Dear Rockstar Apple Read online

  Beside me, Dale leaned back in his chair, putting one black combat boot up across his knee, drawing my eye away from my notebook. My gaze traced the denim seam up from his knee to the V, hesitating at the shiny, studded belt securing his jeans at his waist, all the way up to the Dead Kennedys logo, but I didn’t dare look up any further. I felt his gaze on me. He wasn’t paying any attention to Woodall either, or the dirty looks we were getting from both the Flashdance twins and Holly Larson across the room.

  My heart felt like it wanted to burst out of my chest, my body betraying me with every breath, every damned beat of my heart. What the hell? What was wrong with me? I’d never had a reaction like this to any guy—even David Hall, who I’d dated during most of my junior year and had finally had sex with on prom night. We had a horrible break-up, including him calling me an obsessed, crazy bitch in front of our algebra class. The fight continued out in the hallway where I told him every time we’d ever had sex, I’d been thinking about Tyler Vincent.

  Which, of course, just served to prove him right.

  But this feeling, whatever it was, this dizzy, soaring, sick-to-my-stomach feeling, I hadn’t ever experienced it with any guy I’d ever dated or had even been attracted to.

  Tyler Vincent aside, of course.

  That’s it. It’s because he looks like Tyler!

  I was just transferring my feelings for him to this imitation sitting beside me! Relieved, I went back to sketching, even if my palms were still sweaty and my breathing far too shallow, at least I had worked out an explanation for my body’s response. It wasn’t my fault. It was like Pavlov’s dogs responding to a bell. Tyler Vincent made my body react this way. It made sense a look-alike might get the same response.

  My stomach growled loudly, reminding me of the lunch I hadn’t eaten. Carrie had obviously interrupted my fry-stealing far before I was full enough to get through to the end of the day. That, too, could have explained the slightly sick, dizzy feeling I was experiencing. In fact, I was sure it was mostly that. I’d been shoving a granola bar in my purse in the morning to eat after lunch, but of course that morning I’d woken up late and had forgotten.

  Growwwwwwwwwrrrrreeeerrrrrrlllll.

  My stomach sounded like a beached whale and I sank down further in my seat, thankful Woodall was still going on—and on and on—quite loudly about his disappointment in our performance and his plans for correcting our shortcomings as a class. If it had been yesterday, when the whole class was quietly taking the “pop quiz,” my stomach would have interrupted everyone like Moby Dick looking for Ahab.

  Greeeeeeeeeooooowwwwrrrrrrrrlllll.

  That one sounded more like a distraught cat—Garfield lamenting a missing lasagna perhaps. Lasagna! Now I was really hungry. Mortified, I sank even further in my seat. I was going to be drawing under the table if I got much lower.

  “Hungry?” Dale’s breath was warm on my cheek when he leaned in to whisper his question. I smelled a combination of spearmint and Polo cologne.

  I didn’t look at him, vehemently shaking my head, cheeks burning. I expected him to leave me alone, but he didn’t move, and I realized, too late, he was looking over my shoulder.

  “Nice drawing.”

  I snapped my notebook closed, tossing it on the table and crossing my arms over my stomach. It wouldn’t stop rumbling. Loudly. Dale leaned back in his chair again, straightening his long legs and digging into his jeans pocket. I looked at the clock and saw it was only one-fifteen—forty-five minutes left. Now I really did feel faint.

  I glanced over at the crinkle of Dale opening whatever he’d taken out of his pocket. Skittles. We weren’t supposed to eat in class. He popped a few into his mouth, cocking his head at me and tilting the red plastic package in my direction.

  “Want some?”

  I shook my head, concentrating on looking straight ahead like Mr. Woodall was the only thing in the room but my stomach growled so loudly the two girls sitting at the table next to us giggled and pointed. I ignored them, feeling Dale shift in his chair, leaning forward to put one yellow Skittle on the edge of the table right in front of me. I ignored that too, watching Mr. Woodall waving our pop quizzes around like a madman, still on a rampage.

