The Anti-Virginity Pact Page 12

  “Need any help?” he offers.

  I smile at his discarded book at the foot of the bed, something about writing craft. He follows my gaze and waves a hand. “I’m just reading that for fun.”

  “I could use some help with my essay,” I admit. “It’s for a pretty competitive scholarship, so I really need it to stand out.”

  “Say no more.” He glances at The Binder.

  “Here.” It takes me a minute to dig through everything and find the right essay, and it’s kind of crumpled and stained with what appears to be ketchup in the top right corner. I wince. “I was working on it at lunch.”

  He laughs, takes the essay, smooths it over his lap, and pulls a red pen out of his bag. “What’s the word limit?”

  “500.”

  While he dives in, stretching out at the foot of my bed and holding the paper over his face as he reads, I focus on my other application for a small private scholarship. Well, I try to. We work in silence for a while, but my eyes keep darting in his direction every time I hear that red pen scrawl against the page. I’m already on the fifth draft of that essay, but writing has never been my strong suit. I haven’t even seen Sam’s feedback yet, but I can already feel a wave of embarrassed nausea percolating in the pit of my stomach. Writing is to Sam what science is to me, and now he’s going to think I’m an illiterate idiot.

  I’ve finally managed to stop looking over at Sam every three seconds and focus on my own work when I feel him reach over and squeeze one of my feet.

  He holds up the essay.

  “You’re done?” I ask.

  “Do you want my feedback now or after you’re finished?”

  His expression is unreadable. It makes me want to throw up.

  I straighten and clutch my application to my chest protectively. “Just get it over with.”

  “It’s not bad!” he laughs.

  I groan and cover my face with my paper. “‘Not bad’ is basically synonymous with ‘not good.’”

  He jostles my foot. “It’s not bad. It’s well written, and you do a great job of explaining why working at the shelter has meant so much to you, but…”

  I close my eyes, bracing myself. “But what?”

  It takes him a few seconds to respond. “Have you ever thought about writing about something else?”

  My forehead scrunches together. “Like what?” There’s pretty much nothing else interesting about my life.

  He shrugs a shoulder and looks away before saying, “Well, how about your family?”

  “My family,” I say flatly.

  Sensing my defensiveness, he pushes himself up to a seated position and raises him palms. “I just think you have an interesting story that you could use to your advantage. It would definitely help you stand out. The way you were brought up and your own beliefs has given you an interesting perspective, especially given the field you want to go in. I don’t know.” He lays the essay down gently beside me. “It seems like a natural angle to work to me. Just something to think about.”

  I stare at the essay and Sam’s neat, tight handwriting scrawled in red ink in the margins.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “No! No.” I grab the paper and add it to the stack in my lap. “I asked for your opinion. Thank you. I’ll…think about it.”

  He reaches out and grabs my foot again, shaking it playfully. “The essay is good as is. Definitely good enough to get you that scholarship, if those people have any sense. You don’t have to listen to me.”

  He doesn’t remove his hand, which is momentarily enough to distract me from the overwhelming exhaustion and dread at the idea of starting that essay from scratch all over again. Of staring at a blank screen.

  His hand tightens, just a bit. He meets my eyes, and a slow smile plays at his lips.

  I realize what he’s going to do half a second before he does.

  “No—!”

  The second he starts tickling my foot, I squeal, and The Binder hits the floor with a loud thump. I try to pull away from him, but he just tightens his grip, laughing. “Ticklish?”

  “Sam!” I try to squirm away, laughing so hard, my ribs begin to ache. When that doesn’t work, I resort to kicking him repeatedly with my other foot until he lets go. For a second, I think that’ll be the end of it, but then he leaps toward me, pinning me to the mattress, and starts tickling my ribs. I’m laughing so hard, I can’t breathe. I swat at him and try to roll away, and now he’s laughing as hard as I am.

  “Stop, stop, stop! Sam!”

  He finally stops, and it dawns on me that he’s on top of me, his face inches from mine. We’re both breathless, our chests heaving. He glances down, locks eyes with mine. A heartbeat passes.

