Royally Crushed (27 page)

I glance at David and smile, because I like that he’s so smart and that he assumes I’m smart, too, since he’s not bothering to point out what the on-screen inaccuracy is. “They didn’t wear those until the late eighteen hundreds, at least,” I whisper back, trying not to think about how solid David’s shoulder feels where he’s leaning it against mine. Must be all that rugby he plays. “No way would they have ’em in the Middle Ages, anyway.”

“Bet Mrs. Bennett wouldn’t have caught it,” he says, close to my ear, and I try not to laugh aloud since we’re smack in the middle of the movie and everyone in the theater’s hush-hush.

We both turn our attention back to the screen, because the movie’s really good (despite the costume inaccuracy), and a few seconds later he reaches across the armrest and puts his hand over mine. He’s a little tentative (can he tell I’m totally freaking out?), but after a few seconds he laces his fingers through mine. He does it loosely so I can still pull away without being obvious.

But I don’t. His fingers are long and warm and strong and feel fabulous in between mine.

Most of my friends look at a guy’s eyes, or at his shoulders and arms. With Jules, it’s the way a guy’s rear fits just so in his jeans. Me? I like a guy’s hands, and I’ve always thought David’s were the best. Well, except for Georg’s. Maybe.

David doesn’t look at me, but when I glance over at him he seems totally comfortable, like this is the normal course of events. I try to focus on the main character and the guy he’s arguing with in the movie, but I’ve lost track of what’s going on.

All I can think about is David. And Georg. I mean, doesn’t David know there might be a thing between me and Georg? Is he kidding himself by holding my hand? Everyone else saw the newspaper, so I
know
he must’ve. He reads it every single day, first, because he’s a natural news junkie, and second, because his dad’s in it all the time. (All part of being a powerful Republican lobbyist, Dad once told me when I showed him an article about David’s dad.)

And who am
I
kidding? There is a thing between me and Georg, and if I hadn’t been so crazy about the whole “cool it” phone call and had just freaking
asked
him to clarify things (even though, at the time, given the way our conversation went, I thought it would have sounded bizarre
to ask him twice), I wouldn’t be here. Feeling guilty.

Oh. My. God.

I am
cheating
.

Is this how Mom felt? Totally ripped up inside? Guilty? Or did she even care?

Because even though I know I love Georg, I’m feeling a total pull toward David. A
normal
girl wouldn’t drool over a guy like I’ve drooled over David, then decide to yank her hand away when he finally holds it, would she?

Or when he tightens his fingers around hers, the way David’s doing now? Because it feels really good.

Maybe it’s just that I’m not a normal girl.

“I’m glad you’re home,” he leans over and whispers. “I missed you, Winslow.”

“Thanks—”

And then I feel it. Just the softest, most romantic kiss, right next to my ear. And I have no idea if this is a good thing—the thing I’ve wanted forever and can now get—or if it’s the worst thing possible.

I AM SO GLAD WE’RE IN THE BACK ROW OF THE
theater and no one can see us without turning around and being obvious. With my luck, a reporter flew over from Schwerinborg and followed me into the flick so he could snap a few more pictures. Or worse, maybe there’s a private eye lurking in here. Someone hired by Steffi, because that’s just the sort of thing nasty girls on soap operas always do when they want to get back at the nice girls. They make it their life’s mission to prove the nice girls aren’t so nice.

Steffi watches soaps. Lots of them. I think imitating soap opera bitches is how she became the evil demon spawn that she is.

Okay, I know my mind is going from highly unlikely
possibilities (reporter) to downright whacked possibilities (Steffi), but given what’s happened to me in the last few months, and what’s happening
right now
. . .

I turn to give David a friendly warning look to discourage further kissing, since even though I like it, it’s wrong, but before I can get a word out, he leans in, his lips meet mine, and he’s kissing me. This time, for real.

So I kiss him back.

Really, what can I do? I mean, he’s right
there
. And the kissing’s not bad.

In fact, it’s actually pretty good. Deliberate and kind of daring, since Christie and Jeremy are sitting on my other side, plus who knows who else might get up to go pee and see us, since this theater’s the closest one to Vienna West High School. But it’s obvious from the way David’s kissing me that he doesn’t intend to have one of those grope-heavy sessions you always see other teenagers engaging in during the movies. Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou, David has more taste and class than that.

