The Secrets of Attraction (6 page)

“Um, well . . . we're . . . Piper, I have no clue what I'm doing with it yet. Not sure how to make the Fathers' Club edgy. All I have so far is the fall bowl-a-thon and sponsoring Toys for Tots.”

Piper knocked on the table. “Anyone have any ideas?”

Silence. I went back to working on my mehndi design—brainstorming about fathers was something I could thankfully be excluded from. There was a time when it might have made me feel awkward, but I'd grown out of it. When I was in third grade, my mother had explained it very matter-of-factly—my biological father was far out of the picture by the time she realized she was pregnant with me. He hadn't been the right person, but it was the right time and there was never a doubt in her mind that she wanted
me
.

It's not like I never wondered if he was out there, somewhere . . . but it's not like I had a gaping hole in my life either. Mom and I were fine; besides, when Wren had sleepovers I lived vicariously with Mr. Caswell doling out Sunday morning banana pancakes or dousing us with the hose when we sunbathed in the yard. I mean, who wanted to go to some lame-ass fall bowl-a-thon anyhow? Puh-lease.

“Well, we have time to figure out how to make bowling edgy,” she said, smiling and moving on to another Post-it.

“So you guys are really going to Sadie Hawkins, right?” Wren asked as we walked to our lockers after the meeting.

“If it involves me asking someone, then no,” Jazz said.

“Come on, Zach can—” I began.

“You don't need to find me anyone, okay?” She dropped her chem book to the floor and muttered under her breath. Wren and I exchanged puzzled looks.

“What's wrong?” I asked, crouching down to pick up the book.

Jazz took the book from my hand and slid it onto the top shelf of her locker. “Nothing, I just . . . I hate being put on the spot like that. This ‘On the Edge' thing is hard.”

“Yes, but one more year, and then we'll be running the book. And we can come up with a normal theme but nothing
banal
,” Wren said, mimicking a Piper hair flip with a smile.

“You don't usually get so upset at this stuff,” I said.

“The meeting ran late and I was supposed to . . . I just missed my run, that's all,” she said, grabbing her coat.

“Don't you usually run with your dad at night?” Wren asked.

Jazz leaned against her locker and frowned. She looked between us.

“I really didn't want to talk about it yet. It's so new and—”

“Omigod, just spit it out, Jazzy,” I said.

“There
is
someone I wanted to ask to the dance.”

“Great!” Wren said.

“No, not great—he's already going with someone.”

“Who?”

“Darby Greene.”

“Um, duh—who were
you
going to ask?” I was not about to let her off the hook. This was too juicy a development on an otherwise completely boring Wednesday afternoon.

“This guy I've been running with.”

I motioned for her to go on but she clammed up. “Do you want us to play twenty questions to get it out of you?”

She laughed then took a breath. “His name is Logan, remember the guy from—”

“Andy Foley's party?” Wren asked. Jazz nodded.

“What party?”

“In December, you were puking your brains out and couldn't go. We went to see Gray in Stickey Wicket. Logan played kings cup with Jazz,” Wren explained.

“Oh, right. This has been going on since then?”

“No—I mean, we met that night, but it turns out he runs. I saw him at the park a few weeks back, we got to talking, and, well, we've been training together. He says I keep him on pace—we're both trying to get down to a seven-minute mile.”

“How romantic,” I said.

“So, yeah, I'm kind of bummed about it.”

“No—you need to go to the dance,” Wren said.

“Yes—absolutely. So he can see you there, realize that his amazing running partner is also scorching, and he will fall head-over-Nikes for you.”

“Mizunos.”

“Huh?”

“He trains in Mizunos.”

“Whatever—he won't be wearing running shoes when you train to do something else in seven minutes.”

Jazz blushed. “Madison, geez.”

“I'm loving this idea. Come on, Jazz—it'll be fun.” Wren batted her eyelashes. I put my hands together in prayer. We stared Jazz down until she gave in.

“Okay, okay, fine—but where will I find a date?”

“Consider Zach your hookup source.”

“Who's the guy who went to the movies with us the last time we all went as a group? Zach's friend . . . the blond, not the one who smelled like pepperoni.”

