Pants on Fire (17 page)

Except when the guy got closer, I noticed he didn’t just look like Tommy Sullivan.

He WAS Tommy Sullivan.

And the most annoying thing of all? When I realized this, my heart gave this kind of lurch inside my chest.

And it wasn’t an
Oh, no, it’s Tommy Sullivan
lurch.

It was a
Yay! It’s Tommy Sullivan!
lurch.

And all at once, I knew Seth was right: I just wasn’t that into him anymore. Because I was totally and completely into his mortal enemy.

“Hey,” Tommy said, when he came close enough to talk to me without shouting to be heard over the shrieks of glee from all the kids running around with quahog cones (I know, gross) from the Eastport Ice Creamery. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

I just stared at him. It should be against the law for any guy to look that good. Seriously. Today he had on khaki walkshorts with a black polo.

But it wasn’t even so much what he was wearing—and how well he filled it all out—as it was…just him.

Oh, God. I had it so bad.

“I get that you want nothing to do with me,” he said. “But can we just talk?”

I guess Tommy took my silence (which was actually speechlessness over his godlike beauty) for acquiescence,
since he said, “Good,” grabbed me by the wrist, and pulled me behind the wide trunk of a sycamore tree, out of view of the pageant tent. I went along because…well, what
else
are you going to do when you’ve pretty much lost all motor control?

“Listen,” Tommy said, once he’d propped me up against the trunk of the tree (which was nice of him, since otherwise I’d probably have fallen down, my knees had gone so rubbery at the sight of him). “What happened last night…I don’t know what you think that was really about, but I did
not
come back to Eastport to ruin your life. I can’t believe you would even think that.”

I caught myself staring at his lips as he spoke. All I could think about was how they’d felt last night on mine. And how much I wanted to grab a handful of his shirt, drag him toward me, and start kissing him again, right there in Eastport Park, in front of the kids with the quahog cones, and the pageant tent, and everything.

And I could have done it, too, very easily, since he had one arm up against the tree trunk beside me and was kind of leaning over me in a totally proprietary manner that, I have to admit, I was finding extremely enjoyable.

But then—finally—my brain kicked in, and I remembered I was supposed to hate him.

“Right,” I finally forced my mouth to say. “So that little speech about how I don’t understand—or like—myself wasn’t supposed to undermine my confidence so I would screw up tonight and lose the pageant?”

He looked down at me with a totally incredulous
expression on his face. “What?
No.
Katie—”

“And that whole thing where you kissed me in the parking lot, where anyone might have seen us,” I said, folding my arms across my chest. Because I think body language is important, and I was afraid I was giving off the wrong signals with the whole letting-him-lean-over-me thing. “That wasn’t because you were
hoping
my friends would catch me, and that my boyfriend would dump me and my social life would be ruined for the year?”

“Excuse me,” Tommy said, looking annoyed now, instead of incredulous. “Were we in the same parking lot last night? Because—correct me if I’m wrong—you seemed to be a pretty active participant in the kissing.”

“Ha!” I said, uncrossing my arms to stab an index finger into his chest. “You
know
I have no resistance to cute guys in parking lots. You saw me behind the emergency generator with Eric. You were taking advantage of my only weakness, as well as acting on insider information.
And that’s not fair!
”

I emphasized each of the last four words with a poke of my finger against his chest. He didn’t appear to appreciate this very much, if the way he reached up and grabbed my hand was any indication.

“You’re insane,” Tommy said. “Have any of your other many boyfriends ever mentioned that to you before?”

“Don’t try to change the subject,” I said, more than a little conscious that he was still holding on to my hand. “I want to know the truth. I think I have a
right
to know it.
What were you doing in Mr. Gatch’s office yesterday?”

“You know I can’t tell you that,” he said, shaking his head.

Because it was none of my business. Mr. Gatch had already made that more than clear.

“Fine,” I said, between gritted teeth. Gritted in frustration because he was being so close-mouthed. Not because I was trying to keep myself from throwing my arms around his neck and kissing him again. Not at all. “Then just tell me this: What are you
really
doing back in Eastport? And if it’s not to ruin my life, then
why did you come back
?”

“Katie,” he said, looking down at my hand in his. He seemed upset. He really did. Like he wanted to tell me, but he just…couldn’t.

