Buzz Kill (26 page)

Chase opened the door, letting me in first. “I don't know, Millie. It's hard for me to imagine Coach Killdare as gay, but . . . I guess you never know, right?”

I led us past the secretary's desk toward the door to Mr. Woolsey's private chambers. “Yeah, it was almost impossible for me to believe Ryan was gay when he came out.”

Chase seemed taken aback. “Ryan is gay? Ryan Ronin?”

I had my hand on the knob, but turned to face Chase. “Yeah.”

“Wow. I had no idea.”

“You are seriously clueless, aren't you?” I said, opening the second door, which wasn't locked. “Don't you know
anything
but French?”

He didn't answer, probably because he was picking up the photo I'd seen a thousand times on Mr. Woolsey's desk, without ever reading the small print on his shirt about riding a banana-shaped boat. “You're right,” Chase said. “This is the exact same image. It's like they photographed each other, trading places between shots.”

He looked at me over the picture frame, and I ventured, “Grown men don't take vacations together unless they're . . .
lovers,
right?”

Okay, I wasn't sure I'd ever said the word “lovers” out loud, in any context, and it came out kind of . . . ugh. Not because I was applying it to my principal and a football coach, but just because it seemed . . .
ugh.

Chase didn't seem to know how to follow up on that, either. He didn't exactly answer, asking instead, “The postcard, from BeeBee. You say it's from Switzerland?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know if Mr. Woolsey traveled overseas this summer?”

“No idea,” I admitted, starting to circle my principal's desk, looking for, say, a mug that said I ♥ Lucerne or a heavy, three-hole punch that might be used for clubbing a . . . lover. “I pretty much try to forget Mr. Woolsey on my time off.”

Chase resumed studying the picture, getting quiet. Pensive.

“Chase?” I finally asked softly, opening a drawer to discover that Mr. Woolsey kept a stash of Devil Dogs.
So, somebody has a sweet tooth—among other secrets.
I considered helping myself to just one, but had a pang of conscience and shut the drawer. “Would it bug you if Mr. Killdare really was gay?”

Chase looked up from the picture, seeming surprised. “I grew up in California, Millie. About five miles from Venice Beach. I am not freaked out by homosexuality.” He resumed staring at the picture, though, as if
that
was freaking him out. I was about to tell him that a vacation snapshot probably wasn't going to yield any more answers when he turned it over and peered at it even more closely, saying, “I don't think we should jump to any conclusions, though . . .”

The weird thing was, I was also backing off my theory about our principal killing Coach Killdare during a passionate quarrel because I'd discovered something else on Mr. Woolsey's desk. Not bloodstained office equipment or a damning European mug, but a pad of hall passes, some already presigned.

“There's a sticker on the back of the frame,” Chase continued while I picked up the pad—which was not unlike one I'd swiped the previous year. “It says ‘PIAA Annual Conference, 2010, Oahu.'” He set down the photo. “Mr. Killdare and Mr. Woolsey probably . . .”

“. . . Went to some stupid high school sports conference together,” I said glumly. “And hated each other the whole time. Which is why they aren't in the photo together, palling around.” I held up the pad for Chase to see. “And Mr. Woolsey's handwriting . . . It's pretty girly, but it's not the same as BeeBee's.” I tossed down the pad, feeling defeated. I guess I'd really thought I'd found a new prime suspect—a boyfriend who might've had a deadly argument with the ever-volatile Coach Killdare. But I'd been wrong.

Had I seriously believed Mr. Woolsey was strong enough—emotionally or physically—to crush a skull? His hands were softer, and finer boned, than mine. I'd forgotten about the feminine-hygiene products at Mr. Killdare's house, too. I could imagine Mr. Woolsey using hair spray to keep his comb-over in place, but he obviously didn't need
those.

“I should've known Mr. Woolsey's not BeeBee,” I grumbled, mentally kicking myself. “I've forged his writing a million times. I know every loop and swirl he makes—and how weak he is.”

I was pretty sure Chase was about to ask why I'd faked our principal's signature, but before he could open his mouth, we both heard something in the hallway. Footsteps, coming closer.

