Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(28)

Now words weren’t enough.

I grabbed a black baseball hat with our school logo, a red cardinal, and put it on my head. I opened the door and took the balcony steps two at a time. I saw her silhouette in the moonlight, floating toward the house like a piece of starlight. I met her on the grass, next to the oak tree in front of the house.

She had obviously run here, her cheeks were flushed with color and her breaths were deep.

“Hey,” she said. Her smile was sweet and sultry at the same time. “You wanted to see me about something?”

I bit my lips together and hesitated. I was suddenly shy, star struck by this girl who had been stampeding through my thoughts the last twenty-four hours. She was finally tangible.

Do this, do this, do this, I coached myself.

“You okay?” she asked.

She looked confused, regarding me. I took a step closer to her, tracing my eyes over the face that I had been fantasizing about. I pulled my baseball cap backward and reached for those cheekbones. They felt warm and soft in my hands, but her lips, oh my God. Her lips took all my words away. They fused my heart with my mind. Like two atoms in a molecule.

She dug her hands into the back of my neck and pulled me closer. Our tongues intertwined. It was all feelings now, speaking with movements, just connecting on this completely other level. It was the reaction I had been craving.

The kiss that started out slow turned into something harder. Deeper. I gripped her face tighter. I let all my thoughts pour into that kiss. All the messages we exchanged, all the secrets she unveiled, I needed her to know how her words made me feel.





Chapter Ten


CeCe


I sat next to Emmett in Shakespeare and I felt like the air in the classroom was charged. Electrified. On fire. And I was supposed to sit still for fifty minutes? Every poetic word Professor Watford said only felt like it was being addressed to the penetrable skin of my heart. It was pathetic, of course.

Emmett sat back in his seat, casual and indifferent as though this were any boring lecture. As if he was daydreaming about other things. And that’s when I realized he was. He was writing music. I watched the notes take shape beneath his hand. Every once in a while his fingers would tap the table top like it was a piano key. Sometimes it was his middle finger, sometimes his thumb.

I wondered if Bryn had stayed all night. I wonder if it was awkward, or if they were moving past that now.

I wondered who he was composing for right now, Bryn, or me?

Just as we started to pack up our books at the end of class, Professor Watford opened her arms dramatically, a gesture preparing us for one of her grand announcements. Her dangling gold bracelets clamored like cymbals. A red knitted shawl, draped over her white blouse, swayed with her movements as if to reinforce her words.

Emmett leaned closer to me and whispered. “Does she look like a sultan to you?” he asked me.

I nodded and leaned toward him to whisper back. “All she needs is a scepter to complete the look.”

Emmett smiled and Watford glanced at us, clearing her throat.

“Plan to read Othello, in its entirety, by the end of next week,” she mused. “We’ll discuss Acts I through III on Tuesday, and Acts IV and V on Thursday. Have a literary infused weekend.”

The class responded with a gathered silence. Professors loved to assign the most intense homework at the beginning of the semester. It was as if they placed bets to see who could get the highest student drop list.

She turned and addressed me and Emmett while the rest of the students stood up and filed out the door.

“You two will lead the discussion, Tuesday and Thursday next week.” She smiled warmly as if we should be thanking her for the leadership opportunity.

I looked over at Emmett and he seemed less than enthused. I knew he had a game this weekend. And I had a tournament.

“I’m open to students taking a creative stance on their discussion,” Watford continued, ignoring our overwhelmed expressions. “Nothing depresses me more than the idea that Shakespeare is dead. Great writers are always alive, because thoughts never die. Words live forever. See how you can apply the messages and themes in his plays to our culture today. Good luck.”

“Professor,” I said, holding up my hand before she turned away. “I’m really looking forward to leading a discussion and I agree with you, but we have a volleyball invitational in Illinois this weekend,” I explained.

Watford blinked at me.

“Two days, three games,” I clarified.

“We have a game on Saturday,” Emmett added.

She gave us a deadpan expression, as if we just informed her of pointless details, like our shoe sizes.

“Could we swap discussion week with another group?” I suggested. “I could email the class and see if anyone wants to switch?”

She looked clearly offended. “I don’t swap, Sparkles,” she stated.

I kicked Emmett’s foot under the table at the mention of my nickname. His shoulders perked up in response.

“I’m just afraid we won’t have time,” Emmett started, “to do this assignment the justice it deserves.”

Good one. His knee nudged mine under the table, his way of saying he was trying.

“Hmm,” she thought about this. “What would Shakespeare say to this, I wonder? ‘Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends.’”