Select (Select #1)(39)

“Stop. You’re killing me.” His smile lit up his eyes, even in a moment when I knew he was stressed. Then both of us were silent, unsure of what to say next.

Somehow it had been easier on the phone. Now it was like we were too blinded by the reality of each other to behave normally. Over the phone my senses weren’t overloading me with an outpouring of information about him—the way he moved, his scent, his expressions.

At school this week we’d had our same routine. We’d sit next to each other in English, where I would think about him thinking about me. Next we’d see each other at the end of the school day, when we had a little more time to talk. So much of what we communicated was silent, though. Like how he carried my tennis bag yesterday. And how I’d grabbed his arm when I was laughing earlier this week. He’d nearly jumped out of his skin. I didn’t know why I did it. Because I could. Because I wanted to, and I liked what it did to him.

“Okay, I’ll see you afterward. But feel free to leave if you get bored. Or if it goes long.” He looked serious.

“Stop! Don’t worry.” And because I couldn’t resist, I reached over and grabbed his hand. “You’re going to do great.” He surprised me by snatching his hand back.

“What? Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Then I realized. I reached out for his hand again. Reluctantly he let me take it. It was pretty bad. So scaly and irritated. I grazed it with the fingers of my other hand.

“John!” We both jumped. His mom was standing a few feet away. I knew that’s who she was. She was tall—really tall—wearing khaki shorts and a polo shirt. She dangled a baseball hat in one hand. John had told me she was a middle school principal, and you could tell. I dropped his hand immediately. She knew who I was and she wasn’t happy I was here.

“They’re ready for you.” I watched her turn and walk away, not even bothering to introduce herself. She was mad at John. Crap. He didn’t need this.

“That was my mom. Sorry—she’s pissed at me. It’s not like her to be unfriendly.” He blew it off gracefully.

“You don’t want to meet my stepmother,” I joked, although that really wasn’t very funny. When John had asked about my family, I’d shut down, making it clear I wouldn’t talk about them. He had actually stopped wondering about them as often. He was too caught up in us.

“Okay. Good luck,” I said, about to walk away, but at the last second John caught my hand and kissed my cheek. He smelled like really nice sunscreen. He was gone before I had a chance to say anything. Very smooth, Ford. I actually hadn’t seen that coming at all. That should have been a sign I wasn’t paying attention.

I was a little rude and squeezed myself onto a bleacher next to a family where there really wasn’t any room. But I needed to be close, in the front row, so I could see what was going on. I felt John noting his family’s presence, and I quickly glanced over my shoulder. His mom was watching Alex on a different court, so I guessed the man sitting two rows behind me who bore a striking resemblance to John was his father. He looked like he was of Asian descent, which explained where John got those dark eyes.

I watched John cross the court, tense, then gracefully serve the ball like it was nothing. It was rare for us to be impressed, but John had skill and a quiet confidence to go with it that even I found enviable.

Seeing him on his stage, I finally admitted to myself how deeply attracted I was to him. And how not okay that was.

What was wrong with me? This made me different. He was supposed to be nothing to me, just an experiment. I would be abandoned here if anyone ever found out about him. It had to stop.

I realized John was losing badly. And that was when I made several technical errors at once. John was panicking, and it was intermingling with my own panic. I felt the pressure overwhelming him. His mother had now joined his father in the stands, his brother had probably won his match, I was here, and his shoulder was hurting.

I watched John’s opponent, a much higher seed, slam the ball back at John, and I decided it was time to intervene. It wasn’t hard—it only took a second until I could actually see the traces of light coming from the ball. I focused just ahead of where I wanted the light to go, and I began to manipulate the trajectory of the path. Out. I did it again and again, also moving John’s shots in.

But no one was playing along. John’s confidence didn’t change, and neither did his opponent’s. The opponent kept questioning calls, which annoyed me, so I broke the strings of two of his rackets and cracked the frame of a third. Unfortunately it threw off the rhythm of the match even more.

I had to handle the majority of John’s points. He won, but the match had a terrible energy. Something felt not right.

I was ready to brush off the match. It was over. I didn’t feel okay about it, but I hadn’t figured out why yet. My plan was to watch the last match and then be done with him completely. Just set John up and then he would be on his own from here on out. I stood up to leave. It was hot, and I decided to seek out some water, hoping that would make my sudden nausea disappear.

“Julia.” Dripping sweat, John was standing discreetly just outside the exit. Why hadn’t I known he was there? “I need to talk to you.”

I realized I couldn’t feel anything because he was so pissed.

“Where are you parked?”

“I don’t know—over there somewhere. Why? Are you okay? Congratulations, by the way.” It was starting to dawn on me what this was about, and my mind scrambled to figure out how I could cover my tracks. I realized it was hard to build a defense when I wasn’t sure exactly what I’d done in front of him today that was so obvious.