Of course, that might have been part of the act. You know, the act to make me fall in love with him, then get his revenge by ripping my heart out and smearing it all over Eastport.

But I had to hand it to him. Because the act? It was totally working.

“Oh, who even cares?” I said finally, and wrenched my hand from his.

But only so I could throw my arms around his neck and start kissing him again.

Oh, yes. I was leaning against a tree in Eastport Park, kissing Tommy Sullivan behind the Quahog Princess pageant tent. Not even leaning against the tree so much as being pressed against it by Tommy, who didn’t seem to
mind at all that I’d ended our conversation so abruptly…not to mention somewhat unconventionally. Well, I guess it would have been unconventional if it had been anybody but me. But since it was me, well, what else was I going to do but kiss him?

And it wasn’t like Tommy wasn’t kissing me back. He was…and like he really meant it, I might add. His hands were on my waist, his chest pressed up against mine, his mouth hot on my mouth. In all, it was a very excellent moment.

Except that that’s how long it lasted. Just a moment, before Tommy lifted his head and said in a funny, unsteady voice, “Katie.”

“Stop talking, please,” I said, and dragged his head so that his mouth was back down where it belonged: on mine.

But he didn’t keep it there long enough. For me, anyway.

“Katie,” he lifted his head to say again. “I mean it. We can’t keep doing this.”

“Why?” I demanded, dragging him again.

But he resisted!

“Because,” he said firmly, giving my waist a little shake. “We have to
talk
.”

“Talking is way overrated,” I said. Because, seriously, talking was the
last
thing I wanted to do with him. Especially when he was standing so close to me, and I could smell his sunscreen and feel his muscles and all I wanted to do was wrap my legs around him
again
.

“Seriously, Katie,” Tommy murmured into my hair. Which I had a feeling was escaping from its updo, on account of all the bark that had just been rubbed against the back of it. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Okay,” I said. Though it was an effort to speak. On account of all the throbbing that was going on in various parts of my body. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Us,” Tommy said. “I don’t want to do this, Katie.”

“What?” I asked, surprised. Because he certainly hadn’t been acting like someone who didn’t want to do this. “Make out with me in parking lots and public parks?”

“Exactly,” Tommy said. “That may have been all right for Eric Fluteley. But it’s not all right with me. You should know up front that I’m not going to be the guy you sneak around with behind your boyfriend’s back. I’m either the boyfriend, or I’m gone. So you’re going to have to make a choice, Katie. It’s me…or them.”

I narrowed my eyes as I stared up at him. Mostly I was thinking about how close his mouth was to mine, and how easy it would be to just start kissing him again.

But even I, the Ado Annie of Eastport, knew that wouldn’t solve anything (although it might make the bits of me that were throbbing feel happy).

Instead I tried to focus on what he had just said. Make a choice. Him or them.

Hadn’t that been the exact same choice I’d had to make four years ago? Granted, we hadn’t been making out behind restaurants and pageant tents back then. But it had been the same problem, really: support Tommy
Sullivan, and face social pariahdom forever as the class brainiac and Quahog hater. Or reject Tommy Sullivan, and end up playing spin the bottle with Seth Turner.

How could anyone have decided otherwise?

Except that now…four years later…I couldn’t help wondering: Had I made the
right
choice?

Or had I just made the
easiest
one?

I blinked at him. I didn’t know what to say. I needed a time out. This was too hard to decide on the spur of the moment like this.

Especially given the throbbing bits.

Tommy, almost as if he’d read my mind, reached up and touched the tip of my nose.

“Why don’t you think about it,” he said. There was a trace of laughter in his voice. “You look confused. I’ll be in the audience if you want to let me know after the pageant what you’ve decided.”

I blinked some more. “You’re…you’re going to watch the pageant?”

“Oh,” Tommy said, with a chuckle. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“But.” Why was my brain digesting this information so slowly? “Seth is my escort. Seth will see you. Seth might try to—”

“Well, I guess Mr. Gatch will have something to report about in tomorrow’s Sunday edition then, won’t he?” Tommy kissed the top of my forehead, then turned around to start walking away.

And I realized, as he did so, that he’d done it again.
Really. He’d rendered me into a quivering mass of girly flesh with his kisses, so that I couldn’t think straight, and I’d just let him do all the talking. I hadn’t had a chance to tell him what I thought about him and his stupid theory about how I don’t like or understand myself. Which was so far from the truth, it wasn’t even funny. I totally love myself. Hadn’t I entered myself in the Quahog Princess pageant?

