Man of My Dreams (20 page)

Barbie, as she will always be in my mind going forward, drapes her arm around his broad shoulders. Is this his girlfriend? My competition for the next four years? I certainly hope not. While it isn’t the shade of her hair or her large beautiful eyes that make me feel inferior, it’s the confidence she exudes. If she doesn’t know him, she’s going to know him, really well, really soon, looking so cozy like that.

She giggles, throwing her head back. I hear her say his name, “Oh Noah, that’s hilarious.”

I want to be on the receiving end of whatever is so hilarious. I want to flip my own long blond hair and bat my big brown eyes for him. My face burns with heated envy—I’ve been introduced to my arch nemesis, my rival, in the first five minutes of my high school experience.

I tap Lisa on the shoulder, “Who’s that? The blonde in the first row. Do you know her name?” I bet it’s something like Brittany or Ashley.

“That’s Lila Peters,” John answers.

Great! Even her name is pretty.
Next question. “And who’s her boyfriend?”

“Oh, that’s not her boyfriend. She only wishes it was. That’s Noah Matheson.” I realize John’s laughing when I see his shoulders bobbing up and down.

“What? What’s funny?” I ask, irritated.

Lisa waits for his answer too, staring an imaginary hole into the side of his head.

“Nothing, you’re quick, that’s all.”

“Elaborate, John.” I tap my brand new Adidas shell tops on the linoleum floor. I’m losing my patience while Barbie is making her mark on my potential man.

“If this were ‘High School—The Movie,’ Noah would be the popular jock that all the girls drool over and Lila would be the cheerleader, homecoming queen that all the girls envy. Lucky for us they stepped right into our homeroom...we get front row seats.” He’s smug. He thinks he’s got it all figured out.

“Yeah, front row seats my ass. I’m starring in this movie too. I’m the sweet girl-next-door type who gets the guy at the end.”

Lisa turns around, smirking. “Well, well, well! Someone grew a set over the summer. Can I be the sweet girl’s best friend?”

John looks pretty shocked himself, “Oo oo, and can I be the sweet girl’s cute guy friend who secretly thinks she’s pretty awesome?”

I smile at both of them, pleased.

This is exactly how high school had played out in my head.

Algebra has been a real bitch. I studied my butt off and reviewed my notes, but for some reason I just can’t grasp the concept of solving for x and y to save my life. Math is about numbers, not letters, right? I’m going to bomb this test and my parents will be pissed at me for not telling them I was having trouble. But I don’t want a tutor. I’d finally broken free of dance classes and piano lessons three days a week. I’m getting used to my freedom; spending afternoons at the mall or pretending to like Starbucks with Lisa and Grace, while swooning over Noah Matheson.

And it’s just my luck that that’s exactly who I’m seated next to during my test-induced panic attack.
Control your breathing, Mia. He’s going to think you’re a freak!

Breath and exhale.
That used to do the trick before a test in junior high. But between my anxiety about x and y and the jitters that overcome my body every time I’m within ten feet of Noah—breathing techniques mean squat right now.

“Are you okay?” Noah whispers to me, while passing back the stack of exams to the student behind him.

Great! I just earned myself freak status for at least the entire semester.
I pass back my own pile then nervously fix my hair, patting it in place. “I’m so going to fail,” I admit.

Noah smirks, narrowing his perfectly shaped eyebrows. “Well, did you study?”

“Yes, I studied.” I snap back, a little snippy.

He reaches into his pocket and then places a closed fist over my desk. “Here,” he says, producing a ratty looking pink rubber eraser, with pencil holes and misshapen, smudged edges. “This is my lucky eraser. I think you need it more than I do.” His hand brushes mine. I’m pretty sure I’m about to pass out.

A grumble comes from the back of the room, interrupting my momentary loss of consciousness. “Miss Page, Mr. Matheson, is there something I can help the two of you with?” Mr. Simon walks back up to the front of the class.

“Um, no. Sorry Mr. Simon,” I say, looking down at the eraser. This ugly old thing is the most beautiful gift anyone has ever given me.

“Nope, we’re all good. Sorry about that Mr. S.” Noah handles the rigid teacher with ease. I guess he does have the power to melt anyone who comes in his path.

Mr. Simon returns to his desk. “Okay then. You’ll have the entire period to complete the exam. Good luck, class.”

“Thank you.” I mouth to Noah, appreciatively, clutching onto the eraser.

Noah winks and then heads his paper, scribbling his name. “Good luck, Mia.”

He knows my name?
How the hell am I supposed to concentrate now?

I muster up some magical trigonometry mojo and sail through the test. Maybe my studying paid off, maybe it’s the lucky eraser, maybe it’s the close proximity to lover boy over here, but whatever it is...I’m not so worried I failed anymore. At the end of the test I place Noah’s good luck charm back on his desk.

“So, how’d you do?” he asks.

I can’t help staring into his distracting Ireland green eyes. They almost look fake. “Pretty good, I think. How about you?”