  It was just a piece of candy, a little bit of sugar-coated lemon-flavor decorated with an “S” sitting there looking sweet and delicious and mocking the hell out of me. I resisted, watching Dale out of the corner of my eye, his jaw working as he ate another handful of Skittles. My stomach growled again, not just a noise this time, but an actual, gripping pain.

  I grabbed the piece of candy off the table and popped it into my mouth, lemon flavor bursting on my tongue, savoring the sugary sweetness, but it was gone far too soon. Next to me, Dale leaned forward again, this time putting a green Skittle on the table, but not directly in front of me. This time it was six inches to the right of where he’d put the first one—six inches closer to him.

  I turned my head to look at him and saw him smiling, still chewing Skittles. Damn his smile. It was infectious. I smiled back, unable to stop myself. He nodded toward the candy as if to say, “Go on,” so I did, popping it into my mouth and chewing blissfully. My stomach was actually protesting even louder now, clamoring for more.

  Dale put a red one up, another six inches closer to him, and I didn’t hesitate this time, grabbing and eating it quickly. I loved the red ones. He raised his eyebrows under that shock of dark hair, reaching into the bag and putting another red one up, but we’d progressed far enough across the table this one was directly in front of him. I would have to reach across him to get it.

  He jerked his head toward it, that same motion, “Go on,” but I hesitated to lean so far into his personal space. He just watched me struggle, pouring more Skittles into his hand and popping them into his mouth, chewing them up while he waited. Finally, I reached over his lap, leaning in to sweep the piece of candy into my hand when Dale caught me.

  I looked up, surprised, meeting his eyes, and then down at our hands, his thumb and forefinger encircling my wrist. I couldn’t breathe. All the air had escaped my lungs. I might as well have been on the moon for all the air I could manage to take in. I couldn’t do anything but watch him turn my hand over and pry my fingers open, where the piece of candy was already leaving a red stain because my hands were so damp.

  Dale touched the red spot, rubbing it into the skin at the center of my palm, a sensation that sent electric shockwaves through me, as if that one tiny spot on my hand was connected to every nerve ending in my body. I watched as he put his finger in his mouth, sucking off the sweetness, lips puckered like a kiss, eyes never leaving mine. It was the first time I noticed they were blue, not hazel like his rock star look-alike’s. They were a deep, bottomless ocean blue, a bright, sun-on-the-water, blinding sort of blue, and there was so much revealed there I found myself torn between not being able to look away and feeling like I couldn’t hold his gaze for one more second.

  Then he took the Skittles package and tipped it over, spilling a rainbow into my palm. He closed my hand over the myriad of colorful candies, letting me go with that same motion of his head. “Go on.” I smiled, opening my hand and looking down at the already melting little bits of sweetness he’d offered. My head argued with my body, telling me I should eat them like a girl, one-by-one, draw it out, tease him, make it sexy and fun and even a little erotic because—well, even I couldn’t deny there was something going on here, some sort of attraction, even if it was just my Pavlovian response to his Tyler Vincentness.

  Instead, my body won—somehow my body always won—and I opened my mouth wide, probably looking like a snake unhinging its jaw but too hungry to care. I shoved all of the Skittles into my mouth at once and chewed them into a mass of indistinguishable flavor. They were just pure sugar, glorious energy, my brain lighting up as I looked at him, thanking him with my eyes. There were so many Skittles in my mouth I felt like a chipmunk.

  He grinned, tilting the package at me again, but I shook my head, l
icking the traces of the rainbow off my palm in a very embarrassing but unavoidable way. He tilted the package back, spilling Skittles into his mouth, chewing with me.

  Then he leaned over with his fruity breath and whispered, “Hi Sara.”

  I startled, head snapping toward him, eyes narrowing. How did he know my name? He tapped my notebook, sitting closed on the desk, but I had doodled on the front—I doodled on everything—a little heart with an arrow and “Sara loves Tyler” scrawled in the middle. I flushed, grabbing my notebook and turning it over, realizing there were just as many Tyler doodles on the back as there were on the front. I felt him shaking with silent laughter beside me when I opened my notebook to a blank page, leaving it on the desk that way.