I guess, since his father’s a semi-public figure, he’s learned the tabloid lesson too.

But as his hand squeezes mine tighter for a split second (making me all warm and gooey inside), I can’t help but wonder,
is this really okay?

Of course, I’ve dreamed of kissing him forever. I’ve had
it so bad for him, I’ve even pretended that my pillow was David. (I did not kiss my pillow—puh-leeze—but I did go to sleep at night many, many times imagining I was putting my head on David’s shoulder instead of a bunch of Poly-fil with a flannel cover.)

So I know if I could turn off my brain and forget that I theoretically have a boyfriend waiting for me a few thousand miles away, I would enjoy this immensely. David definitely knows what he’s doing, though it’s not as if I have much basis for comparison. Not even Christie suspects that Georg is the only guy I’ve ever kissed (well, besides Jason Barrows, which doesn’t count).

It’s totally pathetic, since I know people who are sleeping together, but there you go. I fake experience well, I guess.

David eases back and says in a voice barely loud enough for me to hear, “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.”

Not nearly as long as I have, but whatever. Hearing him say it makes all those years of lusting after him soooo worth it.

If
he really means it.

Careful to play it cool, I just give him a little smile before turning my focus back to the movie (and trying to figure out what’s going on, since now I’m completely lost).

A little over an hour later, we’re in the back of Christie’s
mom’s minivan. (I can’t wait until one of us can drive and Mrs. Toleski doesn’t have to accompany us on every single evening out.) David and I are in the back seat, while Christie and Jeremy are in the middle, behind Christie’s mom.

David let go of my hand right at the end of the movie so it wouldn’t be obvious to Christie and Jeremy what was going on, even though I think Christie was probably trying to watch me out the corner of her eye as much as she was trying to watch the movie. But now, while Christie is telling her mom about what we had for dinner and Jeremy is picking something off the bottom of his shoe, David’s making it clear he really is serious about this. He reaches his foot under the seat in front of us and hooks mine, where no one else can see, then gives me this very cute, slightly devious smile that makes my insides do a little dance of joy.

“You like the movie, Val?” he asks loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Sure, what wasn’t to like?”

He shifts so he’s slightly closer to me on the seat, and I realize what he was
really
asking me with that question. Geez, but I’m a dork.

“Which way is it again, Valerie?” Christie’s mom asks, looking at me over her shoulder just before turning into the apartment complex where my mom and Gabby have their
place. “I think I came in from the other direction when I picked you up.”

“Take your first right—by the stop sign—then it’s the second building on your right. Middle stairwell.”

As she pulls into an empty parking spot along the curb in front of Mom’s building, David asks, “Want me to walk you to the door?”

The sidewalk from the street to the stairwell door is about a hundred feet long, but I’m perfectly capable of walking by myself, even though it’s midnight. I mean, we’re in a nice part of town, and Mrs. Toleski can see all the way from the van to the front door. It’s no dark alley or anything.

“I’m fine,” I say as Christie and Jeremy scoot over so I can climb past the middle row of seats and out the sliding door.

“I’d feel better if David walked you up,” Mrs. Toleski says, which I suspected she would (she’s cautious—probably comes from having been a nun), so David hops out of the van behind me before I can argue.

Secretly, though, I’m kind of glad he’s with me. Not because I think there’s a wacko lurking in the bushes, though. Just because.

I thank Mrs. Toleski, say bye to Jeremy and Christie (while trying to ignore the self-satisfied grin on Christie’s
face), and turn toward the apartment, with David right off my elbow. I can tell from the way he’s walking, close to me but with his hands very carefully tucked into his front pockets, that he’s hyper-aware of our proximity and the fact we’re on a mostly dark sidewalk with all the stars out overhead. The clear skies and the soft breeze around us make the atmosphere totally romantic in a way you usually only see on sappy TV movies.

I’ve always known when David was within a shouting distance of me—I’ve developed a well-honed radar regarding the guy—but this is the first time I’ve been positive
he’s
really noticing
me
.

