Riding the Universe (12 page)

T
est Day.

Problem is, I can't stop thinking about the Murphys' dock coming down. I can just see the wooden planks splintering into a heap of junk underneath metal jaws. I feel violated, the way Mom might feel if my birth mother suddenly came careening into our house, demanding she wants me back. Would she have the right? After Mom has loved me more than anyone else?

The memories of Saturday night's bliss don't help either. I try to focus, shake off the thoughts, but Mr. Rooney's clock ticks painfully loud, and I can't concentrate on anything I'm supposed to.

Mr. Rooney wears his pink lab coat today. He resembles
upside-down cotton candy on a paper stick with his white hair all sticking up in the back like that. Also, because his eyesight is dusty, he has chosen Alejandra as a lookout, which means she'll take her test when we're finished. She sits on a special stool, vigilant and indifferent at the same time. She is a minor geek, meaning she is the smartest in the class but still has friends and a reputation to think about, so she really has no intention on ratting out any cheaters. Pedro makes sexy faces at her to try to make her laugh.

On my test, the hieroglyphics laugh at me.
Ha!
they say.
You're funny, Chloé Rodriguez, to think that you could attend a party, have a near-sex experience on the hood of a car, ride Lolita most of Sunday afternoon, and
still
believe you could pass this test come Monday morning. You silly girl!

Some of the hieroglyphics do not laugh. Some of them like me and present themselves as comprehensible to my puny brain, but there aren't enough of them, and I will certainly plunge to my academic death after today. But I won't tell my parents. I will find a way to make up this setback, even if I have to wear a tiny lab coat, knee socks, and pigtails to get on Rooney's good side.

Gross. I cannot believe I just thought that.

Still, if I have to, I will.

 

I rush out of Rooney's and let out a giant sigh, then I bolt down the stairs toward second-period English. But instead of turning right, as usual, I turn left, taking the long way so I can avoid Marraine's classroom. The last thing I need right now is Marraine asking me how the test went.

In the hallway, I pause to lean against the wall and let the
facts slowly sink into my consciousness.
You have one and a half grading periods left to pull that grade up to a C.
Which means I'll have to get an A or B on every test for the next four months if I want to keep Lolita. Every test!

I am doomed like a duck at a croc's dinnertime.

I see Amber blazing down the hall in a huff. Trailing her is Vince. He catches up with her and tries putting his arm around her shoulders, but she elbows him in the ribs. Ouch. Trouble in paradise already? I scan the hallway for Gordon. Will he be back to the old Gordon, acting like I'm a waste of his time? I have to wonder, since he didn't call me yesterday. My heart is doing flips, cartwheels, roundoffs,
and
backsprings, just thinking about it.

I kick off the wall and quickly head to my class. Then I see Gordon, talking to Ms. H in Hallway A. She nods and smiles at him as he speaks. It amazes me, the effect Gordon has on the faculty. Does he even have to try at all? Or does he always have carte blanche?

I stand against a column, prepping myself for when he turns and notices me. I'll smile and wait. The ball is in his court.

Ms. H pats his arm—
good boy
—nods some more, and gestures to her class. She waves bye-bye and disappears inside. Gordon smiles, clearly pleased at another successful teacher-student interaction, then looks at his watch. He turns and starts walking in the opposite direction from where I'm standing.

“Psst,” I beckon him.

He looks over his shoulder with this madman-on-a-mission face and slows down. Something about the way
he does it makes me feel like I'm keeping him from more important things. I push that idea aside.

“Hey, Chloé,” he says, running a hand through his hair. He gives me a weak smile. “I'm sorry I didn't call you yesterday. I got tied up at home.”

“That's okay. I know you have your calculus test today.”

“Yeah.” He pauses uncomfortably.

Are you going to mention Saturday night? We kind of bared our souls there, Gordon.

“What about your chemistry test? How did you do?” he asks.

“I think I did all right. I studied on my own yesterday, so we'll see.”

