Prey (6 page)

Ryan

I wake up and I'm confused, disoriented. I see a room bathed in lamplight, but it's not my room. I sit up and see Lori sitting in a chair by the window. She's staring at me. I'm naked and feel embarrassed. “You okay?” I ask.

“Are you?”

I hear a catch in her voice, so I grab the comforter and wrap it around myself, cross the room and kneel beside the chair. I can see she's been crying. “What's wrong?” Instantly I think I've disappointed her, that I didn't do something right.

“Are you sorry?” she asks.

“Are you?”

She smooths my hair. “I will never be sorry.”

Relief floods through me. “Me neither.”

“I—I've wanted to kiss you for a long time.”

“Me too. I mean, I've wanted to kiss you, too.” My head's spinning because we've done a lot more than kiss. Our first time together at the coffeehouse comes back to me, how insecure and inadequate I felt. I don't want to feel inadequate now. I want to feel the power I felt when we were in bed, Lori moving and moaning. I don't know what to say.

“Did I make you happy?” she asks.

“Happy?” I don't exactly know what she means.

“Like other girls you've been with.”

“T-there haven't been others,” I say, but I turn away from her.

“It isn't necessary to lie, Ryan. I can handle the truth.”

“All right.” I tell my story, getting out as much as I can as fast as I can, hoping I don't turn Lori off. “The truth is that I've been close to doing this with a few girls, but that was mostly in middle school when we were playing kissing games and drinking. Once I was shut in a closet with some girl and we heard all our friends telling us to get it on and I wanted to, but she started crying and saying she didn't want to do it for the first time in a closet with a guy who was basically a stranger. So we lied to the others when we came out. I never did anything like that again. I decided to save the sex until I cared about a girl.”

She stares at me for a long time before saying, “Then I'm glad I can be your first.”

“Me too. I'm glad about you wanting to be with me.”

She lowers her head, and her hair falls like a veil around her face. “You don't think badly of me, do you?”

“No way! You're beautiful and I wanted this to happen more than anything.”

She looks up. “Are you sure?”

“And… and I want it to happen again.”

She's been holding her hands in her lap, but now she reaches out and cups my face. “We'll have to be very careful. If anyone finds out—”

“Do I look stupid? Do you think I'll blab this all over school?”

“I hope not.”

My heart is thudding. How can I convince her? “I won't.”

She lets out her breath as if she's been holding it for a long time. “Then we'll have to set up a system so that no one will ever suspect.”

“You're carnivaldaze,” I say, because that's how we've gotten messages to each other about meeting at the coffeehouse. “She can e-mail me anytime. No one will ever know.”

Lori smiles, leans forward and kisses me lightly. “Well, right now I'd better drive you home before you miss your curfew.”

I sway forward on my knees, catch her hands in mine. “Dad's stuck in Chicago. He won't be in until really late.”

She studies me. “Truth?”

“I wouldn't lie.”

She stands and so do I. She hugs me and I feel my heart race. “Then no use rushing off, is there? Come back to bed with me.”

She doesn't have to ask me twice.

Honey

Something's up with Ryan. I don't know what, but something is making him different these days. When I say this to Jess, she rolls her eyes and says, “Why do you think that? He's been doing his own thing since school started. How can he be even more different?”

“I'm a dedicated Ryan watcher. I know when changes are made.”

Jess is so into Joel she wouldn't notice if the sun set in the east. We're on our way to go Christmas shopping in one of Atlanta's trendy boutique areas. Taylor's driving, and now she chimes in with “You need to get over him, girlfriend.”

“I am over him.”

“Sure you are,” my friends say in unison.

“In a romantic way,” I clarify. “I still care about him as a friend.”

“So what changes have you noticed?” Taylor asks.

I know she's humoring me, but still I speak up. “He hardly ever returns my IMs or e-mails. It's like he's never home. No more text messages, either. I have to practically trip him in the halls to get him to speak. It's like his head's in another universe.”

“Joel says they don't hang much anymore either,” Jess offers.

“How can they?” Taylor says. “You two are joined at the hip.”

“We haven't joined anything yet,” Jess says. “You know I'd spill my guts to my best friends if our body parts ‘joined.’ ”

Taylor and I laugh. Jess points, saying, “Parking space alert! That SUV is pulling out. Grab the spot.”

We wait patiently for the Mom-mobile to back out of its diagonal space. Just as we're leaving the car, Taylor says, “Oh, oh! I have dirt.” We wait for her to divulge. “The admin crowd is asking Settles to back down on the sexy clothing.”

“That's going to break some male hearts,” Jess remarks.

I ask, “Who says?”

“My mom.” Taylor's mother is a PTO heavyweight and has her fingers in all things McAllister High.

“I like Ms. Settles,” Jess says. “She's nice and cracks jokes in class. Cuts us some slack on assignments, too.”

“Well, the principal told her to tone down the outfits.”

