Don't Kiss the Messenger (Edgelake High School, #1)(56)

She nodded and looked down at the ground.

“Do you like him?” I asked. It was a simple question, but it seemed to catch her off guard.

She thought about it for a second. My insides started to twist while I waited for her answer. I wanted her to say no. In the two minutes I had observed Tucker, I needed her to say no.

“I guess I liked the idea that he liked me,” she said.

“He doesn’t know you,” I said. “If he really knew you, he’d be interested. Believe me.”

She smiled and shook her head. “You sound like an Edmonds,” she said.

I wrinkled my forehead. “What does that mean?”

“It’s easy for you to say,” she said. She raised her arms. “Give me a break, Emmett. Don’t pretend you don’t see what everyone else sees. Guys don’t have a problem hooking up with me. They’re intrigued as hell. I’m probably a great hook up story. The girl with the scar. But that’s it. That’s always where it ends.”

I stared at her. That’s what this was about. It went so much deeper than I imagined.

“CeCe, I think you’re reading too much into this. Tucker’s one guy. One asshole. A lot of guys aren’t like that.”

She huffed. “Once in a while guys try to hook up with me at a party. But I’ve never been asked out on a date, ever, because guys don’t want to be seen with me.”

I shook my head. “That’s not true.” It couldn’t be true. Could it?

She backed up a few steps. “I just can’t take a lecture on beauty right now. I need to walk for a while,” she said.

“You want me to walk with you?” I asked, but she shook her head and backed up.

I watched her go, and I thought about what she said. It sunk in that maybe she was right. But she was wrong about one thing. I didn’t see what everyone else sees—I didn’t see a flaw. I saw her. I just didn’t realize I was one of the only ones that did.

I turned and headed down the sidewalk, shoving my hands in my pockets. Somehow, I had to make this up to CeCe.





Chapter Twenty-One


CeCe


On Thursday I sat through Shakespeare, taking notes vigorously and aggressively joining in class participation to make up for my dramatic exit earlier in the week. I was hoping Watford would pass off my behavior as PMS or a sudden bout of food poisoning. Also, staying mentally engrossed in lecture was my only way of ignoring Emmett’s presence, which felt too suffocating today. His hand was too close to mine on the table, his wet, recently showered hair too easy to smell. We hadn’t spoken after my performance of my autobiographical, one-woman play, titled: Rejection.

“This week we’ll begin reading The Twelfth Night. It contains some of my favorite quotes.” She cleared her throat and continued dramatically. “Conceal me what I am, and be my aid for such disguise as haply shall become the form of my intent.”

I looked up from my notebook. I felt like she was calling me out.

“Things to think about as you read. How are we like the characters in this story? Are we no better than any of them? Are you above disguises? Would you disguise yourself for love?”

I stopped taking notes.

She smiled to herself. “Who is the fool?”

I shifted in my seat, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. I could hear Emmett’s pencil scratching away next to me, recording her words.

“Motifs to look for. Disguise and miscommunication. Deliberate falsehoods.”

My feet shifted under the seat.

“Are we supposed to feel sympathy for these characters? Or can we relate to them? Maybe we want to see things so badly in one way that we become blind to what is really there.”

She paused and looked out at the class.

“Perhaps you’ll pity them. Is there sympathy for deception?”

I stared down at my notebook. I couldn’t look up at Watford. I had the strange feeling she was looking at me.

...

When Watford asked me to stay after class, I knew she was too observant to let what happened on Tuesday slip without an explanation. Damn analytical English teachers. I walked up to the podium while she was gathering notes and folders in a pile. She waited to address me until the room had completely cleared out.

“I couldn’t help but notice your sudden exit from my last class,” she prodded lightly. She tapped some papers into a neat pile. “Was my lecture time inconvenient for you, Edmonds?” At least she had stopped referring to me as Sparkles.

“No,” I said. She waited for more, but I pressed my lips together. Opening up to Emmett was enough “All About Me” sharing time for the week.

“You get two excused absences. After that, every absence drops you down one letter grade. And I don’t make any exceptions for athletes.” She looked up at me and met my eyes. “What people can do physically has never impressed me. We put far too much emphasis on the physical side. Don’t you think?” she asked.

I fought the sigh that wanted to escape my lips. I knew where this was going. “It’s a valid point,” I said. “But ideas are easier thought than applied, Professor.”

A smile teased the corner of her lips. She picked up a brown, leather tote bag off the chair. It was shiny and the leather looked expensive, probably purchased in Rome or Venice while she was invited to be a keynote speaker at some Shakespearean Historical Society conference.