Between each class, Weston would meet me at my locker, chattering like he’d had a gallon of coffee. I’d never seen him so carefree.
Before Art though, he was notably absent when I dialed my combination. When I opened the metal door, an oversized sticky note was stuck to the inside.
YOU’RE ALL THE BREATH I NEED.
LOVE ALWAYS,
WESTON
I pulled the sticky note away from the metal and held it in my palm. Tears burned my eyes, but I didn’t think of the Dairy Queen stock or how many scoops of M&M’s to put in a Blizzard to ward them off. Two teardrops fell down my cheeks, and I didn’t even bother to wipe them away. For the first time, I was crying happy tears.
I slipped my arms through the straps of my backpack and walked to class. Weston was sitting in his usual stool at my desk. He hadn’t moved it since the first time he sat there. That was back when we had tried to be just friends, and he’d wanted to show me his project—the project that had inspired the silver heart hanging from the matching chain around my neck.
At first sight of my wet cheeks, Weston’s expression twisted into concern, but then I turned the sticky note for him to see. I threw my arms around him, and he hugged me back, squeezing that little bit extra that he always did, while gently pressing his cheek against my ear. When I pulled away, he used his thumbs to wipe away the moisture under my eyes.
“That was supposed to make you smile.”
I laughed, wiping my eyes again. “I am smiling.”
“You had me worried there for a second.”
I leaned in, whispering, “I just love being loved by you. That’s all.”
“Get used to it,” he said, pulling me to sit on the stool next to him.
Chapter Four
MRS. CUP BREEZED IN. “Everyone’s here?” she asked. Her eyes bounced around the room. “Where are Josh and Noah?”
Zack looked around. “They’re already on their way.”
She paused and smiled. “Oh, those boys.” She nodded. “Okay then, we’ll see them soon. Let’s get going. Everyone has a ride? Yes?”
Weston and I walked out to the parking lot together. On our way to the mural, Weston followed me even though I was trailing behind everyone else, certainly slower than he liked to drive. He pulled up next to me at a stoplight and rolled down his window. His radio was blaring, and his head was bobbing to the music. He winked at me.
“Hey, beautiful. Nice ride.”
I shook my head and laughed.
“What are you doing this weekend?”
“Prom.”
“Oh, yeah? Do you have a date?”
“I sure do.”
“Wanna go with me instead?”
“You’re awfully cute, but I’m going with my boyfriend.”
“He must be dang amazing to have snagged you.”
I shot him a look. “Are you complimenting yourself or me?”
He threw his head back and howled with laughter. The light turned green, and I pushed on the accelerator. He sped up and pulled into my lane just before we reached the pizza place.
With an arched eyebrow, Mrs. Cup watched us amble over to the brick wall. “Why are you two always last to get here?”
Weston pointed at me. “It’s her fault.”
My mouth fell open.
He was leaned over, holding his knees, his whole body shuddering with laughter.
Mrs. Cup waited for an answer.
“I just started driving. I’m nervous…and slow.”
She glared at Weston and then looked back to me before walking over to her supplies and handing us each a paintbrush. Weston followed me to our spot before dipping his brush into a bucket labeled Saddle Soap Brown.
Weston began chuckling again, and I craned my neck at him.
“What is up with you? You have dark circles under your eyes, and you act like you’re huffing Mountain Dew.”
“I’m in a good mood. I was also prescribed a new bronchodilator. That probably has something to do with it. Are you working tonight?”
“Yep,” I said, swirling my brush in the paint and standing to wait for what he might say next.
“So, if I do this”—he karate-chopped the air with his paintbrush, sending brown paint splattering down my front—“everyone will think it’s chocolate?”
I flinched. Wet spatters of paint had speckled my face, and when I looked down, I saw the haphazard spots of paint that had made a perfect line from my neck to my jeans.
“Weston Gates!” Mrs. Cup yelled.
Instinctively, I dipped my brush into the bucket and flicked it at Weston, creating an identical line of Saddle Soap down his front.
“Erin Eas—Alderman!” Mrs. Cup shrieked.
The entire class erupted in laughter, shrill screams, and low yells as a paint fight broke out.
“No! Stop! Stop!” Mrs. Cup yelled, waving her hands in the air.
Chasing one another, we slapped the air with our brushes, slinging paint, and we mixed the different colors as we dipped our brushes in whatever bucket was closest.
“Not the mural! Stay away from the mural!” Mrs. Cup cried, standing between the brick wall and us.
We kept the battle in the parking lot, away from the mural, but then Mrs. Cup’s eyes widened, and she ran to the other side, holding up her arms.
“Not the cars! Stay away from the vehicles! Stop! Stop this!”
We all paused, breathing heavily and smiling, looking like melted bags of Skittles.
“Detention! All of you!” Mrs. Cup said, heaving out each word. She let her hands fall to her sides. “How are you all even going to get back into your vehicles without making a mess?”
“I can’t go to detention. I have to work.” I looked to Weston.
He only offered an apologetic shrug.
“You’re all walking back to school. Go. Now.” Mrs. Cup pointed south, and we all let out a deflated sigh.
We were only a quarter of the way back when the after-school traffic began to whiz by. Mrs. Cup followed the class, making sure we stayed together and went straight to the school. Once our classmates recognized us, an opus of honking and playful taunts commenced.
Beads of sweat formed along Weston’s hairline, and his cheeks flushed.
“You okay?” I said quietly.
“Yeah,” he said in a dismissive tone. The spark that had lit his eyes all day was gone.
“Weston—”