" Your mom probably wouldn't be too happy if you're dating someone who quit school."
I laugh. "Nope, don't think so. But I do think she likes you."
"Why do you say that?" he says, cocking his head at me.
"When I called her, she told me to tell you good morning. And then she told me you were 'a keeper.'" She also said he was hot, which is a ten and a half on the creep-o-meter.
"She won't think that when I start failing out of all my classes. I've missed too much school to give a convincing performance in that aspect."
"Maybe you and I could do an exchange," I say, cringing at how many different ways that could sound.
"You mean besides swapping spit?"
I'm hyperaware of the tickle in my stomach, but I say, "Gross! Did Rachel teach you that?"
He nods, still grinning. "I laughed for days."
"Anyway, since you're helping me try to change, I could help you with your schoolwork. You know, tutor you. We're in all the same classes together, and I could really use the volunteer hours for my college application."
His smile disappears as if I had slapped him. "Galen, is something wrong?"
He unclenches his jaw. "No."
"It was just a suggestion. I don't have to tutor you. I mean, we'll already be spending all day together in school and then practicing at night. You'll probably get sick of me." I toss in a soft laugh to keep it chit-chatty, but my innards feel as though they're cartwheeling.
"Not likely."
Our eyes lock. Searching his expression, my breath catches as the setting sun makes his hair shine almost purple. But it's the way each dying ray draws out silver flecks in his eyes that makes me look away-and accidentally glance at his mouth.
He leans in. I raise my chin, meeting his gaze. The sunset probably deepens the heat on my cheeks to a strawberry red, but he might not notice since he can't seem to decide if he wants to look at my eyes or my mouth. I can smell the salt on his skin, feel the warmth of his breath. He's so close, the wind wafts the same strand of my hair onto both our cheeks.
So when he eases away, it's me who feels slapped. He uproots the hand he buried in the sand beside me. "It's getting dark. I should take you home," he says. "We can do this again-I mean, we can practice again-tomorrow after school. "
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I laugh. "Nope, don't think so. But I do think she likes you.""Why do you say that?" he says, cocking his head at me.
"When I called her, she told me to tell you good morning. And then she told me you were 'a keeper.'" She also said he was hot, which is a ten and a half on the creep-o-meter.
"She won't think that when I start failing out of all my classes. I've missed too much school to give a convincing performance in that aspect."
"Maybe you and I could do an exchange," I say, cringing at how many different ways that could sound.
"You mean besides swapping spit?"
I'm hyperaware of the tickle in my stomach, but I say, "Gross! Did Rachel teach you that?"
He nods, still grinning. "I laughed for days."
"Anyway, since you're helping me try to change, I could help you with your schoolwork. You know, tutor you. We're in all the same classes together, and I could really use the volunteer hours for my college application."
His smile disappears as if I had slapped him. "Galen, is something wrong?"
He unclenches his jaw. "No."
"It was just a suggestion. I don't have to tutor you. I mean, we'll already be spending all day together in school and then practicing at night. You'll probably get sick of me." I toss in a soft laugh to keep it chit-chatty, but my innards feel as though they're cartwheeling.
"Not likely."
Our eyes lock. Searching his expression, my breath catches as the setting sun makes his hair shine almost purple. But it's the way each dying ray draws out silver flecks in his eyes that makes me look away-and accidentally glance at his mouth.
He leans in. I raise my chin, meeting his gaze. The sunset probably deepens the heat on my cheeks to a strawberry red, but he might not notice since he can't seem to decide if he wants to look at my eyes or my mouth. I can smell the salt on his skin, feel the warmth of his breath. He's so close, the wind wafts the same strand of my hair onto both our cheeks.
So when he eases away, it's me who feels slapped. He uproots the hand he buried in the sand beside me. "It's getting dark. I should take you home," he says. "We can do this again-I mean, we can practice again-tomorrow after school." style="width:100%;margin:20px 0;"/>