  Two.

  Three.

  I can smell the fries on his breath. His aftershave. Feel the heat of his skin.

  “Ugh. What are you guys doing?”

  We jerk apart so fast, Sam practically hurtles himself off the bed. I quickly sit up, covering my chest with my arms even though I am one-hundred percent clothed. Harper is standing in the door, arms crossed, her upper lip curled back.

  “Hey, Harp.” My voice comes out rough, and my cheeks warm at the sound of it.

  “Want a fry?” Sam offers. He’s standing beside the bed, one hand behind his neck, swaying awkwardly on his feet.

  Harper eyes the greasy bag, only for a moment, before her scrutinizing gaze darts back to us. “Do Maman and Papa know he’s over?”

  She crosses her arms, but she’s not wearing her usual smug expression that screams blackmail—or worse, telling our parents just because it seems to bring her joy when they’re disappointed in me. Maybe now that I know a secret of hers, she’s worried I’d retaliate; not that I would ever sink that low, and she must know that, too. So maybe this truce is actually…friendly?

  “I’m not going to tell on you,” Harper continues. “I’m just saying. You should probably be more careful since they’ll be home in, like, five minutes and Papa would kill you.”

  The heat in my cheeks intensifies. I can’t even look at Sam, but out of my peripheral, I can see that his face is as red as mine feels. Honestly, it had been completely innocent—we don’t have anything to feel guilty about. We didn’t do anything. But if Harper hadn’t walked in, would we have? That unspoken possibility leaves the air thick between us.

  “It was nothing, Harp,” I say. “We were just kidding around.”

  She arches her eyebrows. “Mmm-hmm.”

  “So, Harper,” Sam jumps in as he sits on the edge of the bed. “You still up for helping me with that book? If I get you a rough draft in the next couple of days, do you think you’d have time to draw me some pictures?”

  She hesitates, looking a little thrown by the change in subject. A hint of pink rises to her cheeks. “You were serious about that?”

  “Hell yeah, I’m serious.” As soon as the words exit his mouth, he winces. “Sorry—”

  A corner of my mouth quirks at Sam’s apology, as if Harper of all people, who gets in trouble with our parents on a daily basis for her language, would be offended by the word “hell.” It’s adorable that he cares enough to not want to offend her, though.

  Harper leans against the doorframe, arms still crossed. “I guess I could give it a shot. What kind of illustrations did you want? I could do paint, or colored pencil, or—”

  Sam holds up his hands. “I’m giving you complete artistic freedom. Do whatever you’d like.”

  Harper grins a full-on Harper Grin. The kind that looks like it should be in some sort of pageant. “Okay.” She clears her throat and retreats a step into the hall. “I guess I’ll just, uh, leave you two to it, then.” She waves her hands once and disappears down the hall.

  My face drops into my hands as Sam’s soft laughter fills the silence.

  “That was so embarrassing,” I mumble.

  “At least it wasn’t your parents,” Sam offers.<
br />
  “True. If it had been my dad, there might have been a rifle involved.”

  Sam just chuckles and scoots over until he’s sitting beside me. “I’m distracting you from your work,” he says, glancing down at my application. “Sorry.”

  So far, the only thing I’ve written is my name. I’ve already filled out the simple parts, but all of the short-answer sections are blank. I’ve drafted them each about a dozen times, but like the essay, I just can’t seem to get it right. How are you supposed to sum up not only who you are, but also why you’re good enough for the money, in a measly hundred words?

  “Don’t be.” I tuck the sheet back into The Binder and fish around for the application for an even smaller scholarship that I think I have a good chance of landing. It’s only for two-hundred dollars, but I’ll take what I can get. “I’ve been procrastinating that application for so long; it doesn’t take much to distract me.”

  “So, you’re saying I’m nothing special?” He pushes his bottom lip out in mock-pout.

  I pat his leg. “We can’t all be winners.”

  The sound of the garage doors opening cuts off his response. Since my room is directly above the garage, the doors make my entire room vibrate.

