Wow. My first college boy, and he liked Proust. I’d found home at last.
Holding my breath, I forced myself to raise my eyes to his. His hair was dark but his eyes were . . . lighter. Green. They locked with mine, and the rest of the world fell away.
The receptionist called my turn and I stepped forward, a ventriloquist dummy’s grin pasted on my face. I tried not to trip. God, I was such an idiot.
“Hi,” I said to the lady, thrilled that I’d managed to get a word out despite the college boy’s laser-sex stare. “I’m here to . . . I’m here. I need to register.”
Such an idiot.
“Name,” she croaked, bringing me back to the matter at hand. I gave her my facts, wondering if the college boy was still watching me. Clenching my hands, I forced myself to stop fidgeting.
He was the kind of guy I dreamt about. At least he seemed like my ideal. Smart and worldly. He’d drink espresso with a twist, and do the Sunday crossword, and recite lines of intense and passionate poetry from memory. He’d appreciate a bright and quick-witted companion. He’d see me as a bright and quick-witted companion—not a weirdo with a freaky-high IQ. Just a girl who was really good at Jeopardy! and some of the more obscure Germanic languages.
I’d even do the whole French-manicure thing if it meant attracting a guy like him. Did sophisticated college guys think that was sexy? I stole a look at my chipped, stubby nails.
I was supposed to have a mom around who could give me advice. I’d always felt like the other girls had been issued some sort of Girl Handbook that I just wasn’t privy to. How had my mother worn her nails? Long press-ons the color of berries, or short like mine?
“. . . I’m sorry,” the woman was saying. The smile on her face was almost real, and it alarmed me.
“Sorry?” My fake grin was back up like a photon shield. “Wait. What did you say?”
“I said, you can’t matriculate until you’ve been issued a diploma.”
Did they need to see a piece of paper or something? I racked my brain, trying to remember whether I’d been given an official document among all the other reams of paper I’d received. “What are you talking about?”
“You need to finish high school before you start college.”
“But I did finish high school. I graduated.”
“Not yet, you didn’t.” She gave me a condescending smile.
It made me want to smash her little windowpane. I gripped the counter. “I did. In December. I’m registered for the spring semester.”
Tap, tap, tap. Those fuchsia nails flew over the keyboard. “I’m afraid the best I can do is defer your enrollment to the fall semester.”
“Wait.” I leaned my forehead against her window. “Are you sure you have the right person? Annelise Drew? Dale R. Fielding High School.”
“Yes.” Behind the glass, her eyes narrowed, making her look like a pinched, angry Muppet in some Office of the Registrar puppet show. “They haven’t issued your diploma. We can’t accept you without a full transcript. Officially, you’re still in high school.”
“No.” Not possible. Not effing possible. I could not still be in high school. I thought I might vomit. “That’s impossible.”
She tapped some more on her computer. Her fake smile crackled into a frosty glare. “You need to pass your swim test.”
“Swim test?” I practically shrieked the words, distantly aware that I was no longer conscious of the cute college guy. My dignity was shot, anyhow, if I wasn’t even going to be recognized as a high school graduate. “Is this a joke? There’s no swim test at Fielding.”
“I don’t joke, young lady.” Mrs. Registrar was getting snippy. Tap, tap, tap. “Dale R. Fielding High School. New procedure.” Tap, tap. “A swim test will be administered at the end of each academic year.” Tap tap tap tap tap. “There was an endowment requiring all students to pass a swim test in order to graduate.”
“I’m still in high school,” I mumbled like a zombie. My head buzzed, and my fingers felt icy and thick as I shoved my paperwork back into my messenger bag. Still a high schooler.
“You need to go back to high school, take the test, and return in the fall.”
I could only stare blankly. I’d rather die than go back to Christmas.
Trying to give me the hint, she looked to the person behind me in line. “Just pass the test, Miss Drew.”
Thanks, Sherlock. “But I can’t swim.”
Shock and pity dropped across the woman’s face like a veil. Everyone in Florida could swim. They practically handed out droppers of Swim-Ear to newborns in the hospital. Everyone had a damned pool, every kid was on swim team, every Caucasian face was tanned, every body smelled of chlorine and snack-bar ketchup.
“I’m afraid you need to sort this out with your school. Perhaps we’ll see you in September.” Her gaze went to the line forming behind me, her forced smile already back in place. “Next.”
I mumbled something—who knows what?—and stumbled out of the registrar’s office. At least the hot college boy was no longer standing there. Maybe he didn’t witness my shame. I emerged from the refrigeration and somehow made it back to the car.