He smiles, nods, looks around the emptying hallway. The electronic bell whines above us. No kiss, no going for my hand.
Earth, swallow me now.

“That's great. Maybe you won't need me anymore, huh?” He laughs, but that's not funny. Why wouldn't I need him anymore?

I try to speak with my eyes and tell him that the other night meant something to me, that it wasn't just another day in the life of Chloé Rodriguez, and that I've never felt that close to anyone before, that I want to see him again. But it's not working. I'll have to use words. “No, I think I still need you…actually.”

His smile dies down. This is it. This is where he tells me that Saturday was a mistake, that we are not a couple, he just had an episode of temporary insanity. I'm a distraction to his agenda.

“Ladies and gents…” Our security guard strolls down
the hall, wagging her walkie-talkie around in the air. “Move along. Let's go.”

“I'll walk with you,” Gordon says, flanking me as I hurry away.

“Gordon, just…don't. You know? I was on my way to class, that's all. It's okay if you're having second thoughts. I understand.”

“That's not it, Chloé. But I can't make it to tutoring today. I have a paper in literature, and a test in calculus…”

But doubt still lingers in his eyes. I can see it.

He reaches for my hand, and my stomach takes a dive. “Look, I have to go right now. I only have two periods before my calc test and I should do some last-minute studying.”

“Of course,” I say, but my mind has other ideas.
Come on, abandon protocol like you did the other day and cut class with me.

He stands there, playing with my fingers, and finally reassurance settles over me. His hazel eyes plead with mine. He did feel it the other night, didn't he? Just like I did. It wasn't nothing to him, and I didn't scare him away. His hand gently lifts my chin, and his face slowly meets mine.

It's the kind of kiss that makes you forget where you are. It's so powerful, I wonder how this could possibly be anything but right.

I pull away, get my bearings. “Go, call me later. You know, if you can.”

He's not leaving. His gaze is fixed on my face. Wheels are turning in his head, and I can tell he's breaking down. There comes a time when nothing can interfere with your
body and heart or what they tell you. And from the way Gordon won't move, I realize that now is one of those times.

“What's up?”
You can't go to class, can you? I know. I feel the same way.

He pulls me along gently. “Come.”

“Where we going?”

But Gordon doesn't answer. I try to imagine how we must look together right now. Gordon, six foot four and unaware of his hotness, tugging this boyish girl with wild auburn hair behind him. We don't match and yet we do, and that's what's so beautiful. I'm so flustered, I hardly notice Marraine walking opposite of us, eyes carefully processing. Shit, I forgot about her planning period.

“Bonjour, Madame,” I say quietly, avoiding her eyes.

“Bonjour,” is all she says, not that I need more words from her to know what she's thinking.

“That was a good accent. I take it you have Madame Jordan for a class?” says Gordon.

“Yes, but she's also my
marraine
—my godmother.”

He looks at me. “No way.”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“Tell me about it. This will reach my mother's ears in no time.”

That doesn't distract Gordon from his mission—to take me out of here. Where, I have no idea, but I'm so out of my element, I feel alive. And believe me, after the way I've been feeling for a while now, that's a very good thing.

 

Twenty minutes later, we are in the last place I would have ever imagined: Gordon's house. His parents are at work and we are alone in his room, which is as straightforward as his car. Desk, super-organized. Computer, clearly an expensive buy. Nothing on the walls, except for a small chart of the periodic table near his desk.

“Why would you put this up?” I laugh. “Don't you get enough of school at school?”

“I put it up last year, and I guess I just left it. I don't even realize it's there anymore.”

It amazes me how Gordon is my same age, same grade level, yet in some ways, he feels so much older, it's sick. I try to suppress my feelings of academic inadequacy. I scan the room for any posters, pictures of Sabine he might still have around, anything. There's a lamp and remote control on his night table, and a bunch of DVDs strewn about, but otherwise, not much.

“Have you ever skipped class before?” I lay on his bed and watch him pick the DVDs off the floor.

