Flawless (2 page)

Until now.

At this very second, I'd give anything to be sitting in the doctor's office, taking “before” pictures and scheduling the blasted rhinoplasty.

“Nice to meet you, Rock,” I say, extending my hand for a shake. Anything to break the intensity of his eyes on my ginormous flaw.

As if shaking himself awake from a bad dream, he forces his eyes to lock with mine and he smiles. You know how you can just tell you're going to hit it off with someone when you first meet? That's how I feel the second we make eye contact. There's a tenderness, an understanding in his eyes that makes me feel like I already know him. He's actually looking me
in the eyes
and I get the feeling he's trying to send me some sort of telepathic “You're uniquely beautiful” message. Of course, I'm no psychic. That's just my interpretation.

His hand totally covers my own, sending a jolt of awareness through my body and landing squarely in my stomach like a basketball. Our school has like a thousand students, and you can assume that half of those students are boys. But not once have I ever been so taken with a guy. Ever. It nearly kills me to break the contact with him when he pulls his hand away. I do my best to look unaffected as the jackhammer works overtime in my chest.

“Where are you from, Rock?” Kristen leans forward, effortlessly executing a move she calls the “lean and look.” You lean in, he looks at your chest. I'm silently satisfied when he doesn't do his part, but keeps his eyes on her face.

“Atlanta.”

I'm frozen in place, watching Kristen keep his attention while I sit speechless, which, in and of itself, is something of a rarity. For once, I wish I'd listened to Kristen when she was telling me about the romance magazine article on how to get a guy's attention.

Speak, damn it, speak!

“A southern boy,” Kristen drawls, leaning even closer so that she—and her boobs—are mere inches from his face.

“When did you move here, Rock?” I finally get the words out, barely recognizing my voice, which sounds squeaky and prepubescent to my own ears. Great. This is so typical. Kristen sounds like a lioness and I sound like Kermit the Frog with a head cold.

“A couple of weeks ago. My dad's an oil and gas attorney. In that industry, all roads lead to Houston, right?”

“Absolutely,” Kristen answers.

But a funny thing happens. Instead of turning his attention to the hard-to-ignore wet dream nearly sitting on top of him, Rock's looking at me.

As if Kristen hadn't said anything.

As if what I have to say matters.

As if …

My thoughts are callously interrupted by Mrs. Freel's scratchy voice, well earned from years of screaming at out-of-control students. “Welcome back to school, kids. Let's get started.”

Kristen falls back into her seat, exhaling for the first time in five minutes.

Rock smiles and gives me one last lingering look before facing the front of the classroom, as if to say we'd continue our conversation later.

Right.

As if.

The absence of flaw in beauty is itself a flaw.

—HAVELOCK ELLIS

Chapter Two

I spend the entire class period memorizing the back of Rock's head, obsessively overanalyzing that last little look, convincing myself it was all in my imagination.

When the bell rings at the end of class, he stretches back, raising his arms above his head. Even from where I'm sitting, I can see the bottom of his T-shirt rise just above his hip-hugging jeans. I'm struck speechless when the muscles in his arms bulge under the thin weight of his plain gray T-shirt.

An Adonis has arrived and I'm here to worship him.

“So what'd you think, Rock?” Kristen purrs … again. I can't decide if I want to slap some sense into her or copy her every move.

“Stimulating,” he says, turning to give her a grin that I totally wish was meant for me.

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” she answers back with a come-and-get-me grin. I'm mesmerized by the sex-kitten transformation taking place in front of my eyes. Kristen's had lots of dates and even a few serious boyfriends, but she's always been … well, Kristen. Funny, a little ditzy, and raring for a good time. Not sexy, smitten, and shameless.

Rock pulls a folded schedule out of his back pocket as he stands. “Fourth period, American lit. Where are you girls headed?”

There
is
a God and he likes me. He really,
really
likes me.

“Same as you,” I say, a smile spreading across my face. “I'll show you the way.”

“Get out!” Kristen narrows her eyes at me, like I created his schedule. Like I could ever compete with her.

“It's okay,” Rock says, misinterpreting her minitantrum as sympathy. He leans in close to Kristen's ear and whispers loud enough for me to hear. “Don't tell anyone, but I actually like literature.”

He's gorgeous
and
he likes literature?

Okay, it's official. I might be in love.