  “Can I ask you something?” His voice was low in my ear, not touching me but so close I felt his body heat.

  “You just did.” I glanced up at Woodall, heaping more abuse on the poor periodic table up front. He was randomly calling on people to identify elements—something he claimed we should all already know—and I knew I’d better pay attention before he randomly called on me.

  “She speaks!”

  I gave him a withering look. Behind him, the Flashdance twins mocked me with big eyes, pretending to lick their palms, batting their eyelashes. Frowning, I crossed my arms over my chest and turned my attention back to the front of the room, where it should have been all along, I reminded myself, if I ever wanted to graduate and get the hell out of this town.

  “You like Tyler Vincent?” Dale nodded toward my notebook, leaning back in his chair again to shove the Skittles packet back into his jeans pocket.

  I shook my head, feeling a rush of heat in my cheeks, knowing exactly how red and blotchy that made me look but unable to help it. I couldn’t believe I’d just denied my adoration for Tyler Vincent. Who was I? What was wrong with me? But of course he knew—he’d seen my drawing, plus all the doodles of hearts and flowers and the adolescent practicing of signing with Tyler’s surname instead of my own—Sara Elizabeth Vincent.

  “I hear he’s coming to the Silverdome in December.”

  I nodded. Okay so I couldn’t deny it, that much was clear. Besides, why did I want to? There was no shame in being a Tyler Vincent fan. He had lots of them. Millions of them. So why was I blushing like a school girl?

  “You going?”

  I nodded again. Aimee and I had plans to camp out for tickets, like we always did, determined to get closer than thirteenth row, which was the closest we’d ever been, even in spite of being the very first in line on the day Ticketmaster began selling tickets.

  “Is there a problem, young lady?” Woodall’s pointer was pointing right at me.

  “No.” I straightened in my seat, putting my feet on the floor.

  “Good.” He glanced between me and Dale, lips pursed. Then he slapped the periodic table with his pointer. “Then perhaps you could identify this element for me?”

  I stared at the big K on the chart and the only science word I could think of was “Kelvin” which was a unit of temperature, not an element. K? What in the hell did K stand for?

  “Kryptonite?” I croaked and the whole class cracked up. My face was on fire.

  Dale leaned in, closer this time. I felt his nose brush my hair as he whispered into my ear, “Potassium.”

  “No, Miss Wilson. Krypton is over here.” He slapped the periodic table with his pointer. “Kryptonite only exists in comic books.”

  I looked at Dale suspiciously, doubtful, but I said it anyway. “Potassium. It’s potassium.”

  Woodall raised his eyebrows and gave a short nod. “Correct. Mr. Diamond? This element?”

  Woodall stayed over on that end of the periodic table, pointing to the PO.

  “Polonium,” Dale replied, and Woodall gave his short nod again, moving on to the Flashdance twins. I would have logically thought PO was potassium. Who named these things? Some confused, dyslexic scientist with no life, obviously.

  “Thanks,” I whispered out of the side of my mouth and saw the flash of his smile.

  “You’re welcome,” he whispered back.

  He cocked his head, so I could see both of his eyes on me, a gesture I was beginning to find quite endearing. “So are you going to the Tyler Vincent concert?”

  “Yeah. We go every year.” Probably too much information. I wondered if he was a fan. He had to know how much he resembled the rock star. People must have told him before.

  He frowned, brows knitting together, his perfect mouth—was there anything about him that wasn’t perfect?—puckered slightly like he’d just tasted something sour. “Who’s we?”

  Neither of us noticed the class had grown quiet and Mr. Woodall was looking right at us. Not until he spoke up anyway.

  “Would you two like to come have your conversation up here so we can all share in whatever is clearly far more important than chemistry?”

  I shook my head, trying to make myself as small as possible, thinking if Mr. Woodall only knew. It was pretty clear there was nothing in the world more important than chemistry, and it was happening right now at my table, far more dangerous than any experiment. Elements were mixing over here that had the potential to blow up my entire life. Things had been mixed that couldn’t be unmixed. Chemistry. Indeed.

