door.

“Why should I?”

“Because that song
sucks
,” I said.

She actually stuck her tongue out at me, and Jon rolled off of the bed where he'd been sitting with his back against the wall and grabbed my guitar off the stand next to my desk.

He started strumming along with the chords in the song, and Tracy's eyes got really big.

“You know Boison songs?” she asked.

“Not really,” Jon said. “But I think I've heard this one at the mall, or maybe . . .”

“In your nightmares?” I said.

Jon laughed, but within a minute or so he had figured out the chord progression and Tracy was suddenly enamored. Jon paused, his fingers still on the strings. “Hey, Trace, do me a favor?”