Wren laughed. “The one you sat next to?”

“Um, Kyle, maybe?” I said.

“Yeah, we had a great conversation about history mash-ups and movies. He was pretty cool. I could handle, um, being fixed up with him.”

“I'm seeing Zach later,” I said.

“No, wait. Just ask Zach if you think Kyle would be into it. Then, I don't know, get me his number, I'll call him. That's how this works, right? Have to get over my nerves somehow.”

“Consider it done,” I said.

It was hard to focus on homework across from Zach O'Keefe. We sat at my dining room table—well, I sat, Zach took up two chairs, his legs draped over the seat of one, his body slunk down in the other, the tip of a pencil grazing his bottom lip as he read from his history textbook. Dark curls fell over his forehead. His hair had been short when we first met, close-cropped to keep out of his eyes during fall soccer. I loved the length now, the wildness of it. The way he owned the space around him was distracting.

While he studied history, I studied him—his angles and edges, the gentle swirls and waves of his hair. How his orange tee fit him just right, not too tight but showed off his chest, his arms. I could spend hours drawing his arms alone, the way his biceps and triceps curved into each other. As a subject, he was captivating.

I was supposed to be working on a dwelling design for the scholarship portfolio. I'd chosen to put an addition on my house—well, at least to draw the floor plans for it. Something functional and beautiful and congruent with the original house design. Right now, all of those words described Zach. Except, I couldn't get his nose right. He had a small bump near the bridge that I kept turning into a beak. Noses always gave me trouble.

Without warning he snatched the sketchbook from me.

“Hey,” I said. A long, jagged line now went through the picture where my pencil had still been in contact with the paper as he pulled it away. I squirmed in my seat as he looked at the drawing. Zach's idea of art was the Manchester United flag he had hanging above his bed. I knew he would never say my drawing was total crap—it was of him, after all—but showing it to him made me fidgety.

“Nice floor plan,” he said, smirking and sliding it back to me.

“You're distracting.” I opened up to a fresh page.

I knew art was a process; trial and error and failing and growing, but anything that came out through my pencil lately looked
nothing
like the vision in my head. Not being able to translate what was in my brain to paper made me want to hurl my sketchbook across the room.

“You need to chill, like that little shirtless dude over there,” he said, referring to the new resident of our mantelpiece: a Laughing Buddha statue my mom picked up to help her focus on all the abundance in her life while she meditated.

“That little shirtless dude is enlightened, so happiness is his natural state—he doesn't need to earn a scholarship anywhere.”

“No, I think he's happy because he's half-naked.” Zach pulled his shirt off to prove his point. If I thought I could draw his arms for hours, Zach's torso could keep me occupied for weeks.

“See, you're smiling already,” he said. “Stop worrying, it'll get done.”

That was Zach. SAT scores? He'd get an athletic scholarship. Backup schools? Without a doubt in his mind he was going to Rutgers. He'd play soccer for four years, and be in TKE like his older brother. And if none of that worked out? Something else would come along. Nothing fazed him. He was spectacularly uncomplicated, a living breathing, chill pill.

“Please, you have to put your shirt back on. Want a water or something?” I asked, getting up to go to kitchen. He reached for my hand as I brushed past him, and pulled me onto his lap.

“I think we can do better than water.”

My muscles tensed to spring up, but he was so . . . warm . . . and half-naked. Maybe he was right. I needed to loosen up, although the moment his lips grazed my neck every cell in my body snapped to attention. Chillin' was the last thing on my mind.

His curls brushed my cheek, then my chin, as he kissed my neck. I traced the curves of his arms with my fingertips, buried my face in his hair.
God, he smelled so good.
Like mint. Some sulfate-free organic shampoo his mother insisted he use. The day dissolved.
What floor plans? What dance?

“Oh, hey, Zach,” I said, my voice sounding far away to me.

“Mmmhmm.”

He lifted his face to mine, planting a kiss on my mouth. He looked sleepy, unconcerned.

“Yes,” he said, kissing my cheek.

“What's Kyle doing next Friday?”

He stopped, stiffened. “What?”

