Page 2 of Faking Summer
"Those boys are cute," Sam mused, scanning them slowly as she tried to decipher which one stood out the most to her. The boys continued to react to the wound as if it were a spectacle from another planet, each grimace and gasp more dramatic than the last. I watched, half-amused, half-curious, until it happened—my eyes locked onto one of them, refusing to let go.
Stacey leaned in close, her voice a conspiratorial whisper, "That one is Reese. He looks like a Disney prince, I bet he could have any girl he wanted." He pushed back his dark hair. "Whoever it is, I'll put gum in her hair," Stacey declared with a hair flip.
"Also," she continued, "my mom said his dad has more money than the president."
"Does the president have a lot of money?" Sam asked, tilting her head, brows knit in genuine curiosity.
"I think so," Stacey replied, shrugging one shoulder.
None of us knew quite how much money the president had, but we shook off the confusion and our attention snapped back to the boys congregated around the bench. Their laughter was untamed and seemed to ripple through the courtyard.
"He is kind of dreamy," Sam admitted, her gaze fixed on Reese. He lounged effortlessly, his easy smile so disarming it felt criminal in the worst kind of way. "It’s those green eyes and those dimples," she added, her tone almost wistful. "He has that going for him, plus his daddy’s money. I’m sure he gets whatever he wants."
He didn't have to say a word. There was no grand gesture or cheesy line. There was just something about him—something irresistible and powerful—that made my heart flutter with excitement for the very first time. And that’s exactly when I realized I was having that butterfly feeling I had heard and wondered about.
Stacey, her lips curled in a playful sneer, flicked a dismissive hand toward the boys. "Well, I'll take any of them in that circle," she joked. "Except maybe the one with the scar."
Third period became my sanctuary, the one hour of the day I looked forward to. Reese sat two rows in front of me—even the back of his head was dreamy. I willed him to feel my gaze, compelling him to turn around and notice me.
Each morning, I curated my appearance with him in mind, spraying myself with perfume I had stolen from my sister. Anything to unlock an elusive glance from him, to finally get on his radar. I watched the way he pushed back his hair—an act so mundane butthat inexplicably fascinated me. All of his movements were effortlessly cool. He was somehow given the gift of skipping any adolescent awkwardness. Even the simple act of sliding off his backpack as he settled into his seat was more interesting than anything I had heard in our Social Studies class all year.
But then, reality intruded in the form of Evan Rockwell and a crumpled piece of paper striking my face—completely unwelcome in the midst of my daydreams. The sting from the paper ball's impact lingered on my cheek as I turned towards Evan. "What was that for?"
Evan leaned back in his chair, a smug look creasing his features. "I see you over there, drooling over Reese," he said, loud enough for nearby desks to hear. My face flushed a deeper shade. "He likes you too, you know."
I glanced at Reese, who remained oblivious, caught up in the conversation he was having. Still, that did nothing to steady my racing heart. "He does?" The question slipped out, and along with it a vulnerability I hadn't meant to expose.
Evan's grin widened. "Yeah, he told me himself." He was part of the crowd Reese was always in, so his credibility was hard to dismiss.
An unsettling thrill skittered down my spine as Evan leaned in closer. "He wants you to go to the dance with him," he said, and my tiny heart pounded harder. "But he's shy, so I told him I'd ask you."
Shy? Reese Carrington? The notion seemed laughable, that for some reason he had sent Evan—one of his minions—to ask me, so it must be true. I sat there, palms damp against the cool surface of my desk. It felt as though a spotlight had been switched on above my head, illuminating me in its harsh, unforgiving glow. An urge to leap up and scream wrestled with the disbelief cementing me to my chair. The sixth grade heart throb, likedme?
I froze, lost in a tumultuous sea of emotion while the fantasy of Reese and I going to the dance played out in my head. I nodded, feeling as though I had somehow stepped into a moment every girl dreams about. "Yes," I whispered. "I'll go with him."
Evan's smile grew. "Cool. He's wearing dark blue, so make sureyou match him," he instructed. "He'll meet you by the punch station."
The final bell couldn't ring soon enough. My legs jittered beneath the desk. I was a tangle of nerves and excitement. When we were finally released, it was a rush of sound and motion, everyone spilling into the halls where echoes of locker slams and laughter mingled.
"Spill it!" Sam demanded, seeing the excitement written all over my face.
"Reese Carrington asked me to the dance!"
Sam squealed, grabbing both my hands as we bounced on the balls of our feet, our high ponytails swinging in unison. "Oh my gosh, this is huge!"
The week that followed was a blur of whispered secrets and giddy anticipation. Sleepovers became strategy sessions, each night spent sprawled across my floral comforter, discussing everything Reese. We were huddled together, air thick with the scent of bubblegum lip gloss as we dissected every encounter, every glance he'dalmostshot my way.
"Imagine slow dancing with him," Stacey mused one evening, "your hands on his shoulders, his on your waist, being that close to him. I bet he smells like a hotel lobby."
Sam chimed in, "And when a slow song comes on, it'll be like... like magic. The way it is in the movies."
"Stop! You're making me nervous," I laughed, though my stomach dropped at the thought. I straightened up abruptly, and the sudden movement made my friends freeze, their wide-eyed gazes following me. I strode across the room, flung open the door and yelled down the hallway, "Cooper!"
A moment later, I turned on a slow song on my computer, transforming my room into an intimate stage set for a dance lesson I'd never forget. Cooper appeared in my doorway, his expression mildly irritated.
"What?" he demanded, leaning against the frame with crossed arms.
"Will you..." My voice faltered under his gaze. I swallowed the lump in my throat, motivated by the urgency of the task at hand, "teach me how to slow dance?"