“Eww.” Kristen turns up her nose as if someone just told her they like eating sheep eyes for breakfast. “Seriously?”

“ 'Fraid so,” he says, shaking his head in mock embarrassment. He turns his attention to me with a wink. “Ready?” he asks.

Maybe it's out of habit from answering Kristen's exact same question for four years, but I answer without thinking. “Born ready.”

If you think your life can't change in the blink of an eye, you're wrong.

If you think people don't care who you're friends with, you're wrong.

If you think walking down the halls of your high school with someone like Rock doesn't change the way people look at you, you're wrong.

Dead wrong.

If I were alone, the stroll to my next class would be a repeat of every other first day, where I would walk quickly and pretend to ignore the occasional whisper and stare. Instead, Rock and I get the old double take, heads whipping, mouths gaping, minds reeling.

I know what they're thinking.
Who's that hottie? And what's he doing with
her
?
It's not like I blame them; I'm wondering the same thing.

“Need to stop at your locker?” Rock's voice forces me to pull my attention from the spectators lining the expansive hallway leading to Mr. Jacobi's musty classroom.

“That's okay. I can put my things up after lit.”

“You're the boss,” he says, giving me a goofy little salute. Who knew goofy could be sexy?

“Here we are,” I announce inanely, like he couldn't figure that out by reading the big banner stretching across the top of Jacobi's door that reads
LIT'S FOR LEADERS
.

Rock places his fingertips on my back just above my waistband, sending my senses into overdrive. “After you,” he whispers near my ear.

I fight the habit of sitting in the front row and take a seat in the middle of the classroom. When Rock takes the seat behind me, I mentally kick myself, wishing I'd sat behind him so I could spend another class period studying him unnoticed.

I turn in my seat to face Rock, whose eyes are taking in the room around him. The posters on the wall are yellowed, either from age or Jacobi's illegal pipe smoking in the classroom. There are stacks of books lining every square inch of wall space, some blocking bookcases that hold even more books.

“Wow,” Rock says. “I thought
I
had a lot of books, but I'm an amateur compared to this guy.”

I follow Rock's eyes around the room. “I know. He's like a total lit freak. Everything he says is loaded with meaning and based on years of study. I think he's got three master's degrees or something. He's a little weird, but I like him.”

Rock's attention shoots back to me, the smile on his face so breathtaking I nearly pant. “Weird, huh? I'm kind of into weird, too.”

Mr. Jacobi enters the room, the sweet smell of his pipe tobacco filling the room. He drops his tattered leather book bag onto his desk ceremoniously, silencing the classroom.

“Our theme for this year,” he booms, “is what rules every decision we make as adults. It's the root of every poem ever written. Anyone want to take a guess?”

“Pride,” Jeremy Pickett squeaks. Poor little guy still looks and sounds like he's in eighth grade.

Jacobi shakes his head.

“Greed,” another student calls out.

“Jealousy,” says another.

“Warmer,” Jacobi says.

Rock's voice rumbles over my head. “Love.”

With one finger on his nose, Jacobi points to Rock with his other hand. “Bingo.” Jacobi walks to Rock and extends his hand. “I don't believe we've met. Arthur Jacobi.”

“Rock Conway.” Rock slides out of his seat to stand, and the two shake like esteemed colleagues, not like teacher and student.

“Welcome to Northwest, Mr. Conway. It's good to have you.” When Jacobi walks to the front of the classroom, I stretch my hand behind my back and Rock slaps it in a high five. It's so natural, like we've done it a hundred times.

Sitting on his decrepit desk, Jacobi addresses the packed classroom. “For the next 186 days of school, we'll focus on love. Love of money, love of material things, love of self, love of others. Love that destroys and unites nations. Love that creates families and ruins relationships. It's the most powerful human emotion, driving us to sacrifice almost anything to get it and, once we have it, keep it. It's driven men to murder, to war, and to suicide. It's more than roses and candy; it's a living part of who we are, what we believe in. It can create and obliterate our identity. With love, you can do anything. Without it, you're nothing.” Fist in the air, à la
Braveheart
, he pounds out his final words. “Love is power!”

I'm watching Jacobi and wondering how love has played a part in his life. What has he done for love? It's hard to imagine Jacobi driven to violence in the name of love.