  “Ah, that’ll be les parents, oui?” says Sam.

  I smirk at his French attempt, finding it much more endearing than when his father does it, and hop up from the bed. Taking his hand, I pull him toward the door. “Les parents will be pissed if I don’t let them fawn all over you.”

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Fawn?”

  “Oh, you couldn’t tell from the night you picked me up? They adore you. I think they like you more than me, to be honest.”

  Sam links his fingers through mine as we head down the stairs, and I don’t even worry about whether my palm is sweaty or not. As we reach the bottom, the door to the garage swings open and my parents step through, chatting animatedly in French. The moment they catch sight of Sam, the chatter cuts off.

  “Samuel!” Maman squeals, steps forward, and kisses him on the cheek. “So nice to see you. Ça va? How are you?”

  Papa looks like he’d like to join in, but can’t get around Maman, so he stands behind her, smiling.

  “It’s nice to see you, too, Mrs. Beaumont. I’m doing well. Mare and I were just studying together.”

  “Oh, how wonderful.” She smiles at me, and suddenly her eyes go wide as if the most brilliant idea in the world just occurred to her. “Oh! You must stay for dinner, Sam. We would love to have you!”

  “As much as I’d love to, I really should get home to the old man. If left to his own devices, he’ll probably end up eating some TV dinner.”

  “Tomorrow, then,” Maman offers. “You and your Papa should join us for dinner. Wouldn’t that be lovely?” She turns to Papa.

  “Of course, of course,” he agrees.

  Sam bobs his head. “I’d love to. I’ll see if I can get him out of the house.” Sam gives my hand a small pulse as if asking if this is okay with me, and I squeeze back.

  Maman claps her hands once. “Tomorrow night?”

  Sam smiles and nods. “Tomorrow sounds great.”

  13

  The next day, Jo makes the announcement. She’s far more dressed up than usual, her hair curled, half of it pulled back in a messy top-knot. She’s wearing her usual distressed skinny jeans, a gold and shimmery tank tucked in the front, and a leather jacket thrown on top. She even bothered to wing her eyeliner and gloss her lips. Though she probably went a little overboard with the strawberry perfume. If I get too close, I can taste it. We’re sitting in Mr. Graham’s fourth period when she twists around in her desk and whispers to me, “Today is the day!”

  I glance at her sideways. “The day?”

  She bobs her head enthusiastically. “You know,” she says out of the corner of her mouth. “The day I finally make a move.”

  Some optimistic part of me had been hoping she’d been talking about anything else, but I guess by now I should know better.

  “Jo—”

  She whips up a manicured hand to stop me. “We’ve already been over this, so don’t try to talk me out of it. We have a tutoring session after school, and I’m gonna go for it. I’ve planted the seed, and I’ve definitely detected some interest. Now is the time.”

  “You’re going to do it here?” I hiss. “At the school?”

  She rolls her eyes and glances around to ensure no one’s listening. Everyone else is busy with their own side conversations and note-taking. “It’s not like we’re going to do it on the desks—though, to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t really mind that—”

  “Johanna,” I groan.

  She holds up her hand again. “But I’ll settle for just a kiss today. Preferably a passionate one with lots of touching.”

  “Can you not?” I lean away and shiver at the mental image. “I really don’t want these pictures in my head.”

  “Hey, from what you told me about your date with Sam, it was just as hot and heavy with you two, so no judgements.”

  I open my mouth to say at least Sam’s our age, but stop myself. That’ll accomplish nothing. “Just be careful.”

  She flips her hair over her shoulder and blows me an air kiss. “Worry not, little duckling. I’m wearing my big-girl panties. I can take care of myself.”

  Ashley whips around in her seat. “Would you two shut up? Some of us are trying to learn.”

  Ashley, surprisingly, is not all dressed-up today. Instead of her usual dress-and-wedges-ensemble, she’s wearing black leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, her hair thrown back in a messy ponytail. Even like this, she looks like a rock star, but still. I don’t even think she’s wearing any makeup besides some concealer under her eyes.