But there he was in the parking lot. The sight of Mr. Tall/ Dark/Tousled leaning against a very shiny, very expensive-looking sports car made my eyes burn with tears. As God was my witness, I would not be the high schooler who cried in front of the good-looking college guy.
I snuck another glance his way. Such an adult car. In a green so dark it looked black. Only someone as gorgeous as him could pull it off without irony.
Clumsily unlocking the door to my Civic, I dropped into the bucket seat, its cracked vinyl squeaking with my weight. I slumped close to the steering wheel.
I would get out of there with a modicum of dignity.
I would not cry.
Nor would I hit any person or thing on the way out of the lot.
Buckling my seat belt, I turned the key. There was a click and then nothing.
“No,” I whispered. No, no, no. I slapped my hands on the dashboard. “Wake up.”
It’d taken me years to save up for this hunk of junk. I’d endured hours of tutoring meathead boys who thought casting lingering stares at my almost nonexistent bosom would make me wilt with desire. I’d sold term papers on eBay. And of course there was Fuddruckers, which, BTW, falls in the same constellation of life experience as setting one’s hair on fire or enduring an America’s Next Top Model marathon.
My car would not die on me now, in the parking lot, in front of this guy whose half-lidded stare was boring a hole into the side of my head. Witnessing me, at the pinnacle of my loserdom. I beat my hands against the steering wheel for good measure.
Again I turned the key. Again, click- click-click, then nothing. I couldn’t even swear up a storm; my tongue felt paralyzed with him watching me. Crap.
Was it the ignition? How much did it cost to fix something like that? Hundreds? More than that, even?
Fan-freaking-tastic. What was I supposed to do now? I was way the hell in the middle of Gainesville. I couldn’t call home. I had a big picture of how that would go. The Yatch would go ballistic, and Dad would just scowl, belch, and then demand the remote. Or would he smack me instead for spending all that money on gas when he could’ve spent it on beer? I swallowed the ache in my throat.
I couldn’t go back to that. I wouldn’t go back.
No college, no place to live, no car, not enough money to fix the car . . . Tears of frustration stung my eyes and rolled hot down my cheeks. Why this? Why me? Why now? Could the universe just please cut me one break, for once in my life?
There was movement in my peripheral vision. He was walking over.
Oh, crap. I scrubbed my face, certain I was leaving inky trails of eyeliner all over what were surely splotchy, puffy cheeks.
He came right up to my driver’s-side window. His eyes were looking really intense now, like he was the Terminator and he needed to scan my body for radioactivity. His key ring was looped on his finger, and he was flipping it deftly around and around. Tall, dark, hot, and smooth.
My mouth went dry. He gave me a slow, predatory smile. But I was still just a high schooler, with an awkwardly high IQ and a broken-down ’92 Civic.
This was not happening.
CHAPTER THREE
“Trouble?” He smiled, and up close I saw he had slightly crooked teeth, but somehow it only made him hotter. Like he’d been too masculine to suffer through something as trivial as braces for something as inconsequential as vanity. “Lift the bonnet for me, aye?”
Oh, God . . . He had an accent. I knew custom required a response, but I could only gape.
He smiled again. His snaggle-toothed accent gave the impression that a young Gerard Butler had stepped off a movie screen and stood before me, live and in 3-D.
“I said, pop the bonnet, love.” He spoke slowly this time, as if I’d fallen too hard off the short bus that morning.
Must respond. Bonnet. WTF is a bonnet?
He just stood there waiting. I clamped my slack jaw shut. High schooler, maybe, but I would not be mistaken for a mouth-breather. I followed the line of his eyes. “Ohh, the hood. Yeah, got it.”
Pop the hood. Check. I got out of the car just as he leaned over to peer at my engine.
As I mentioned before, I’m no dummy. I took the opportunity to assess a tight butt and a pair of muscular legs. I love a guy who wears just straight-up jeans. No fancy metrosexual nonsense, just an old, worn pair of Levi’s. I wondered whether they were button fly.
He straightened, and I managed to tear my eyes from his nether parts before he caught me staring. “I think it’s your carb,” he said, clapping the grease from his hands.
“The only carb I know is the bagel I had for breakfast.” My face froze in place, shocked at the idiocy of my own joke. Moron! I am such a moron.
He just stared. Of course he did, since I’d just said the Dumbest Thing Ever. I used to wish I were average, but I took it all back. I wanted to be sparkling and witty and magnetic.