Just Like the Movies (5 page)

I continue scrolling until I see Laura Browning's tiny profile picture, with comments underneath her status post. I can see her response to a question Tommy must have asked her and his reaction.

Narrowing my eyes, I press on her status and now I can see the entire conversation.

I can feel the bile rising in my throat. There's a voice in the back of my head that says,
He sent her a wink—not a smile. A
wink
. What's up with that?

He's just showing his appreciation
, I think.

But my inner voice sneers in disbelief. Appreciation is saying “thank you.” A wink is full-blown flirting.

Of course, Tommy chooses this moment to peel onto my street and speed up to my driveway. I just stand there, staring at him, as he pulls in behind my dad's Subaru and hangs his head out of the window.

“Hey champ! C'mon, we're gonna miss your big entrance!”

Champ
. Like what you'd call a little brother or something.

I think “champ” is the exact opposite of a wink.

Numbly, I start walking toward the passenger side of the car. Tommy reaches over and pops the door open. I pull
my backpack off my shoulder and grab for the door handle, trying to figure out what I'm going to say to him.

Then I see the dozen long-stemmed red roses in the passenger seat.

“A dozen roses for my track star,” Tommy says softly. He has an earnest smile on his face. I blink several times, looking back and forth between him and the flowers.

“When you walk into school, it'll be like you're at the Olympics or something,” he says. “Like you've won a gold medal.”

I sigh, trying unsuccessfully to tamp down the smile curling the corners of my mouth.

This is so typical of Tommy. He'll do something to upset me, to make me question everything about our relationship, and then he'll find a way to make me see how much he really cares.

Besides, everyone knows what red roses symbolize. And they mean a lot more than a wink does.

God, I'm
such
a sucker. And this unbearable kink in my neck is doing
nothing
to improve my outlook.

I try to rub it with one hand while I toss books into the boxes around me. The last two bookmobile pickups are in the next twenty minutes. I've been sitting on the floor of the Student Activities office (again) for about an hour (again) by myself (a-freakin'-gain!).

The only time I've left this room was to watch the girls' track team make their grand entrance this morning. They marched in with an entourage of cheerleaders and waved to the crowd like pageant contestants. Beth Stuart blew kisses and Katie Miller did a cartwheel and a back handspring through the front lobby. I suppose going to states
is
a big deal. Since I'm the furthest thing from an athlete, I wouldn't really know.

Last to enter the school was Marijke Monti and her boyfriend, Tommy Lawson. I don't really know Marijke, although I've had classes with Tommy before. He's definitely one of the best-looking senior guys—and every girl knows it. I watched him bend to say something to Marijke, and she beamed up at him. In the crook of her arm, she was carrying a dozen red roses. I didn't know if I should puke or clap along with everyone else.

Now, shaking my head, I pile the boxes in two separate stacks by the door, leave a note for the bus drivers, then head for the third floor. If I'm late to first period again, I'm not sure Ms. Dotson will be as gracious as she was last week.
Twice
last week, to be precise. The elevators are on the other side of the building, so I take the stairs. Other than the slap of my flip-flops on every step, the stairwell is silent. Which is why I'm completely unprepared for the body that barrels into me a few seconds later.

“Oof!”

I'm airborne for a second, then my body slams down against the linoleum tile. There's a scuffling sound next to me and a male voice cursing under his breath.

“Damn, are you okay?”

Eyes closed, I wince and put a hand to my head, which is throbbing from the impact. Nothing seems to be broken or bleeding. I move my arms and legs to be sure.

“I think so,” I say slowly, wiggling my fingers. Then I open my eyes and look up.

At Joe Lombardi.

Of course.

Of course
I ran into Joe Lombardi.

Of course
I'm now lying on this dirty floor, staring up at his piercing green eyes, and feeling like a total dumbass.

This is the stuff that happens to me. This is the stuff I'm going to be remembered for—being a total spaz in front of the guy I've been crushing on for two years.

“I, uh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—” I stutter then go silent as Joe gently reaches down to help me up. His grip is firm but careful. His hands feel warm against my skin, and I want to close my eyes again.

“You don't need to apologize,” he's saying, leaning over to pick up my books. “I'm the one who wasn't watching where I was going. Probably should stop texting and walking altogether, huh?”

“Maybe.” I give him a weak smile and dust off my legs. “Thanks for the help.”

I take my books from his hands, and he gives me a grin.

“Sure thing . . .” He pauses, cocks his head at me. “What's your name again?”

