Wicked Restless (Harper Boys #2)(4)
I nod at him, my lips tight, then I glance back out the window, figuring now that I’m good and mortified, I’m sure to see her. When I look back at Dwayne, he’s still smiling, but he’s looking at his grade book and tapping his marker on his desk, not wanting to make me feel any more embarrassed. We both drift back to the silence of before, except now there’s a ginormous cloud of Andrew likes Emma floating in the f*cking air. I’m sure this will be a late-night chat topic for him and my mom.
Awesome. Fucking…awesome.
The tick of the seconds on the clock above his desk is loud, and I start counting with it rather than checking the actual time—testing myself to see how close I come to being right. With two minutes left before the end of the day, Dwayne slides his chair out, letting the rollers carry it to the wall behind him when he stands, and he walks over to the desk I’ve commandeered by the door.
“Here,” he says, dropping his keys in front of me.
I slide them in a circle with my finger, then gaze up at him.
“Your mom will come pick me up on her way home. I have grading to do, and I don’t want you to have to stay here. Besides…don’t you need to give someone a ride home?” He’s teasing me a little, and I kind of hate it. But, I also want to hug this man who is sort of the only father figure I have. Because yeah…there’s someone I need to give a ride home to.
I stand, untangling my long legs from the small desk that doesn’t suit me, and pull my gray beanie back on my head.
“She’s in room one-twenty-seven,” he says, smirking, but only for a second, never fully looking at me. He turns around, and I slip out his door just before the bell sounds, hauling ass to her room on the other end of the hall.
I get to her door seconds before she steps through it, and I lean against the wall on the other side, bending my knee and looking natural. Natural; I look like a f*cking creeper. I’m rethinking my pose when she surprises me, kicking her foot into mine. This is our thing, it seems.
“What are you doing here, Harper?”
I wince when she asks that way. People call us Harper, and it’s not usually a good thing. If she’s calling me that, it means people have been talking to her about me—about Owen. About my father’s mental illness, probably his suicide, and maybe James’s drug habits and the way he died last year. The town has been more respectful over James, and I think the fact that Owen landed a basketball scholarship shut them up a little too. But rumors and gossip are hard to kill completely. And us Harper boys—we make headline-worthy gossip. Owen may be the golden college boy now, but he’s also the troublemaker with a rap sheet.
“Thought you might want a ride,” I say. The confidence I had when I darted to her classroom is gone. I’m pretty sure there’s no way this girl is getting in a car with me. I just hope she doesn’t laugh out loud.
The look she gives to the blonde walking up behind her confirms my suspicions. Her friend, I’ve seen her around. I think she might be the sister of one of Owen’s exes, or maybe related to someone my brother’s friends know. She knows me, and that’s enough; her eyebrows are high on her forehead when she looks at Emma. That expression is all about warning her to stay away.
“Oh, I was…I was going home with Melody. We were going to get ready…there’s…there’s a dance here tonight,” she says, delivering the news in fits and starts.
It’s cute the way she takes her time with every word, not sure which thing will hurt my feelings more. I’m use to it all, though. I didn’t know about a dance, because I don’t really go here. And yeah, it’s probably better she rides home with Melody…
“But if you can wait a few minutes, I’d…I’d love a ride,” she says, surprising me enough I falter on my feet. I catch myself quickly, pushing my hands in my pockets and leaning against the wall.
Her friend tugs on one of the straps of her backpack, but she ignores it, shirking away.
“Is that heavy? I could carry it for you,” I say, reaching for her backpack. I glance at her friend when I do, letting her know I saw her tug the strap, and I know what she meant by it—don’t go, Emma, not with him. She sneers at me; I know we have an understanding—an agreement to disagree.
“Sure,” Emma says, letting me slide her heavy pack from her shoulder. I layer it over my own backpack, slinging it over my arm, and I wait while she has a whispered conversation with her friend a few feet away from me.
“I just need to get some things from the office. I missed a few classes this morning,” she says.
“Sure,” I say, following her down the hall. I smile when I see her step carefully with her Converse; she’s placing one foot inside every square, alternating from black to white. I do that sometimes.
“Step on a crack, you’ll break your mother’s back,” I mutter. I’m laughing to myself when she halts instantly, spinning to face me, her face serious.
“My mom broke her back last year…” she says, and I look to both sides, feeling like an *. When I glance back at her, a grin starts to crawl along her lips. “I’m just f*ckin’ with ya,” she winks.
“Oh my god, that was the funniest not-funny thing anyone’s ever done to me,” I say, pulling my knit cap over my face and rubbing my eyes before sliding it back on.