Free Kiss Me by Jillian Dodd Page B

thoughts. “Just sit anywhere.”
    I don’t want to be rude, so I sit down next to Bryce and across from Jake. 
    The boys are telling Tyrese about what a joke Ceramics class is going to be when Whitney, Peyton, and three other pretty girls sit down. The three girls all scrunch up their noses at me, like they just smelled sour milk.
    Whitney gives me that you-don’t-belong-here look.
    It’s a look I know well, having worn it on numerous occasions myself.
    What the heck am I doing here? 
    I’m trying to come up with a graceful exit strategy when Dawson sits down on the other side of me and whispers in my ear, “You look adorable today.” 
    And I can’t help it. It makes me happy.
    Mostly because I was a bit worried about how I look today. I’m wearing the little plaid pleated skort, a fitted blue and white pinstriped oxford, and the navy blazer. Then I have on white lace over-the-knee socks and navy suede Rag & Bone platform Mary Janes. My accessories are a combination of long gold and pearl necklaces, gold bangles, and a red leather Proenza Schouler bag. I adore the lace socks and the platforms, but no one else is wearing them. Whitney has on pantyhose—seriously, do people still wear pantyhose?—and a pair of navy square-heeled pumps. The leather looks buttery and expensive, but they still look like the kind of sensible shoes your grandma might wear to the country club. 
    Make that great-grandma.
    But I don’t care. I’m not trying to fit in. I want to be me. And this version of their uniform is totally my style. 
    Whitney glares at me. 
    Dawson is oblivious to Whitney’s glares. He puts his hand on my knee, touching the top of my socks, and says in his you’re-so-going-to-fall-into-bed-with-me voice, “These are especially sexy.”
    I am about ready to tell him to stop flirting with me when Whitney speaks to Jake in a loud voice. “Oh, Jakey, I just love the tie you have on today. Is it Fendi?” Then she rubs her hand down the front of his shirt and looks at the back of his tie. 
    She fawns over him and even gives him a kiss on the cheek. 
    Her fawning is aimed directly at Dawson. She’s talking and flirting with Jake, but her eyes are on Dawson, who hasn’t looked at her once because his attention has been focused on me and Bryce. He tells us all about his morning classes, then starts talking about the kind of wheels I should buy for my new Range Rover. That conversation morphs into an animated one about all the hottest cars they have ever seen.
    The lunch-is-over bell rings. 
    I haven’t seen the Hottie today, but as I’m heading off to my next class, I spy him. 
    He’s dumping his trash into a trash barrel. 
    And looking way too sexy doing it.
    But, still. 
    I’ll be damned if I am going to speak to him. He hasn’t spoken to me or texted me since the dances. He turns in my direction and I quickly look away. I certainly don’t want to look like I’m creeping on him. 
    That becomes an easy task when Dallas comes wandering over, throws his arm around my shoulder, and says, “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
    As we’re walking, he goes on and on about how he was able to see up some girl’s skirt in his last class. And how her panties were bright neon blue, and how She just didn’t look like the kind of girl to wear neon blue . 
    Then he starts trying to guess the underwear color of every girl we pass. 
    We get to my class and he says, “So what color are yours today?”
    “I thought the whole point of your little game was to guess.”
    “Hmm, do they match your socks, white and lacy?”
    “Damn, you’re good,” I lie.
    He grins big and walks off to class feeling all good about himself.  
    I’m wearing red lace, really, but, shh . . . don’t tell. 
    Mom always says red lace panties make you feel confident and sexy, even if no one ever sees them.
     
    The back of my hair.
    French.
     
    I walk into French class and don’t see anyone I know, so I sit in a mid-row