“They're all jealous because she's pretty and wears heels,” Jess says. “That's a totally athletic-shoe crowd in the front office.”

I don't say anything because I don't like Lori Settles. There's something too nice about her. That, and Ryan thinks she's hot.

“It's the stilettos,” Taylor says. “Who can walk in them?”

We've been walking and talking, but suddenly Jess stops. “Let's try some on.”

We're in front of a high-end shoe boutique. “We can't afford anything in there.”

“We're not buying,” Taylor says. “Just shopping.”

We giggle our way inside, where a saleswoman looks us over, then asks, “May I help you?”

“I want to try on those,” Taylor says, pointing to a pair of black sky-high Pradas. “Size seven.”

The woman's gaze flicks over Taylor's sweater and jeans. It's obvious we're not Atlanta belles, but still she disappears into a back room, emerging minutes later with a box.

“I want to try these,” Jess says, holding up an equally high-heeled shoe. “Size six and a half.”

The woman looks at me. “And you?”

My face gets hot, but I grab a strappy evening shoe and hold it toward her. “Size ten.” She stares at me. “Basketball,” I say boldly. “It makes a girl's feet bigger.”

We laugh together the minute she's gone. When she returns, we try on our selections and Taylor takes a few wobbly steps. “It takes practice,” the saleswoman says, watching us from the ankles down, and for a second I think she's going to throw her body over the shoes to protect them from us.

I feel very unsteady, but brave a brief walk to a floor mirror to admire the sparkly crystal-studded shoes and how elegant they make my feet look. I totally get why Lori Settles wears them. They do a lot for a girl's morale.

Once we leave the store, we can't stop laughing. “I have new respect for models,” Taylor says.

“And for Ms. Settles,” Jess adds. “How does she do it?”

We're still laughing when we pass a street vendor with a table full of handmade silver jewelry. “Earring alert,” Taylor says.

“All handmade by me,” a hippie-looking girl tells us.

“Nice,” I say, my eye drawn to a necklace. A loop of silver twisted into a knot dangles from the chain.

“It's a Celtic lovers' knot,” the girl tells me. “Very meaningful for lovers. No one else sells them in Atlanta.”

“Then I'll have to buy these,” I say, picking up a pair of silver dangle earrings with a chip of turquoise. “For my mom. I love her, but…”

The girl laughs and wraps my purchase.

My friends and I shop for a few more hours, then head home. I hide my purchases in a hatbox on my closet shelf, go to my computer and punch up my e-mail program. My heart's beating faster, high on hope that Ryan's sent me an e-card for Thanksgiving because I sent him one—a funny one, naturally. But except for junk mail and a reminder from Coach Mathers about basketball practice starting up on Monday, I have no other messages. I feel let down. Stupid, I tell myself. He doesn't even remember I'm alive.

Ryan

I walk on air for weeks. What happened—what is happening—between me and Lori is like something in a movie, or a dream. My biggest problem is controlling myself. I want to be with her all the time. I want to touch and taste her, have more sex with her. It's all I think about. In the classroom, she treats me the way she does every other student. She never looks me in the eye, though. Too dangerous. As if our feelings will burst out like water from a dam. So I slouch in my chair, put in my time, cut out as soon as I can, go home and stay in my room, sending her explicit e-mails and arranging times to get together.

I never appreciated my dad's work schedule so much. He's gone, and the housekeeper hardly notices me, so I come and go as I please. I usually catch a city bus to Lori's neighborhood and walk to her apartment complex. I forward the home phone to my cell so I'm always available if Dad calls from the road. Lori often serves takeout when I come over, but we don't waste much time eating.

At some point, she tells me, “For the record, I've never gone out with Mathers.”

I wonder why I ever got so worked up about that. “It's a free world,” I say. We're on her sofa, half watching a DVD.

“Are you dating anyone?”

“How can you ask me that?”

“It's a logical question. I know you have a life outside of us.”

No, I don't, I think. “You and school,” I say.

“What about your friends?”

“What about them?”

“You don't mind spending so much time with me? Don't they ask questions?”

“Only Honey Fowler. You remember her.”

“The girl who likes you.”

I scoff. “We're just friends. For years.”

Lori gives me a skeptical look. “Well, she isn't that pretty. Not your type.”

“What is my type?”

Lori leans over and kisses my neck, sending shivers up my body. “I am.”

“Prove it.”

She does.

•••

“What do you want to do over Christmas break?” my dad asks me when I walk into the kitchen on a Saturday morning in December.

Spend every second with Lori, I think. “I don't know … hang, I guess.” I go to the fridge and pull out the OJ.

“Come on, you must want to do something fun. I'm off the road until after New Year's.”

The realization hits me—Dad's going to be home 24/7 for two full weeks. I take a swig from the carton, set it on the countertop. “What do you want to do?”

“Road trip?”

“I'm too old for Disney World.”

