Part 22 (1/2)
I put down my phone and stare at the browser on my dad's phone, wondering about Adam's so-called crimes. But juvenile records aren't public record.
He's been nothing but good to me. Good and honest and there. I don't have a single reason not to trust him.
Except for Maggie's advice.
I chew on my bottom lip and think long and hard about calling him. I could just ask. It wouldn't hurt to ask, would it?
In the end, I snap my dad's phone back on the charger on my way up to bed.
Adam finds me in the lunch line again. He must actually be hungry today because he grabs an orange and a club sandwich and sets them on my tray. ”Exactly how long are you grounded?” he starts.
”Until my thirtieth birthday,” I say. ”You gathering more food to dump into a trash can?”
”Not this time. I've got a hot date.”
I take a granola bar, feigning disinterest. ”In the Ridgeview High cafeteria. You're secretly a player, aren't you?”
”I just ooze cool,” he says, handing over another ten-dollar bill to pay for our lunches.
I open my mouth because I don't need him to do this. I've seen where he lives. And somehow I doubt working as a part-time janitor has him rolling in extra cash.
”It should be my treat this time,” I say.
His face pinches a little, but he covers it with a smile. ”Don't judge a book by its s.h.i.+t-hole apartment.”
”I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it.”
He shrugs it off, but I feel like a schmuck. I nudge him with my elbow, looking up at him. ”Am I really in the doghouse already?”
”Nah,” he says. ”Unless of course, you're going to try to get out of our date.”
”No chance.”
”Then your chariot awaits,” he says. He puts the tray in the return area and tucks the sandwich and orange into his coat pockets.
I follow suit, grateful I went with granola and yogurt instead of the ma.s.sive salad I was eyeing.
Then he slips out of the cafeteria without looking to see if I'll follow. We're allowed off campus for lunch, so I don't get his secrecy. But I follow him anyway, slipping through the parking lot until we're hunkered down in the front seat of his old Camaro.
We eat lunch with the radio playing as softly as the snow that's drifting down around the car. After I push my empty granola wrapper into my yogurt cup, Adam pulls my feet into his lap and starts fiddling with the laces on my shoes.
I have no idea how that's sending goose b.u.mps up my legs, but it is.
”Did you get your pre-calc review back?” I ask, trying to act casual as I lean against the pa.s.senger window.
He shrugs. ”Yeah. I did all right. You?”
”A minus. And I hate to break it to you, but you don't really understand the meaning of all right.”
”I don't?”
”Nope. All right indicates an average score, and you don't do average anything.”
His hands are climbing up to my ankles now. And I don't know if it's the way he's looking at me from under those dark lashes or some secret drug coming out of his fingertips, but he's making me dizzy.
”I'm average at plenty of things.”
”Oh, please,” I say, pulling my feet off his lap with a smirk. ”Let me guess. You probably mean you got like a ninety-seven.”
”Ninety-six,” he corrects me.
I gasp, hand at my throat as I scoot closer on my knees. ”You are slipping.”
”I must be distracted,” he says.
He grabs my legs, right under my knees, and pulls me toward him on the bench seat. And then his lips are trailing along my jaw and I couldn't spell distracted if someone paid me it feels so good. We kiss until we're running dangerously close to second base during school hours. We ease up with a glance at the clock on his dashboard and the school in the distance.
”We're awfully good at this for being so new at it,” I say, scooting back to my own seat.
”You're only surprised because you can't remember how we looked at each other for the last several months.”
I make a face at my wild reflection in the mirror, trying to finger comb my hair.
”It's no use,” he says. ”You're going to look hot no matter what.”
”I do rock the kissed-senseless look,” I say. ”So there were heated looks between us, huh?”
”Left scorch marks on our flash cards.”
”So tell me already. When did this all start?”
He thumbs his chin, looking pensive. ”October. Mrs. Malley's cla.s.s.”
I feel my face scrunch in confusion. ”Mrs. Malley? She was my fourth-grade teacher.”
”Our fourth-grade teacher,” he says.
I shake my head, laughing. I barely remember him being in my cla.s.s. He was just a dark-haired boy, always carrying a skateboard and lost in a series of faded T-s.h.i.+rts. Adam tucks some of my hair behind my ear and gives me a little smile that promises more to the story.
”You punched Ryan McCort on the playground. Do you remember?”
I nod. I can still practically feel that moment; the sharp, shocking pain in my knuckles and the sickening feeling that went through me when Ryan's nose spurted blood. I can still hear Ryan mocking Maggie. ”M-m-miss m-m-me, M-m-maggie?” He'd laughed. Mags cried. I punched.
”He had it coming,” I say.