“All the time, but I usually skip to other teachers' classes. To study. My teachers never care.”

“But not for going home, right? Not for being with a girl.”

“No, not for coming home.”

“Then you're becoming more like me,” I tell him. “That must scare the crap out of you.”

“You have no idea.”

I gasp. “No likey!”

He chuckles, lying on the bed next to me, taking my hand in his. “Yeah, but you're becoming like
me
, too. Studying, acing tests…”

“I never said I aced my test,” I remind him, swallowing my dread.
God, he really thinks I did well.

“So maybe we're meeting in the middle somewhere.”

“Maybe we are,” I say, moving closer to him. I want to feel his arms around me. But I'll wait for him to make the first move. How far do I want to go? Am I ready for this?

“Maybe that's how couples are to supposed to be—flexible.”

So we are officially a couple, straight from the know-it-all's mouth. I refrain from doing little cartwheels in his bed. “Maybe.”

He stares up at the ceiling. “Maybe I need to get my butt back in time for the calc test at one o'clock. Maybe we're full of shit, and coming here was a huge mistake.”

I close my eyes. “Maybe we should stop saying ‘maybe.'”

“How are we supposed to know, Chloé?” Sexy, full mouth, tinged with uncertainty. Stubble, so hot.

“We're not. We're supposed to figure things out as we go along.”

“Typical Chloé answer. Fortune-cookie queen.”

“You're mean.” I press my forehead into his.

He laughs, and I may be mistaken about this, but he seems almost pleased with that, like he likes being called mean.

“Gordon?” I take his hand and feel the smoothness of his nicely squared nails.

“Motor Girl?”

“I'll ignore that.”

“Why? That's who you are. You said so yourself. You love riding Lolita. It's not an act.”

“You're right, but I hate that people who don't know me call me that. Like Sabine when I first talked to her in tutoring.”

“Maybe she thought you were proud of it.
I
thought you were proud of it.”

“Why would you?”

“Well, because it's not really an insult. It's a name based on observation.”

“I guess you're right. Speaking of Sabine,” I say, playing with a piece of thread to keep my eyes off him. “Did you guys…you know.”

He shakes his head. “No. We were together for a few months, but nothing like that ever happened. Which is probably why my parents liked her—still like her. But last year, before I moved here, I had a serious girlfriend in Boston. And…yeah.”

“Ah, sorry I asked.” My mind conjures up an image of Gordon and another girl naked in bed, having experiences I haven't had yet.

“Don't be.” He presses his hand against mine. His is much bigger. “What about you? Have you ever
been
with anyone?”

I shake my head.

“Never?”

“Geez, don't act so surprised, Gordon. We Motor Girls are sensitive creatures.”

He's quiet, thinking about things. I watch him blink every so often, the tips of his lashes glowing from the light coming in through the window. I bite his fingertips and wait for the words to spill from my lips. “You're so focused. I
wish I could be more like you sometimes.”

“No, you don't. Trust me.”

“Yeah, I do. I wish I could balance life out more and focus on school the way you do.” I want to tell him more about the way I feel, but I'm scared to. What if I end up pushing him away instead of bringing him closer? I decide to risk it a bit. “I care about you, Gordon. A lot.”

He links his fingers through mine and presses my hand against his face. I love the way it feels. “Of course you do,” he says, trying to hold in a laugh.

“Wha—you egomaniac!” I hit him in the arm and chest.

He lets out the laugh and rolls me onto him so easily and smoothly, it makes my limbs weak. “I care about you a lot too, Chloé. Do you think I'd be here with you if I didn't? The truth is, no one has ever made me feel this way before.”

“No one?” I raise my eyebrows.
Not even Sabine, nor his girlfriend in Boston?

“Nope. Not like this.”

“That makes two of us.”

“It feels dangerous. The way I could easily fall for you.”

“That it does.”

His eyes flit across my face. “You know, you're really beautiful. I mean, I always knew you were pretty, but I'm looking at you now, and man…”