Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(3)

Our line moves forward, and couples are pairing off and finding spots on the gym floor marked with tape. When I’m about ten people away, I count again, relieved that at least I have a shy girl who looks just as uncomfortable with this lesson as I do.

The music is mostly fiddle, and there’s a male singer giving directions—spinning, two steps in, two steps out, around the barn and ain’t she pretty. I laugh a little under my breath. It’s my turn to pair off when I glance back up and meet Emma’s eyes. I don’t show my surprise, and I ignore the grunts in protest of the a-hole two people away from me. Dude, socks. If you just wore socks, this wouldn’t have happened.

Maybe it would have, though. Maybe…maybe Emma was counting too.

I guide her to our tape marks in the far corner, and while everyone else has unlinked arms, I keep my hold on hers—our elbows locked together—the soft tickle of her skin along mine is possibly the best thing that has happened in my life to date.

I lean over and whisper in her ear while we wait for the remaining couples to find their spot. “The dude doesn’t wear socks.”

She laughs the most perfect, quiet, careful laugh, then glances over her shoulder as sockless guy walks by with his partner.

“Yeah, thanks for saving me from that,” she giggles.

I nod and smile, but while we sit down in our square formation I also feel a little smug. You had to trade spots with three people, Emma. This wasn’t just about the socks.

We’re both leaning back on our hands now, listening to Mr. Crest read through a packet on basic square-dancing moves. I don’t think anyone is really listening though. The guy across from me has slipped his phone from his pocket, and he’s playing a game, the girl next to him is mouthing something to her friend across the room, and I’m staring at the small fraction of an inch of space between my pinky finger and Emma’s.

With every word Mr. Crest says, I slide it a millimeter more, until finally the tip of my finger is resting against hers. I glance up at her at the feeling of our touch, and she’s still staring at our teachers, listening. She also lets a smirk take over one side of her mouth.

“All right, on your feet. Let’s give this one a try,” Mr. Crest says.

I stand at the same time Emma does, and when I reach for her arm and loop it through mine, she doesn’t flinch. It’s like that’s where her arm belongs.

I spend the next hour noticing things. I notice she wears pink Converse, and they look perfect next to my black ones that are twice the size. I notice her black leggings tuck into her shoes, and her legs are long with perfect curves for every muscle. I memorize where the tip of her hair stops when she brushes it over one shoulder—grazing her shoulder blades in the back and the small swell of her breasts in the front.

When I get to look into her eyes, I memorize everything they hold. The gray is caught somewhere between silver and black, and the longer I look, the more convinced I am she’s the perfect storm and I’m lost at sea.

I spend so much time looking at the details, I’m surprised when the bell rings to signal the end of class. When she unhooks her arm from mine, she lets her fingertips slide along my skin, and I memorize that, too.

Square dancing for an hour with Emma Burke is worth being pummeled in a thousand dodgeball games.





Chapter 2





Andrew



Square dancing lasted a week. For five days, Emma Burke and I counted lines of teenagers to make sure we both met in the middle. We never talked about it. There was never a formal plan. It was just something we both did—a silent commitment.

Then Monday came, and we started weightlifting for two weeks. I only saw Emma in brief trips to the drinking fountain while the girls were in the other wing of the gym, tumbling.

I’m pretty sure Mr. Crest thinks I’m diabetic, because I’m thirsty all the time.

I don’t have afternoon classes today. There’s an event at the college, so the Excel Program is getting the afternoon off. I intend on spending those extra hours learning about Emma.

Dwayne said I could sit in his classroom, since he has a prep hour for the last hour of the day. But I don’t know where Emma is, and part of me wants to stand outside to look for her. I don’t have my own car yet, just my mom’s or Dwayne’s when they let me borrow it—so I can’t even hang out in the parking lot and offer her a ride home.

I keep glancing through the sliver of a window on Dwayne’s door. Every noise I hear in the hall draws my attention.

“What has you so jumpy?” he asks after my twentieth peek through the glass.

I look at him, my heart a little stuck, my chest tight. This is awkward, and I feel edgy—like I’m caught doing something I shouldn’t. We don’t talk much—Dwayne and me. He was always closer with Owen. I think because Owen had so many struggles. I’m just the smart, quiet one.

“Do you know Emma Burke?” I ask, finally. I want to vomit. I don’t talk about girls. Not to Dwayne. Not to anyone really. There’s never been a girl to talk about.

Dwayne tosses the marker onto the ledge of his whiteboard then kicks his desk chair around until it’s facing him so he can sit. He glides in it to his desk in small scoots, laughing under his breath. He’s laughing at me. Because I’m ridiculous.

“Yeah, I know Emma,” he says.