Page 34 of The Tattered Gloves
THE REST OF the weekend passed by in a blur.
Allison had spent the night at my house after the dance, crossing off yet another thing from the list of items that truly made me an American teenager.
Hosting a sleepover.
Again, this was where my TV education had completely failed me.
I’d expected pillow fights and lots of boy talk, all while consuming large quantities of sugary snacks. Maybe all that actually did happen. But, when you got home from a dance around midnight to a quiet house with an aunt who woke at the tiniest noise, the most that happened was a little light conversation and a whole lot of sleep.
But, luckily, that same aunt also tended to rise at the crack of dawn, and she made the most killer breakfast in the state.
Allison had been seriously impressed. “You should spend the night at my house. The most my mom cooks for breakfast is toast,” she’d said.
I’d laughed, but a part of me had panicked a little at the thought of actually sleeping at her house. I’d barely gotten used to this one.
Sunday had been spent catching up on homework and laundry, reading a couple of novels I’d bought with my employee discount at the bookstore, and helping Addy with a few chores around the house.
It sounded boring, but coming from a place that was anything but, I’d take boring any day.
It’d also given me time to think.
Maybe too much time.
By Monday, I’d convinced myself that the entire thing hadn’t happened. I must have imagined it. The conversation between Sam and me had been ordinary, and… well, boring. At the end, I’d walked away, and there’d been no, “You look really pretty.”
Nope. None.
Everything would be normal.
Except that it wasn’t.
And I knew it the second I walked through those double doors of our high school.
I could feel the tension coiled around my gut like a snake.
What would I say to him if I saw him?
Hi. How’s it going?
Did you mean what you said?
Do you say that to all the girls? Or just me?
Maybe I was looking way too much into this. Perhaps he’d just said it to be nice.
Oh God, what if he felt bad for me?
By the time I made it to History — the one and only class Sam and I shared together — I was nearly dripping with sweat as nervousness took over.
I wasn’t equipped to handle this type of stress. Most kids my age had had years to prepare for this. I’d been busy with dealing with other crap in my life. Real-life drama. So, you’d think I’d be able to handle a little thing like a crush, but nope. I was crumbling faster than a sand castle in a windstorm.
“Okay, okay, settle down, everyone,” our teacher said, her voice booming over everyone else.
It was amazing to me that, despite her frail, small frame and normally quiet disposition, she could command a room like a burly drill sergeant twice her size.
For that and many other reasons, Mrs. Landers was one of my favorite teachers at Sugar Tree.
Until today.
