I’m nodding along, but then my phone chimes from inside my purse, and I quickly rummage for it.
“I’ll see you in English,” Carlos says. “And, Charlotte...welcome back.” He turns and wends his way through the sea of students already headed to first period.
I pull out my phone, the screen still glowing from a text.
It’s from Tate.
Can I see you?
My chest flutters, ignites, and I glance around the crowded hall, as if anyone walking by might somehow be able to figure out that I’m texting with Tate Collins. But everyone ignores me—as usual.
Yes. I type back.
Another text pops up on the screen. Today?
I’m about to respond when the four-tone bell blares from the hallway speaker above me: only five minutes until class starts. I slam the locker shut and weave into the crowd. As I walk, I type back, Tell me where, and hit SEND.
The day ticks by with excruciating slowness. We’re reviewing more material for our exams, but I barely take it in, and there is a pop quiz in history that I hardly remember finishing.
Aside from a serious lack of sleep that’s making it impossible to focus, I also keep checking my phone, waiting for a response from Tate that never comes.
At the end of the day, Carlos and I exit through the massive double doors, the sun streaming through the row of palm trees lining the street, and I lift a hand to shield my eyes. Carlos keeps talking, telling me how in PE today he accidentally nailed Amanda Coats in the face playing dodgeball.
“I felt terrible, obviously,” he’s saying. “But that girl wears too much makeup during PE and it’s like the balls are drawn to her face—” If his story continues, I don’t hear it. My gaze has drifted out to the street, past the mob of students fanning out away from the school.
There, at the curb, is Tate’s car.
“I heard Mike Logan’s having a party tonight.” Carlos’s voice slips back into my ears. “Maybe we should go. It might be entertaining.”
“I can’t,” I say, turning my gaze from the car back to Carlos. He hasn’t noticed it yet.
“What could you possibly be doing tonight? It’s Friday, Char. Homework and studying can happen tomorrow. And you said Holly gave you the night off.”
“I know—” I say, touching a strand of hair and tucking it behind my ear. “It’s just... I should get a head start on studying for the next history exam. I think I bombed the quiz today.”
“Doubt it. Charlotte Reed never bombs quizzes.” He’s right, except I haven’t been as focused these last three weeks and even an A– would be a setback with Stanford looming on the horizon.
“I’ll make it up to you next week. Coffee and reality TV at my house?”
Carlos exhales loudly. “Fine.” But even annoyed with me, he kisses my cheek before heading away. “Call me tomorrow! I need your help with calc, don’t forget!”
I wave him away, pretending to search for something in my backpack. When Carlos crosses the street and is out of sight, I walk down the steps toward the car. It hasn’t moved since I stepped outside. I start to doubt myself as I get closer; maybe I’m wrong—maybe it’s not Tate.
But then the door swings open.
I pause, staring at the dark interior.
“You coming?” a voice speaks from the darkness—Tate’s voice.
My heart leaps upward, and I do a quick sweep of the parking lot and front lawn. Only Jenna Sanchez, who I think is still upset that I got roses that day in English and she didn’t, stares at me briefly from her circle of friends chatting on the sidewalk. But then she turns away.
I take off my backpack and slide into the passenger seat. Inside, Tate smiles at me. He looks almost shy. “Hey,” he says.
“I didn’t know you were picking me up.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“It worked.” I try to keep a smile from breaking across my lips. I don’t want him to know how happy I am to see him. It feels silly and girly and not like me.
“I know you probably still have doubts. But when you called last night, I... I couldn’t wait to see you again.”
I shift my eyes to his. He is curved lips and dark eyes and a million mysteries I haven’t yet solved. And my heart starts to climb just by looking at him. Any exhaustion I felt earlier has quickly evaporated. Being here with Tate sets alight every nerve ending.
And then, in his hands, I notice a black strip of fabric. “What’s that?” I ask.
“A blindfold.” The dimple winks at me. “I want to take you somewhere and it’s a surprise.”
I hesitate, shifting uneasily in the seat. A blindfold, seriously? I should get out now. Head home and work on my Stanford essays, tackle my homework, give Mia a break with Leo, anything but this. But instead, I stay put.
“Charlotte,” he says, his voice soft. “Do you trust me?” He said something similar last night. I know it’s important to him and I want him to know that I’m trying. That I want to give this a shot with him.