Page 41 of My High School Rebel Boyfriend
I pulled the drapes and opened up the bed, removing the array of soft toys that sat there. Why Mom still kept Nadi’s childhood favorites out on show was beyond me. Nadine was 20! I pointed to the direction of the bathroom and went out while he used it. Dad was hobbling down the hallway, looking inquisitive.
I kept my information to bare essentials: Mitchell had been drinking at the party so I’d driven us home in his car. He would sleep in Nadine’s room for the night, then drive himself home in the morning.
Dad nodded as if this was the responsible thing to do and a perfectly normal occurrence in our household.
“How’s Mom?” I asked.
“Snoring like a trooper,” he said, making me giggle.
Sleep evaded me. The thought of Mitchell a room away, and the things he’d said, whether true or untrue had me envisioning amountain of possibilities. Dreaming of my hair, his tender touch, butterflies when he saw me!
I’d be foolish to think any of it was real. He’d been under the influence, muddled by alcohol, lacking clarity. Still, it was nice to imagine that he didn’t exactly hate me.
The next morning the smell of bacon cooking aroused me from a dream where I’d been shooting the winning hoop for the Covington Prep basketball team. A peep out into the kitchen showed that Dad was playing chef but the closed door of Nadine’s room indicated Mitchell had yet to wake. I quickly dressed and made myself look presentable.
“Where’s Mom?” I asked.
“Kneeling in front of the toilet,” Dad chuckled. “Do you think your friend might need some Advil?”
“Probably,” I said, filling a large glass with water. “Is Mom puking?”
“NO, I’M NOT.” Mom came to her own defence, her face exhibiting the remains of last night’s makeup. She plonked herself down at the table. “Me and wine are not friends.”
I handed her the glass of water, amused to see her in this condition. It was usually Dad who ended up intoxicated; Mom was the sensible one.
“Guess you’ll be going back to bed,” I said, fetching another glass from the cupboard.
“What time did you get home?” She sipped on the water as if it was a great effort.
“I don’t know.” I looked to Dad for support. “Uh, I had to drive Mitchell’s car.” I purposely let the faucet run slowly so I didn’t have to face her. “He’s sleeping in Nadi’s room.” I heard her gasp.
“She did the right thing,” Dad said, “bringing him back here.” He nudged me. “Go on. Take him some Advil and see if he wants some breakfast.”
As I shuffled out in my slippers, I left amuffled conversation behind me.
I tapped on Nadine’s door and waited, ear pressed against it. I didn’t want to burst in and startle him. I tapped again, calling his name and boldly entered.
Mitchell was wriggling his way out of the covers, attempting to sit up.
“Good morning,” I said, presenting the water and pain relief. “Thought you might need this.”
He stretched his eyes open, trying to make sense of his bearings, drawn to the pink and white heart design of the duvet. Nadi was a romantic at heart, and girly, her room a plethora of pastel shades.
“I couldn’t work out where I was,” Mitchell said, his voice gravely and hoarse, like he’d spent the night drinking. Yeah, he had.
I picked up a pink fluffy pillow from the end of the bed and tossed it to him at the exact time that I noticed a white shirt and t-shirt were on the floor in front of me. But already he’d sat up, his muscled shoulders and chest exposed, my eyes lingering a little too long on his bare skin, on the tattoo that looked like a rose. Seemed he and his father were both fans of the weight room and ink. But then it was the bruises that caught my eye, a paler shade of purple than before but still visible. He pulled the cover up fast.
“Uh, here’s some Advil, and Dad’s cooking breakfast,” I gabbled, placing the glass on the night stand. “You can shower in there,”—I pointed to the ensuite—“And there’s a towel on the rack. Just come out when you’re ready.” I made haste to the door, embarrassed but not quite sure if it was for staring or seeing his secret again.
I thought I’d made a clean getaway, but Mitchell called out. “Hey. Harper?”
My cheeks felt as vivid as the rose tattoo I was trying hard not to look at. With my voice vanishing, it was all I could do to lift my eyebrows.
“Hey...thanks,” he said, a rare smile gracinghis lips.
My heart pounded with the speed of a hummingbird’s wings. He looked beautiful when he smiled, eyes bright and full of hope, and I found myself insanely wishing that everything he’d said last night had been true.
That Mitchell Finlayson dreamed about me, about my hair.