And I don’t even
like
quahogs.

“Katie?”

I’d only staggered a few feet out from behind the tree when I heard the horrified voice coming from the tent flap. I glanced toward it, and saw Sidney standing there, looking shocked.

Because she saw Tommy walking away.

Worse, Tommy saw her. And he had the nerve to wink. And say, “How you doing, Sidney?” as he went by, around to the front of the stage.

Sidney murmured, “Fine, thanks.” Then, as soon as he’d rounded the side of the tent, she hobbled through the grass to me (her heels were sinking into the soil), crying, “Oh my God, Katie! Oh my God!”

I knew the jig was up.

And I also knew Tommy had won. He had straight up won.

It was over.
I
was over.

Weirdly, all I felt was relieved. Well, except for the part about Sidney hating me. Because the truth is, even though she’s totally shallow, Sidney’s always been a good
friend to me. Bossy, but fun.

“Sidney,” I said. “Look. I can explain—”

“Oh my God,” Sidney said for a third time, reaching up to pull bits of bark out of my hair. “You look like you were just making out with some guy against a tree. Probably because—surprise!—you were just making out with some guy against a tree.”

“I know,” I said gravely. “I’m a horrible person. I guess you’re going to have to tell Seth.”

“Are you mental?” Sidney wanted to know, tugging on the hem of my skirt, which had mysteriously ridden up a little. “Get back in that tent and put some lipstick on. I don’t know what you were thinking, macking with Mr. Football Camp five minutes before you’re supposed to get out on stage. Is he really that good of a kisser? And how did he know my name, anyway?”

Whoa. She didn’t know. She
still
didn’t know.

“Huh,” I said, as Sidney grabbed my hand and started pulling me toward the tent. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know much, do you?” Sidney demanded. “What’s happening to you? Ever since this guy came along, you’ve turned into a total pineapple—brunette on the outside, but blond in the middle. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. And how could you leave Seth alone like that? He’s trapped in a corner with Jenna Hicks. She’s telling him about her theories on social anarchy, or something. You should know better than anyone that he has no natural defenses against smart girls.”

Inside the tent, things had calmed down a little. Now
that Morgan had her rosin, she was all smiles, looking up at Eric in a flirty manner (hey, it takes one to know one). And Eric seemed to be eating it up. (Well, why wouldn’t he? Anything that’s all about Eric is fine with Eric.)

And Sidney appeared to have forgiven Dave for picking the wrong colored suit. At least if the way she went, “I found her,” to him as she pulled me into the tent was any indication.

“Oh, good,” Dave said. He was eating a quahog fritter from a tray the Gull ’n Gulp had apparently donated for participants in the event. “Hey, Katie. What happened to your lipstick?”

“She’s reapplying,” Sidney said quickly, picking up my backpack and hurling it at me. “Seth. I found her.”

Seth looked around from the apparently deep conversation he was having with Jenna Hicks. Which was, you know, sort of weird, on account of Seth never having once spoken to Jenna back when she’d had on her eyebrow hoops.

But whatever.

“Oh,” he said when he saw me. “Hey, babe.”

He smiled. And I waited. Waited for the gushy weak-kneed feeling I used to feel when Seth smiled at me.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when it didn’t come. I mean, considering.

Me. Or them.
That’s what Tommy had said.

But isn’t that what it had always boiled down to?

“Ladies.” Ms. Hayes appeared from the tent flap leading out to the stage. She looked very professional in her
pink Lilly Pulitzer halter dress, with matching pink headband and shoes. “Every seat in the house is filled. It’s standing room only. This may prove to be the best-attended Quahog Princess pageant in Eastport history. Get ready to give them the performance of your life. Remember to smile. Miss Hicks, did you hear me?
Smile.
Now. Shall we pray?”

Ms. Hayes didn’t wait for an answer. She bowed her head, so the rest of us bowed ours, too. Including the sound guys, which I thought was sweet. One of them even set down his beer.

“Dear Lord,” Ms. Hayes prayed. “Please bless this pageant, and all the participants in it. Please don’t let Miss Hicks mess up her blocking, and please let Miss Castle’s toe shoes stick to the stage floor. And don’t let Bob screw up the lighting like he did last year. Amen.”