  Dale glanced up, looking annoyed at the interruption, and some part of me was thrilled at the aloof, cool way he eyed Mr. Woodall up at the front of the classroom.

  “We’re good, thanks.” Dale gave him back the same, short, dismissive nod and, to my surprise, Woodall hesitated only a moment before moving on with his questions. He was up to Holly now, two tables over.

  Dale picked up my drawing pencil—I never used number-two’s and always had to borrow them for Scantron tests. My pencils were always B’s or H’s. The one Dale picked up was a softer B-2. He turned it over in his hand, black instead of yellow, unfamiliar in a school environment, outside of an art class, and then pulled my notebook over in front of him on the desk.

  I raised my eyebrows in a question as he began to write on the blank page.

  Sorry about that. This guy is totally lame.

  Nodding in agreement, I made a face, and he smiled again. Oh his smile—and that dimple! I wanted to touch it, just put my finger right there, just once. It was almost as appealing as the familiar dent in his chin. He was writing again.

  You have a great smile.

  Had I been smiling? I shook my head, covering my smile with my hand, but he silently protested, grabbing my wrist and pulling my hand back down to my lap. That just made me smile more.

  So who’s WE?

  He underlined WE twice, raising his eyebrows at me in question, tipping the pencil toward me. I took it, turning the notebook so I could write a response.

  My best friend, Aimee and me.

  He nodded, smiling again, taking the pencil back.

  No boyfriend?

  I shook my head, feeling my cheeks starting to get red for the millionth time that afternoon, and that’s when I noticed the class had grown quiet again. Woodall came around the desks, stalking toward us, slapping his hand down on my notebook.

  “I said... no distractions!” He picked up my notebook, taking it up to the front of the room while the rest of the class watched with amusement as he threw it into the garbage can. It was like throwing my heart in the trash. All my drawings!

  Dale nudged me, and I turned to look at him, distraught. He pointed to the beige surface of the table where he’d written, I’ll get it back for you.

  I nodded stiffly but couldn’t take my eyes off the edge of my notebook sticking out of the top of the garbage can. I wanted to run up and rescue it. I glanced at the clock. It was nearing time to go, thank God.

  Dale touched my knee with his, getting my attention. He pointed to the table again.

  U OK?

  I shook my head, taking the pencil and scribbling beneath his words.

  It’s important.

  I felt my throat closing up, like I wa
s going to cry. I fought it, blinking back tears and looking at the clock. Time couldn’t move fast enough. Woodall was passing back our pop quizzes, nearing our table.

  Dale shifted toward me again, his knee against mine, nodding at the table. I looked down.

  I promise.

  He’d underlined that twice too.

  He was writing again when Woodall slapped my pop quiz down in front of me with a big, fat D+ in red circled at the top. Turning to move on to the Flashdance twins, he glanced back, seeing the writing on the table. His face went from puzzled to incredulous to furious in the space of about two seconds.

  “You’re both staying after to wash these desks!” Woodall’s voice was actually shaking with anger, his face so red it was nearly purple. “This is inexcusable!”

  I just nodded in agreement, nudging Dale under the table when he went to open his mouth and say something. Whatever it was couldn’t be good and would just serve to get us into more trouble. And we were already in deep enough. All I wanted to do was pass this class—and a D+ was passing.

  I bit my lip and looked at Dale. He shrugged and when Woodall wasn’t looking, he crossed his eyes. I smiled in spite of the sick feeling in my stomach. Woodall continued to pass out graded quizzes, shaking his head and grumbling. Dale dug in his pocket, pulling out the Skittles again. He poured some into his palm, fishing through and using all the red ones to make a little heart on the desk.

  I couldn’t help smiling at the gesture. He nodded toward them with that same “Go on,” cock of his head and when I swept them into my hand, I noticed the last thing he had written.

  Make it up to you? I can get you front row seats.

  My mouth, already full of red Skittles, dropped open. I only closed it again to keep all the candy from falling onto the floor. I think my eyes held the question—are you serious?—when I turned to him, because he smiled and dropped me a wink.

  Glancing back at Woodall, Dale grabbed the pencil, daring to scribble again on the table.