“What do we do?” I whispered, because there was no back way out of the office, and whoever was coming would definitely see us if we bolted out the regular way. Especially since the person sounded like she—or probably he, given that I didn't hear the click of heels—was only a few yards away. I came around the desk, snatched the photo from Chase, and returned it to its proper place. “We are so busted if that person comes in here!”

“Millie, calm down,” Chase urged, even though the footsteps had halted—
right outside the office door.

My heart started to race as I then heard
Bertram Woolsey
muttering to himself, “Now where did I put my keys . . . ?”

Freakin' Mr. Woolsey!

“Come on,” I told Chase, grabbing his wrist. I could hear the panic in my voice and feel how wide my eyes were. Way, way too wide. I tugged his hand, not understanding why he wasn't nervous. In fact, he seemed close to laughing when I suggested, “We'll hide behind the ficus! And if—when—we get caught, we'll say we were . . . we were checking it for blight, for a botany unit in advanced bio. It looks blighted, right?”

Outside the door, I heard a jangle, as if Mr. Woolsey had at least found his keys, if not the right one yet.

Time's a wastin'!

But Chase didn't budge. Instead, he rested his hands on my shoulders and said, calmly and still with a hint of laughter, “I'm not going to blame my actions on blight, Millie. Just relax, okay? It's
Mr. Woolsey.
We'll think of something.”

“Okay,” I agreed, taking a deep breath. “You're right.”

Why was I getting so worked up? I was the one who skipped classes and flouted authority, and more to the point, we were talking about Bertram Woolsey here. I'd probably be able to convince him that he was intruding on
us.

Honestly, it was like a repeat of the time I'd hidden from Chase in Mr. Killdare's house. Something about getting caught sneaking around—it apparently triggered an adrenaline rush in me.

And it was that rush . . . That's what I would blame for what I did next. Which was put my arms around Chase—just as the door opened—and kiss my sort-of date right on the mouth.

I kissed Chase because Mr. Woolsey—just like Detective Lohser—would almost certainly assume that's what I and a hormonally charged teenage guy would be doing alone in his office after slow dancing, and—unlike if we admitted to snooping through his Devil Dogs—he'd probably just shoo us, awkwardly, back to the dance. And I kissed Chase because I was sick of people thinking we were making out, and me not getting anything out of it but a bad reputation, if only with an authority-drunk cop and now my principal. And, let's face it, I kissed Chase because I was an impulsive person, and I wanted to do it. Had wanted that for quite a while, actually. Just one quick touch of the lips—not his fault, only mine—to see what it would feel like.

And wow, did it feel amazing.

More . . .
powerful
than I'd expected. So powerful that I immediately wished I hadn't done it. Because the second my mouth met his, everything I'd started to feel for Chase—the stuff I'd pushed away, and tamped down, because I knew he didn't feel the same way for me—all overwhelmed me, in a way, and even though we were barely touching, it
hurt.

Ms. Parkins was wrong. I was wrong. I can't just not care that he doesn't like me.

Stop
now,
Millie!

“Sorry,” I muttered, dropping down off my tiptoes, averting my eyes, and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, although we hadn't gotten sloppy with the whole thing. Chase hadn't even responded. His lips had been hard against mine.

“Um . . . Millie . . . ?” Not surprisingly, he sounded pretty confused.

And Mr. Woolsey seemed shocked, too, as he came into his office—I'd almost forgotten him—and flipped on the bright overhead light, echoing Chase—although in a higher, less appealing voice, “Millie?” Then he turned to the guy I'd just pawed. “And Mr. Albright? What are you two
doing
here?”

“I feel like such an idiot,” I mumbled, walking with Chase across the dark parking lot toward his car, my strappy shoes dangling from one hand and a detention slip crumpled in the other. “Two days' punishment for me—and you have to sit out a game, which means Dad will kill me, too.” I winced. “Plus my feet hurt. There are little stones everywhere.”

Chase stopped and held out his arms, an uncertain look on his face. “Millie, I could, um . . . It wouldn't be a problem . . .”

Yeah. It would be. For me. The last thing I needed was Chase
carrying
me with his stupid, wonderful strong arms.