“Considering that I really didn’t study
and
I didn’t have this,” he holds up the eraser again, “I think I did okay, too. I guess we’ll find out after he grades them. But if you did better than me, we’re going to have problems.” He scrunches his delectable mouth, making me wish I could lean over and touch it. No, scratch that, kiss it.

“Oh yeah, what kind of problems?” Is that flirting? I’m not sure, but I think it is.

Noah avoids the question and just laughs. His Adam’s apple vibrates under a thick, scrumptious neck. “You’re cool, Mia. If I had to flop a test for anyone, I’m glad it was you.” He gets up from his desk and drapes his backpack over his shoulder. “See you around?”

I can’t get up and follow him out, even though class is over and I’m free to go. This little exchange has left me weak in the knees and if I get up now, I’m not sure my legs will work properly. Plus, he thinks I’m cool...I don’t want to blow that impression just yet.

I give a pathetic wave and answer his question with, “Yup. See you around. Thanks again.”

He winks and then walks out of the classroom, disappearing into the sea of students swimming around the hallway.

Jesus, have I got it bad. This boy is going to break my heart.

“You do realize you’re talking about a rubber freaking eraser, right?” Grace is sprawled across my bed, flipping through
Seventeen
magazine.

“Grace, you don’t understand. We had a moment. It was a little moment, centered around the most ridiculously unromantic object, but it was still a moment.” I’m still giddy thinking about it.

“Well I think it’s super cool that he knows your name and thinks you’re cool. That’s definitely a start. But now how are you going to make him your boyfriend?”

I slump down on the bed next to her, smushing my head into my pillow. “I don’t know. But I hope I don’t have to wait too long. The tension is just insane. Like, I feel like I’m going to burst whenever he says my name. But I can’t make the first move, Grace. I don’t even know
how
to make a move. This is all so bizarre...last year I was a nerdy eighth grader who didn’t even care about boys. Now all I can think about is having my first kiss. It’s all I think about, all I dream about. Noah’s lips planted on mine. And if, by some miraculous twist of fate, it does happen, how will I even know what to do? When to open my mouth; what to do with my tongue; how to breathe through my nose?”

Grace giggles, “Would you stop it? You’re making me nervous about it
for
you. You take all the fun out of everything with your overanalyzing. You won’t be thinking about any of that when it happens, trust me.”

And I do trust her. She knows firsthand. Grace had her first kiss this summer. It was nothing romantic—it was during a game of spin the bottle—but she’d gotten it out of the way and once she did she was free of the worry. She wound up making out with one of her brother’s friends a few weeks later, and based on her description, the second time around was nothing like the tonsil hockey that took place during the childish game.

“Does your mom keep oranges in the house?” Her odd question confuses me.

“Yes, why?”

“Come, let’s go down and cut one up. They say if you practice on an orange you’ll know what to expect.” She jumps off the bed and jerks my arm to pull me towards the door.

“Grace, are you serious? That sounds ridiculous. I’m not tonguing a freaking orange.”

“It’s either you make out with a piece of fruit or I call my brother over here to help your cause. Which one?” She stares me down with her hands on her hips.

I contemplate telling her to go get her brother. He’s cute; it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. But Tony’s like a big brother to me too and I don’t want to make things awkward between us, even if that awkwardness would save me the embarrassment of first kiss awkwardness.

“Orange it is. No offense to your brother, or anything.”

“None taken.”

She pulls me down the carpeted steps. The same steps we used to race down on our butts. When did we grow up? Seems like yesterday we were tumbling down this flight of stairs for ice cream sundaes in my kitchen. Now I’m headed in there to learn how to kiss...an orange.

Grace cuts the orange into two halves. She hands one to me and licks up the juice dripping down her half. As I watch her, I can’t help but cringe. I cannot believe I’m about to do this.

“Ready?”

How do you ready yourself to make out with a piece of produce? “Um, not really. But...”

“But nothing! Come on, you prude. Bring it up to your mouth and put your tongue in there.”

“Do I close my eyes?”

“Sure. Whatever floats your boat. Just do it already.”

Never has an orange been so intimidating. I take a deep breath in, smelling the pungent citrus sweetness. I imagine Noah in front of me. Instead of the juicy tang, his breath will be minty, his cologne addicting. I close my eyes and pucker up. I allow my tongue to travel over the cold, wet flesh of the orange, circling and poking around, the way Grace described. This is one sticky smooch, I hope when it’s a real live boy—when it’s Noah—that he will react to my touch, unlike this inanimate object.

I open my eyes, mouth still attached to my stand-in boyfriend, and catch Grace doing the same thing. A moment later her eyes flash open too. We stare at each other before laughing so hard we fall to the floor, gripping our sides. This might very well be the most degrading thing I’ve done to date.

“So, what did you think?” Grace says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I hope to God that when I finally kiss Noah Matheson, I won’t be thinking about this damn orange.”

After my audacious behavior back at the Country Club, I’ve earned myself an escort to the continuation of our high school reunion. Instead of taking two separate cars, Noah has offered to follow me home to drop off my car, where I’ll hop in with him and die as I sit next to him in his passenger seat.