And it’s pretty cool.

We step up onto the wide stair outside the heavy glass door leading to my mom’s new apartment and I fish around in my purse for the key Mom gave me—mostly so I don’t have to stand there feeling awkward, wondering if he’s going to kiss me good night.

“Must be hard seeing your mom living in an apartment all by herself,” he says. “I couldn’t imagine having to deal with a divorce or trying to choose between parents.”

“Yeah,” I say. He clearly doesn’t know the whole story, which means Christie has kept her word—so far. I’m tempted to tell David the truth about my parents, even though we only have a minute. First, I want to be certain
he hears it from me instead of from gossip central, and second, I’m curious about how he’ll react. But I keep my mouth shut. Just for tonight, I don’t want to know.

He bites his bottom lip, which I’ve never seen him do. David Anderson isn’t the nervous type.

“What’s wrong?”

He shrugs. “I just wish you weren’t going back to Europe, I guess. That you’d consider staying here with your mom. I know living in the apartment means you’d have to go to school at Lake Braddock instead of Vienna West, but it’d make Christie real happy. She’s been moping around like you wouldn’t believe since you left.” He hesitates for a second before adding, “It’d make me happy too.”

Whoa. If it was possible for a person to make one wish and have it come true, this is what I would have wished for. But why-oh-why-why-why couldn’t he have said this to me a year ago? Or on any day at all since, oh, kindergarten? I was just getting over him, coming to terms with the fact I’m his Armor Girl, and that being the Armor Girl isn’t such a bad thing.

Does he not realize what he is doing to me here?

“They’re watching us,” I say, rolling my eyes in the direction of the curb. Part of me wants him to kiss me,
now
, but common sense (and the fact I can see Christie staring at
me through the side window of the minivan) tells me that this is sooo not the time.

“I know. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be standing here with my hands in my pockets. They’d be somewhere else.”

Now I think I’m going to die. Right here on the front step of a suburban, ugly-ass apartment building.

And I’d die a happy girl.

As I slide the key into the lock, he takes a step down so he’s on the sidewalk leading back to Mrs. Toleski’s van. “Maybe we can get together tomorrow night? I can ask my brother to drive us somewhere. I know it’s lame, but I bet he’d—”

“Can I e-mail you tomorrow?” I need time to clear my head.

“You have my address?”

I nod. He gave it to me a few days before I left for Schwerinborg and asked me to keep in touch, but I never wrote. It didn’t feel right, since I’d never e-mailed or texted with him while I was living here.

But that doesn’t mean I didn’t memorize his info the second he gave it to me.

“Before you go back, I think we should at least talk.”

I swallow hard. Wow, but I can tell from his face that he really means what he’s saying, and it’s making me insane because if I stand here one second longer, I’ll grab
him and kiss him first. Christie watching and all.

“I’ll e-mail in the morning,” I say, surprising myself with how calm I sound.

I turn the key and walk into the lobby as casually as I can. When I turn to take the stairs up to the third floor, where my mom’s apartment is, I see David strolling toward the van. His hands are still in his front pockets, which makes his jeans pull across his rear just enough to make me take a good, long look.

Yee-ow.

I have no clue what I’m going to do.

“How was your night, honey?”

“You’re still up?” My mom’s never been a night owl—she usually goes to bed at nine thirty, sometimes ten if there’s a good TV show on. But it’s past eleven thirty now, and since she’s sitting in an armchair with her reading lamp on and the rest of the apartment’s dark, I figure she’s up for one reason and one reason only.

Me.

“I wanted to get some time alone with you,” Mom says with a smile. She sets down her book—I notice she’s barely started it, which means she wasn’t really reading—and reaches out to pat the arm of the chair next to hers. “Sit and tell me about it.”

I leave my purse by the door, then drop into the empty chair. “The movie was great. Wasn’t your style, though. Very commercial and big budget.” My mom loves indie flicks—all the stuff they show at festivals—that usually have choppy editing and too-deep-for-normal-people-to-understand hidden meaning. Dad and I always used to tease her about it. Most years, she hasn’t seen any of the Best Picture nominees for the Oscar.