“We could buzz up to Baltimore and see your aunt Debbie. She's invited us.”

She's Dad's sister and lives up there with her husband and my two boring cousins, Robbie and Karen. “Whoopee,” I say.

“I don't like your attitude.”

“You want me to be honest, don't you?”

“I want you to act as if you care about some-thing—anything. You disappear into your room when I'm home. God knows what you do when I'm not.”

I hold my breath, exhale slowly. No good will come of pissing him off. Especially when I want a car for Christmas. Man, if I had a car, I could hook up with Lori more often. Riding the bus is really getting to be a drag. She takes me home after dark, sometimes will even pick me up, but not too often, just in case anyone's watching. If someone finds out … “Going to Baltimore will be fine,” I say.

Dad looks surprised. I guess he didn't expect me to cave without more arguing. “Well then, okay. I'll call Debbie and tell her to expect us for Christmas. We can go into D.C. and see the Capitol, the White House, and the Smithsonian—that's one great museum.”

He's getting excited just talking about it, while I'm getting sick just thinking about it. What fun … a road trip to Washington to look at boring buildings and visit relatives I don't even like. I turn and fish two pieces of bread from the cupboard and plop them into the toaster, but my appetite's totally gone.

Lori

eing with Ryan feeds something deep inside me I can't describe. Such a beautiful boy. And so willing and eager to make me happy. His enthusiasm is an elixir. Even the way he avoids eye contact with me in the classroom is exciting. This thing between us is like water simmering on a low, constant fire. I need him. He makes me feel alive. Especially now.

I was called into the main office for a conference with the powers that be. It seems my “apparel” is offending some of the faculty and some of my students' parents. It makes my blood boil. The old hags. I look at the way they dress, like bag ladies. They hate my high heels most of all. Why shouldn't they? Lumbering around like water buffaloes in their sensible shoes. Our esteemed principal, Estelle Dexter, kept coming back to my heels time and again. She cited “insurance concerns” as the reason I need to lose them in the classroom when I teach.

“What if you fall? These floors can be really slick. If you fall, you'll hurt yourself, maybe even break a leg or something. That will keep you from doing your job. It won't help lower insurance rates, either,” Dexter tells me.

“Fall? I don't think that's a problem for me. I'm very physically fit.”

“Yes, everyone can see that you're fit.” Her tone is condescending. She taps a pencil on the edge of her desk. “Ms. Settles—Lori—please don't make this an issue. Your attire just isn't absolutely appropriate for the classroom. There are impressionable young people, immature young men. No sense inflaming them.”

Inflaming them! How dare she say this to me? “Have my students complained about my teaching methods? My lack of skill in imparting world history to them?”

“No, not at all, but that's not the issue. I don't understand why you're getting so worked up about this. It's a simple request.”

“It speaks to my character. As if a woman in a dress and heels is somehow unfit to stand in front of a classroom.”

Her mouth puckers and tightens. “I regret you see things that way. However, this isn't up for debate. Change your way of dressing. Don't make me draw the county superintendent into this.”

My blood's boiling and I want to reach across her desk and choke her. The sanctimonious old bitch. I could make a case to the teachers' union, fight for my rights. Then I think of how ugly such a case could get. Sides would be taken. Kids would be jacked around. I'd lose my ability to see Ryan every day. I stifle my fury and ask, “And just what do you consider acceptable attire?”

She looks mollified and comes in for the kill. “Longer skirts, more coverage of your cleavage, heels no more than two inches high, nothing too avantgarde.”

In other words, look like a frump. I stand. “Are we through?”

“Yes. Have a good day.”

I walk out of the office and go into the faculty lounge, so angry I can hardly speak. Only Mr. Ishiwata, the music instructor, is there, on break. He looks up, smiles, but his smile quickly fades. “Is something wrong, Ms. Settles?”

Only if you count being told by your principal that you look like a whore. “Nothing a cup of coffee won't cure,” I say as pleasantly as I can. I know Mr. Ishiwata isn't one of my enemies. I've seen the way he looks at my breasts—his favorite part of a woman's body, I'm betting.

“Please, let me pour you a cup.”

He's solicitous and too eager, but that always works to my advantage. “That would be kind,” I say. “Two sweeteners and some cream.”

He falls over himself fixing the coffee, brings it to me ceremoniously and sets it on the table in front of me. “Thank you,” I say.

His eyes are magnified behind his glasses. I turn, lean slightly forward and give him a full look down the front of my dress at the curve of my breasts pushing up from my lacy black bra. He blinks and stares hard. I lean back and sip the coffee.

“It is my pleasure,” he says, and leaves the lounge.

I think, Lecher. All men are lechers, but I know how to handle them. Just the way I know I'll handle Dexter's unreasonable request. I want to stay under her radar, and causing a scene over my clothes won't accomplish that. I calm myself with thoughts of Ryan, of his smooth young body, of his raw and hungry passion.

Everything else is a distraction.