My heart falters a bit.
Figures.

“Lily. Lily Spencer.”

“Right. Lily.” Joe's looking at me as if he knows me from somewhere but can't place me. I could remind him—home ec, human geography, and the half dozen other classes we've
been in together. But I don't. Instead, I look down and tuck a stray curl behind my ear.

“Thanks again,” I say as I start back up the stairs.

“Joe.”

I blink and look back at him. He's got his hands shoved in his pockets now and he's still smiling.

“My name's Joe,” he says, as though
I'm
the one who doesn't remember
him
.

“I—right,” I shake my head, unable to stop the smile creeping over my lips. If I ever have to give an example of irony to someone, this will be it.

“Thanks, Joe,” I say, my cheeks hot. He shrugs and starts heading down the last flight of stairs.

“Anytime, Lily,” he calls over his shoulder.

Joe disappears through the first-floor entrance, and I stand there, grinning stupidly, before turning and practically floating to calculus.

He said my name.

Joe Lombardi said my name.

Now let's hope he actually remembers it.

I really couldn't have asked for a warmer welcome. When the girls' track team marched in through the glass doors of the school entrance, at least half the senior class was crowded throughout the entrance and connecting hallways. People were clapping and whistling. Teachers were cheering from their classroom doors. I beamed up at Tommy, who was holding my hand.

“It's all for you, baby,” he said over the commotion. And then he winked at me.

Which is when I remembered Laura Browning and her Facebook flirtation with my boyfriend. I looked up at Tommy uncertainly, but he didn't notice my expression. Now that we're out of the crowd and into more typical hallway traffic, I consider my words carefully.

I end up settling on, “So, since when are you friends with Laura Browning?”

“Huh?”

“Laura Browning,” I repeat. We've reached Tommy's locker and now he's busy looking for his history book under a pile of papers.

“Oh, her. She's in my calculus class. Why?”

I bite my lip, trying to figure out a way to say this that doesn't make me look like a jealous mess.

“No reason. I just noticed you two were talking.”

Tommy gives me a blank look. “I don't remember that.”

“On Facebook.”

“Oh, yeah—about homework.” Tommy gives me a funny look. “Seems like you know more about it than I do, though.”

I shrug. “Your convo popped up on my newsfeed this morning.”

“Uh-huh.”

He's smirking at me, and I feel my cheeks coloring. “Anyway,” I say, trying to sound breezy, “I've got to run by the Student Activities office before class. Since I resigned my post as secretary, they talked me into running the graduation committee. I'll see you at lunch?”

“Of course.”

I lean in to give him a kiss, and he pulls me in close.

“You know you're the only girl for me, Marijke,” Tommy whispers in my ear. I smile against his neck. Those are the only words I ever want to hear.

Well, those words, plus three more little ones . . .

“All right, folks, move along please.” Ms. Jensen, my science teacher, is standing next to us with her arms crossed. Tommy shoots her a winning smile.

“Sorry, Ms. J. We were just saying good morning. I hope yours is lovely as well.”

In spite of herself, Ms. Jensen chuckles and shakes her head.

“Let's just move along to class, Mr. Lawson. Okay?”

Tommy tips an imaginary hat to her and I just smile, looking down. Tommy's a natural-born charmer—it's in his genes or something. As my grandfather would say, “He could sell a bottle of ketchup to a lady in white gloves.”

“Have a good day, baby.”

Tommy grabs my hand and raises it to his mouth. He brushes a light kiss over my fingers.

“I'll see you in a few hours.” Then he swings into his history class.

I walk down the hall, grinning with the knowledge that half a dozen girls are watching me with undisguised jealousy. Days like this make me think that my life is just about perfect—I'm going to states, I've got a hot boyfriend, and there's still prom, graduation, and senior week to look forward to. Everything is coming up Marijke.

I can say with utter confidence that I learned absolutely nothing in math class today. Every time I started to write an equation, I'd remember Joe's bright-green eyes or his warm, strong hands and by the time I'd broken out of my reverie, Ms. Dotson had already moved on to a new problem. Fortunately, I sit next to Bill Danner, who is a math genius—I manage to copy most of his notes, despite his nearly illegible handwriting.

By the time the bell rings for second period, I've started considering other possible ways to run into Joe Lombardi again. It's not like I could just randomly just show up at the motocross course—how totally awkward would that be?

Hey Joe . . . those are some really round tires you got there.

So, you ride here often?

What's your sign, baby? Besides, you know, street signs . . .