He motioned Natti to come inside. She unconsciously took a step forward; a strange force compelled her to join them. Her hands were reaching to pull her shirt off. It was as if she was no longer in control.
What the hell . . . ? Natti shook her head, finding the strength to resist through a familiar heavy sensation that rested against her chest. It was one she often got when someone lied to her. She was born with it. A gift, her grandmother called it, which could tell her when something wasn’t right. And as much as her body suddenly wanted to be next to the boy, feeling the skin of his lean, muscular chest, her gift was telling her something was off. His intentions were not pure.
She lowered her hands to her side, taking a step back into the hall. “Sorry.” She shook her head. “I don’t do threesomes.”
The young man looked completely stunned, momentarily, before he quickly regained his charm. He softened his eyes and gave what seemed to be his best innocent smile. “Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” The force that was trying to draw her in was becoming stronger. “There’s plenty to go around.”
Once again, her body began to move, her desire growing stronger. It was a strange sensation, almost overpowering her conscious thought, which was odd. She never felt anything like it. It was like a tidal current trying to pull her under. Fighting, a dull headache began to build between her temples, and the pounding of her heart made it easier for Natti to brush aside the strange effect his words had over her.
When she could finally think clearly again, she leaned on the door knob with a mischievous smile. “Thanks, but no. You obviously have your hands full.”
The boy gaped, and Natti closed the door before he could recover from her remarks. She shut her eyes, leaned on the door, and took a deep breath to compose herself. She had no idea what just happened in there or why she had reacted the way she did. How could one look and a few words suddenly pull her in like that? The boy was, obviously, a player. The girl— Charlotte? — was complete putty in his arms. She didn’t even protest at his recommendation of her joining in their fun.
Too tired and confused, she dropped the matter, only making a mental note to avoid the boy if at all possible in the future. She reflected on the boy’s shocked face when she refused him. It was like he never hear the word ‘no’ before, and she sniggered with satisfaction.
“Slimy bugger.”
***
Natti knocked on the door before entering her first period classroom, feeling guilty for interrupting. The teacher froze and turned to her; his brown eyes were kind and gentle and his sandy blond hair just beginning to recede. He leaned casually on his desk.
“Sorry I’m late,” she whispered. “I got a little lost in the halls.”
“Not to worry.” He waved a hand, dismissing her apology. “You must be Natara Stone.”
“Ah, yes, but I prefer Natti.” Not that she didn’t like her full name. Her mother had chosen it for her, after all. A reminder of her heritage. But when she started school in London, all her old friends began calling her Natti for short, and it just kind of stuck. Even her father preferred it.
“Well, Natti, welcome to American Literature. I’m Howard Jackson. Come in and take a seat.” He scanned the room. “I don’t believe in assigning, so I’m afraid the back is filled up. There are plenty of empty seats here in the second row, however.”
Natti nodded and slipped into a chair. A girl with square framed glasses smiled quickly at her before turning her attention back to Mr. Jackson.
Mr. Jackson focused on Natti and raised the book in his hand. “Sad to say you missed several weeks of analyzing early American poetry with us, but you’re just in time to start The Great Gatsby.” His gaze then turned to the room full of students. “Perhaps someone can tell the class a little about F. Scott Fitzgerald?”
Natti looked around. The room became silent, the only sound was coming from the open window. Oh, you have got to be kidding me, she thought. Yes, she knew she had an advantage, having a father who was a writer and strong believer in all the classics, as well as learning about F. Scott Fitzgerald just last year in her English Literature course. But did anyone think just to give a guess, read the back of their book out loud, or even make a wise-crack remark? Anything?
Just dead silence.
“Anyone?” Mr. Jackson called. “Anyone at least read the author page?”
Brilliant, where’s Hermione when you need her. Natti rolled her eyes and let out a deep breath of frustration. Honestly . . . Hesitantly, she raised her hand. This was so embarrassing. She was trying to stay on the down low, yet in the silence, she felt compelled to answer. This is just going to one of those days.