I pulled back from him. “There's this dance at school and—”

He laughed. “You want to go with Kyle?”

“No, but . . . is he seeing anyone?”

“No.”

“Think you could hook me up with his number? For Jazz.”

“For Jasmine, yeah, sure,” he said, grabbing his phone off the table.

“Wait, do you think . . . He'll go, right?”

He scrolled through his contacts, copied Kyle's number, and sent it to me in a text. My phone dinged from across the room.

“Dunno, I guess. Am
I
going?” he asked, placing his phone back down.

I walked my fingers up his chest. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” He put his hands on my waist and poked his fingers into my ribs—my absolute worst ticklish spot. There was a dare in his eyes. I wriggled in anticipation.

“Okay, okay . . . sure,” I said.

“Sure what? Are you asking me?” His fingers poised to dig deeper.

“Zach O'Keefe, will you go to this silly dance thing with me next Friday?”

He stared me down, then all-out tickled me until I howled.

“Zach . . . okay . . . okay . . .” I begged. Just before it got more painful than fun, he stopped. I wrapped my arms around him, laughing. It took a few seconds to catch my breath. I rested my chin on his bare shoulder, resisting the urge to give him a nibble.

“Why wouldn't you ask me first?”

“Huh?” I sat up to look at him.

“Why would you ask for Kyle's number first? It's just . . . weird.”

“Your noticing is even weirder,” I said, running my fingers into his hair, gently nudging him to look at me. Zach was a warrior on the soccer field and had that quiet sort of confidence that made people take notice when he walked into a room. But here, in this moment, his brown eyes searching mine, he looked lost. Did not officially being asked really bother Mr. Chill Pill?

“Zach,” I said, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“Would you go . . .” I kissed the other corner.

“To the Sadie Hawkins Dance with me next Friday?” I ended by running my bottom lip across his. He took it between his teeth and nibbled, eyes still on mine. His jaw softened, our mouths dropping open. My tongue found his. Zach's hands wandered along my waist, my hip, my thigh. His kiss made me want to be somewhere soft. He stopped a moment to look at me.

“You make me—”

“Shh . . .” I whispered, touching my lips to his again. He gathered me in his arms and stood up, stumbling for a moment before getting his footing. I laughed underneath his kiss.

“Madison.”

Our mouths pulled apart, and the realization that neither of us had said my name made us both go wide-eyed. Zach looked up and gently tipped me to standing.

“Mom, I thought it was your late night,” I said, smoothing my skirt. Even though I was fully clothed I felt completely naked. But Zach . . . oh . . . fudge. He stood there shirtless and stunned. How had we missed the door being opened?

“I got off at six tonight, I thought I told you that,” she said, her face flushed as she looked at Zach. He finally grabbed his shirt and put it on. Was she blushing or was it from the cold? Paul was behind her, trying his hardest not to grin and losing. They both held bags of groceries. Long, leafy sprouts and a baguette poked out of the top of my mother's brown paper bag.

Zach brushed past me.

“Here, let me help you, Ms. Pryce,” he said, taking her bag.

“Thank you, Zach,” she said. Paul closed the door and followed Zach out to the kitchen. I busied myself with pushing Zach's chair into the table. Straightening up papers. Anything but looking at my mother. The thought of what they might have walked in on had they'd arrived five minutes later made me cringe.

“Why was he shirtless?” she asked.

“He, um, was inspired by the Laughing Buddha.” I pointed to the mantle and tried not to succumb to the fit of giggles that was building in my stomach.
Wow, that sounded ridiculous.
My mother put a finger to her lips to stifle a laugh herself.

“You really expect me to believe—”

“Mom, you can ask him, I swear, he was doing it to make me smile.”

“You weren't going upstairs, were you?”

Mom was always candid with me about sex. Not that she was okay with me having any, just that she let me know it was cool to talk to her. We'd had the discussion on house limits when I was old enough to have friends over unattended. She was okay with boys in the house when she wasn't home but she had a strict no-bedroom policy that, even though I'd thought about it, I'd never dream of breaking. We'd done plenty of damage on the couch, though, but it was different knowing someone could walk in on you at any second.