More to the point, what would
I
do for love? I mean, it's not like I've ever been close to being in love, but if I was, what would I do to keep it? Would I sacrifice my brand-new BCBG boots? The college scholarships I've worked so hard to earn?

“It's all about love, folks. You can see it right here in the halls of Northwest. It's why girls wear what they wear each day and why boys fight for their place on the top of the heap. Everyone's looking for it.” Jacobi raises his right eyebrow in question as he glances across the faces looking back at him intently. “Aren't you?”

Silent affirmations charge the air and Jacobi nods. “I rest my case,” he says. “Now, let's get down to business.”

When the bell rings forty minutes later, we have a four-page syllabus and two books:
The Scarlet Letter
by Nathaniel Hawthorne and
The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson
.

Arms loaded down, Rock and I are stopped by Jacobi on our way to the door. “Welcome back, Miss Burke,” he says, his familiar smile lighting his face.

“Yourself,” I say, enjoying the surge of excitement at starting the year with such an awesome lit topic. I mean, who doesn't want to talk about love?

“And you, Mr. Conway. I'm looking forward to working with you this year. The fact that you've made friends with Sarah speaks highly of your character.”

I feel the telltale warmth spread across my cheeks; I'm simultaneously flattered and embarrassed.

Rock chuckles deeply. “Thank you.”

“See you tomorrow,” Jacobi says, dismissing us with a wave of his hand as he sits in the threadbare office chair behind his desk.

“Need me to show you where the cafeteria is?” I ask once we're outside Jacobi's room.

“Actually, I was hoping you'd let me eat with you. There's nothing worse than eating by yourself in a new school.”

I squelch the cheer rising in my chest. “Sure. I need to run by my locker first.”

“Lead the way,” he says casually.

Walking through the crowded hallway, I'm stunned at my good fortune of meeting Rock. It's like we've known each other for years.

When we reach my locker, I throw it open and toss my books inside.

“Mind if I leave mine in here, too? My locker's on the bottom and it's nearly impossible for me to get to.”

“Of course,” I say, the frog settling back in my throat. Heat spreads across my chest when he reaches around me and places the books on top of my own. It seems so … intimate. And, God help me, I love it.

At Northwest, all the seniors have lunch at the same time, so the cafeteria's really crowded, really loud. Off-campus lunches were stripped from us last year when a group of cheerleaders got drunk at lunch and had a wreck on their way back to school. Since then, we've been forced to eat at school, all 250 seniors at one time.

“I'm headed for the salad bar, but there's a grill over there,” I say, pointing to the red-and-white-canopied corner of the cafeteria with a long line of guys patiently waiting for their double cheeseburgers and chili cheese fries.

“Salad's good for me, too,” he says.

“Okay, then follow me.” As we get in line at the salad bar, Kristen breezes through the door and waves when she spots us.

My stomach drops at the sight of her. I'm not quite ready to share Rock so soon, not to mention the backseat I'll be taking to Kristen.

Ignoring the glares of everyone in line behind us, she nestles herself between me and Rock. “Miss me?” she chirps.

“You have no idea,” I mumble.

“Did you make it through Jacobi's class?” she asks Rock, rolling her eyes. “I swear I nearly killed myself the week I was in there last year. It was brutal. I finally begged my way out.”

Rock's easy laugh slips from his lips. “It was actually pretty interesting.”

Kristen's eyes dart from my face to Rock's. “What's his depressing life-altering theme this year? War? Famine? Poverty?”

I'm quick to answer, Jacobi's inspiring words still rambling around in my head. “Love.”

Kristen shakes her head in pity. “Poor things,” she says.

“Don't feel sorry for us,” Rock says, his dark brown eyes glancing at me over Kristen's head. “I think it's going to be my favorite class.” Our gazes lock for just a second, and it's like we're sharing something. I don't know what it is, but I swear something is there.

“For real?” Kristen asks, dazzling blues wide in surprise.

“Absolutely. What's not to love?” Rock gently nudges Kristen forward in line.

I can tell by the look on Kristen's face that she's scrambling for the right words. “Well, I'm just saying that love is a pretty lame theme, even for Jacobi.”

“So what's your favorite thing to read, Kristen?” he asks.

“I'm more of a magazine reader.”

“Oh yeah? What kind of magazines?” Rock's interest is totally genuine and I can hardly wait to see his reaction to the answer I know is coming.