CHAPTER 8: Tell Her About It


Monday morning was an unwelcome arrival, one I protested with a hearty groan and burrowed my way back inside my cocoon of warmth. I wished that I was a caterpillar. I envied the simple life of that insect, where it spent half its life isolated, and away from any drama.

I bet caterpillar's didn't worry about boys. Or alcoholic fathers. Or almost-kisses.

I yawned, finally becoming resigned to rising. I did have something to look forward too, however. Jared had begged me—he was a bit dramatic, I was coming to learn—to walk with him to school.

We had talked most of Saturday night, well into the morning hours and he'd left only when Pat had begun to awaken and I shooed him away. It was all so surreal that I had finally decided that thinking about it was detrimental to my health.

Viva el momento! was my new motto. Why everything sounds better in Spanish or Latin or French, I couldn't tell you.

As I rose from bed, thoughts flitted over and over through my mind. Before he'd left, Jared had tensed for a moment, and so did I. Probably for different reasons. I was thinking of the almost-kiss. I wasn't so sure he had meant it to be sexual, even if I thought so at first. When he had dodged my mouth in favor of whispering a dirty pick-up line that had me in stitches of laughter, I was relieved and extremely disappointed all at once.

But again, I was determined not to dwell. He would be at my house in about forty minutes and I wanted to be ready.

"Your mommy has a delicious boy-toy," I cooed to Elvis, feeling a little guilty for the neglect he had sustained due to my absent-minded daze on Sunday. Poor fellow probably felt forgotten.

I rushed to the kitchen and retrieved and half-eaten carrot. "I'm sorry!" I said. "Do you hate me forever?"

Elvis blinked and stared at the carrot. I translated that to mean: You're only a pitiful human, what can I expect?

"Not all of us can be super-cool guinea pigs," I sniffed back. Elvis turned his butt at me and centered his attention on the carrot, apparently satisfied with my truce. Well, at least I knew the price of his good graces.

I felt a strange pulse beyond my eyes. Blinking twice, I shrugged it off and started to pick clothes off my floor, trying to decide what to wear for the day.

There was a knocking at the door. I glanced at the clock and scowled; he wasn't supposed to be here for another thirty-five more minutes. I wasn't ready! I couldn't answer the door dressed in pajamas, with my hair having its own is-it-electrocution-or-is-it-natural game. But I definitely didn't want Pat greeting Jared—that could only lead to bad, bad things. I hadn't checked to see if he'd gone off to work so I went from 0 to 60, faster than any Mercedes could claim.

I rushed past the living room. No Pat, check. Whipped open the door, glanced around Jared's large form; nope, he was gone for the week.

"Well, good morning to you, too," Jared pouted, a churlish look on his adorable face.

A blush stained my cheeks, per usual. "Sorry, I was just seeing if my father left," I remembered my attire and the hour, "and why are you here so early?" I demanded.

He had the gall to toss me a smirk and walk past me. "Oh, you'll see."

I stared suspiciously at his back. "I'm not helping you with any homework you forgot to do," I declared, deciding it was better to find out if that was what he wanted from me.

He turned back around, mock-hurt. "Are you implying I can't suitably and originally complete my own work?

"That," I said, marching back into my room and leaving him to his own devices, "goes without saying."

I shut my door before he could process my words, before I could process my words. I. Just. Teased. Jared Cameron. What was my life coming to? I guess I was starting to believe him, that he really wanted to be my friend. Maybe there were no ulterior motives. I had never believed him to be cruel before, so why should he start now?

Maybe, just maybe, Jared actually liked me, Kim, simple, shy Kim…

Maybe.

Turns out, Jared came over early to cook me breakfast. Yeah, I'm in shock too. I hadn't noticed the bag he had been carrying when he'd come in, but it apparently housed all the ingredients to make the best, yummiest omelet I had ever tasted. Seriously, eggs have never caused me to have a mini-orgasm.

I took another mouthful. And moaned.

"Good?" he asked, with a large smile, and a glint in his eye. I was getting better at reading him, but that unidentifiable emotion still stumped me. What the hell was it?

I nodded without verbally responding, deciding he didn't need to see my chewed food. When I had swallowed, I said reverently, "This is the best omelet I've ever had."

"Really?" he asked, not in any way joking, but absolutely serious with such an eagerness to please it took me aback.

"Yes," I answered emphatically and ate some more. Who knew when I'd have this delicious luxury again.

He reached into his pocket, pulled at a little notebook and wrote something down before putting it back. "So," he took a bite of his own breakfast, "what sports do you like?"

"To watch or participate in?"

"Both."

"I love watching basketball, but I don't very often," I admitted, for I was not that interested in sports, "and I love playing tennis." Or, had at least. For a short time in my childhood, I'd had lessons.

He leaned closer in seeming fascination, yet I saw no reason for this. My response was rather banal, actually. "I'm a Nascar and football fan," he vacuumed the remainder of his food in a flash, "and I play most of the sports at school."

I knew this already. For the athletically inclined individual in La Push, you could easily play every sport since the school was so small. "Do you have a favorite?" I asked with interest.

"Probably track. I love running," he flashed me that heart-stopping grin.

"Me too," slipped out.

"You do?" he looked really excited.

"Not to compete or anything," I hastily corrected, not wishing to incite him to ask me to run with him, "but I started jogging the mornings and it is so…" I struggled with my words, feeling foolish for my inability to express what I was thinking.

"Centering," Jared spoke the word my mind was trying to find.

"Yes, exactly!" I smiled, picking up our scrap-free plates and quickly going to clean them in the sink. Our dishwasher wasn't exactly in working order.

I was turned away from Jared, and therefore unable to see when he rose and appeared suddenly behind me. "Allow me," he said in my ear, his breath hotter than I thought possible.

I was startled but learning to retain my equilibrium. I had to, since Jared was apt to make such immediate appearances. Either get used to it, or eventually succumb to a heart attack.

Point: I didn't squeal for once, but instead protested. "No, that's ridiculous," I was also learning to talk to him as if he were a normal person, "you made me a delectable breakfast and you're a guest in my house. I will clean."

"I will help," he said, "and you can't stop me."

Although his voice was teasing, I was affronted. "Now, just because you fed me and earned yourself a gold star, doesn't mean you can boss me around."

He was already drying the dishes I had placed on the rack. I fought against a small smile, and settled for a sigh.

"Do I have a gold star?" he asked, still unsettlingly close. I tried not to think about it. But, like a magic trick, the mind automatically thinks about whatever it is that you don't want to ponder. I smelled his mustiness, felt the heat. It was igniting my own furnace.

Breath, Kim, you stupid girl.

"Yeah," I muttered, not remembering the question, or if that was the correct answer.

It apparently was satisfactory. "And what can one do with a gold star?" he innocently asked but I could detect the hint of wickedness in his tone. Gold star? What? Oh, right.

"Earn my admiration?" I kidded, since he already had that. "But that would take at least five gold stars, and maybe a few silver and bronze ones too."

We finished the dishes quickly and I grabbed my backpack so we could get on our way to school. "How about rewards? I think I should be able to cash in my gold stars for a treat."

I couldn't quite see where he was going with this. I tried not to stutter from my confusion. "I g-guess."

We left my house and were winding down the familiar street to school when he grabbed my hand. "I'm turning in my gold star," he said, "I want to hold your hand for the rest of the way."

I was highly impressed my hand didn't goo-ify right into his. That was the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me. I kind of wanted to cry a little. But I held decorum.

"No," I answered, my voice miraculously not cracking, "keep your star. You can always hold my hand."

For some reason, whatever it may be, this boy had decided to become my friend. I wasn't going to deny him.