  Jo glances around the room, taking in the guys in the corner making paper airplanes, the various individuals staring at cell phones under their desks, and the cluster of friends at the front of the room whispering to each other. “I don’t see it,” she says.

  “Maybe I’m trying to take notes,” Ashley snaps.

  Jo raises her eyebrows at the magazine half-hidden beneath Ashley’s notebook. “Sure.”

  “Would you two just give it a rest?” I mumble.

  Ashley’s eyes cut to mine. “I think you have something on your face.” She runs a thumb along her cheek. “Is that…ketchup?” And with that, she whips back around, flipping her hair into my face.

  Johanna and I exchange a look.

  “What’s with her?” Jo mouths.

  I shrug.

  We’d turned in our group paper as we walked in for class today. The moment that paper hit Mr. Graham’s desk, Ashley had retreated to her seat, pretending as if she’d never associated with us, probably already trying to purge the experience from her memory.

  “Sam’s having dinner with the parental figures tonight, right?” Jo whispers.

  I grimace and nod. “And his dad’s coming.”

  Jo shivers. “That man has always given me the creeps.”

  “You and everyone else.”

  There was nothing wrong with Mr. Johnson, per se, but there was a notable difference in the way he treated Papa, his friend, and everyone else, his inferiors.

  A moment later, Ashley sneezes so forcefully, she knocks her pencil off her desk. It’s a remarkably powerful sneeze, but the sound she makes is little more than a high-pitched squeak. The pencil rolls and tumbles until it lands against Johanna’s shoe.

  “Jesus,” Johanna mumbles.

  “I believe you’re supposed to say ‘bless you,’” says Ashley. She raises her eyebrows at Johanna. “Well? Can you hand me my pencil?”

  Johanna doesn’t blink. “Nope. I’m busy, trying to take notes and all.”

  “Is everything all right back there, ladies?” Mr. Graham calls from across the room. I glance up to see several students turned around, staring.

  “Yep. Everything’s great,” Ashley says, getting up f
rom her desk. “Just dropped something.” As she scooches through the aisle to retrieve the pencil, I realize a moment too late that my feet are propped out. Ashley notices a moment too late, too, because the next thing we know, she’s tripping over them and sprawling onto her hands and knees over Johanna’s backpack. Her head snaps up to glare at me, murder in her eyes, as if I intentionally tripped her.

  I stare open-mouthed in silence for several beats before finally managing to stutter out, “I am so sorry—”

  “Save it,” she snarls and wrestles herself back into her seat. Sans pencil. She turns around to face Mr. Graham, and I can practically see the steam rising from her shoulders.

  Johanna widens her eyes in mock-terror and mouths, “You’d better sleep with one eye open.”

  I cover my mouth with my hand so Ashley doesn’t hear me laugh.

  ✦✦✦

  That afternoon, Sam shows up halfway through my shift at the shelter, and we take the dogs outside to play like before. He’s still in his Madison Prep uniform—gray slacks, white button-up, loosely knotted navy tie—though it appears he ditched the jacket.

  Johanna had begged to come with me today, wanting to finally spend some time with Sam—and probably ask him a million embarrassing and inappropriate questions—but got a phone call from a client about their engagement photos, asking at the last minute to move up their photo session to this afternoon. They’d offered her extra, not that Johanna really needed the money, but she did need the pictures for her portfolio, and they were going to cancel on her if she couldn’t do it today. Some of the art schools she applied to apparently look at portfolios late in the game, but they’re a big factor in admissions. I’ve always thought Jo’s portfolio looked amazing, but she’s been convinced lately there’s not enough variety and has been booking new clients like crazy.

  But as much as I love her, I’m kind of glad I get to keep Sam to myself for at least a little while longer.

  The sky is a bruise, and the wind has a bite today. It’s been overcast for the past week straight, and at this point I think everyone’s just waiting for the snow. But knowing Colorado, it could just as easily be ninety degrees tomorrow as it could be storming. Only time will tell.