Why did I
kiss
him?

“No, thanks,” I said, continuing to pick my way across the lot. “I'm not really a mutt like Baxter. You don't have to haul me around.”

We'd made it to Chase's car, and I was grabbing for the door handle when he reached past me, stopping me. I thought he was going to be polite and open the door. But all of a sudden, without saying a word, he took me by the wrist instead and turned me to face him. Then Chase wrapped both those stupid, wonderful strong arms around me and kissed
me.
And not just some little peck on the cheek or the lips.

A
real
kiss.

“Chase,” I whispered when we separated for a moment. Long enough for me to realize I'd dropped my shoes, lost my detention slip, and was leaning against his car, both of us breathing hard, because apparently I wasn't the only one who'd kept feelings pent up for a while. The kiss we were sharing—the one that was starting again, his lips brushing against mine, shutting me up, although I had no idea what I'd been about to say—had begun intensely, almost feverishly, both of us clinging to each other and me, embarrassingly, kind of groaning now and then.

But I couldn't help it.

The whole thing was pleasure, but still tinged with a hint of the pain I'd felt back in the principal's office, too.

I knew then that Chase really did want me in the same way that I wanted him, but it was wrong. He was giving in—but trying to stop himself, too. I could feel it in the way he held me, and the way he kept saying my name, “Millie . . .” There was frustration in his voice—and apology—even as we both gave in again, only more slowly and tenderly this time, like we were managing to get control of ourselves, but still couldn't completely part.

Just kiss me, Chase,
I thought, slipping my hands up into that thick, amazing hair. But the weird thing was, I wasn't really focused on how Chase looked or how his perfect muscular body felt—although those were definitely things that had first attracted me to him. But as we finally really touched each other, his lips rough but gentle against mine, I knew that what I was truly drawn to was . . . Chase. The guy who cared about a coach everybody else hated, and affectionately babysat an ugly dog, and shared cookies with a lonely old lady, and who beat himself up for some mistake he'd made in the past. A mistake I still didn't know
all
about.

“Chase.” I said his name again, more firmly, if still a little breathlessly. “Chase . . . Maybe . . .”

He seemed to understand, and he pulled back so I could see his eyes.

Oh, gosh, I was so crazy about those eyes, and all the things that I could see in them. Even the bad stuff, like the guilt.

“Millie,” he whispered, resting his forehead against mine and cradling my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. His breath was a little ragged, too. “I'm . . .”

“Don't say ‘sorry,'” I warned him quietly. I'd never held a guy in my life, but I somehow knew that I was supposed to slip my hands around his neck and stroke his hair. How could it feel so right to stand like that? So natural? And yet . . . “Just don't say ‘sorry,' okay?”

“I . . . I don't know if I'm sorry,” he said softly. “I've wanted this . . .”

“Me, too,” I admitted. “But I never thought you would . . . You know, with me . . .”

We weren't managing complete sentences, but we somehow understood each other.

“Millie.” He began to whisper the words I'd wanted to hear since I'd first pretended not to be interested in him, right after he'd moved to town. Real compliments. “I think you're the most incredible, unique girl I've ever met. You have this . . .
thing
that other girls don't have.” He paused, no doubt trying to figure out how to explain a word that must've sounded wrong to him, too. Then he continued. “You . . . You make me laugh, and you try to act so tough when you're really not.” He withdrew slightly and brushed some of my curls—which were in total chaos, my updo demolished by his hands—from my face. “And I can't stop looking at you. You're so pretty, even if you don't believe that.”

Everything he was saying was making me feel happy in a way I'd never felt before—even though I knew there was going to be a “but.” One that came way too soon. He spoke even more softly, and his blue eyes registered regret—and something like pain that I didn't quite understand. “I just . . . I don't think I'm . . .” We were completely calm then, no longer sucking air, but he still didn't seem able to express himself the way he usually could. “I don't think I should . . .” His frown deepened, and then he said the word I'd been dreading. Her name. “It's like I'm betraying Allison,” he finally admitted. “Moving on . . . Caring about somebody else—more than I did for her, which makes it even worse . . .”