Page 82 of Whatever It Takes
No eggs are in his hand. I breathe easier. This is not aNever Been Kissedsituation. He’s just scanning me from head to toe like I did to him.
“Hey,” he greets with a nod.
“You’re early.” I stop a couple feet away from him.
“So are you.” His aqua-blue eyes land on my skirt and they never peel away.
“What…?” I wonder if I didn’t iron the fabric enough.
“You’re not wearing that right.”
I pale. “What do you mean?” It’s just a blue skirt, a belt attached with the same stiff canvas fabric and it forms a bow in the front.
“The bow is tied differently, and it shouldn’t be lined in the middle of your body.” He combs a hand through his hair.
I try to fix it, but I’m not exactly sure what it’s supposed to look like. It’s not like Dalton Academy gave me a manual on how to tie bows. I fumble with it, unsure and nervous.
Garrison takestwosteps towards me, so close that his forehead almost brushes with mine when I look up. “Can I touch you?” he asks, his hands hovering by my hips.
My whole body heats, blazing from a moment in time. I’m barely able to nod. And then he takes the waistband of my skirt and shifts it to the right, the bow now resting on my hip and the zipper on my other one. It’s not crazy to think the zipper was supposed to be in the back, is it?
He reties the bow, his knuckles brushing my waist more than once.
“Does the uniform matter a lot?” I ask.
“To most of the teachers, yeah. They’d make you stand up and retie the bow in the middle of the class.”
I imagine all the eyes on me, and I wince, glad to be saved from that. When he finishes the bow, he tucks the edge of my blouse into my skirt, the corner astray. “I think you’re good,” he says with a couple nods. “I can take that.” He gestures to my backpack.
I shake my head. “I’ll hold onto it.”
“Okay.” He checks his watch—a charcoal-tinted one that appears expensive by the plate-size and band. “We’ll make it on time.”
About a minute later, we’re in his Mustang and driving to Dalton Academy, back towards the ritzy neighborhoods and further away from Penn.
“My schedule is in the middle console if you want to compare,” he tells me.
I open the middle console, take out a folded piece of paper, and then retrieve the crumpled one from my backpack.
I notice three similarities, which is a lot more than I expected.
“And?” he asks, glancing between the road and me.
“We’re in the same British lit and Calculus class, and we have the same lunch period.” I gauge his reaction, but he never smiles much, not even now.
He asks, “Are you good at British lit?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of…” He gives me a look. “What does that mean exactly?Sort of.Is it more of a yes or more of a no for you?”
“I guess…a yes.”
He nods. “Good because I fucking suck at lit.”
“I’m bad at Calculus.”
He nearly smiles this time. “I’ll help you if you help me.”
