“Deal,” I say, risking a smile.
Then, without warning, he wraps his arms around my waist, scooping me up and spinning me around before he plops me back against our locker. Everyone near us glances in our direction, before resuming their conversations or sipping their coffees or swapping out books from their lockers. “You’re dating Tate Collins!” he proclaims in a hush, like he wants to be sure I realize the gravity of the situation. “The fact that you’re dating at all is astounding. But gorgeous, uber-famous Tate Collins, whose music I have been obsessed with for three years but you couldn’t care less about...that Tate Collins!” Carlos sucks in a deep breath, like he’s about to pass out.
I draw in my top lip to keep from laughing. “Yeah,” I answer softly. “I guess that would be him.”
“When Charlotte Reed decides to date, she doesn’t waste time with average high school boys, she goes big—mega pop star big. And I’ve never been prouder of you.”
His comment forces me to think about how not proud my grandma will be if she finds out. “You don’t think I’m weak?” I ask, my voice suddenly small. “You know my rule about dating, and I’ve just completely broken it.”
“You’re not weak,” he says, leaning in close. “You’ve just finally realized what you’ve been missing. It’s not like anything else has changed—you haven’t given up any of your goals, you haven’t dropped out of high school. You’re just going to have a more exciting love life to go with it.” He winks and we both smile. And just hearing that Carlos isn’t disappointed in me makes me feel better.
The bell rings, and suddenly everyone in the hallway starts to scatter.
Carlos reaches past me into the locker and grabs his calculus textbook. “See you in English,” he says. “I’ll be daydreaming about you and Tate Collins until then.”
I roll my eyes playfully and close our locker door, then head in the opposite direction to AP History.
Whatever I was expecting when I got to school this morning, it’s not what I get. No one so much as glances in my direction the rest of the day. I know others have seen the photos—Jenna Sanchez and Lacy Hamilton whisper about them while Mr. Rennert lectures on symbolism in The Catcher in the Rye. But they’re focused more on the girl in the photo’s “sick” red dress than on the girl herself—and then suddenly they’re talking about Tate’s body and Carlos grins and elbows me and I force myself to pay attention to Holden Caulfield.
But that’s when I realize I’m in the clear. Because Tate’s new mystery girlfriend could never be nerdy, bookworm-slash-good-girl Charlotte Reed. A girl like Charlotte Reed does not attract the attention of Tate Collins, worldwide music sensation. And by the end of the day, I’m grinning to myself. They’re all wrong about me.
Incredibly wrong.
*
My life starts to feel more and more normal. I finish my college applications, go to work, study for tests, do everything just the way I’ve always done it. Except for one thing: Tate. Only Mia and Carlos know about my Friday and Saturday dates with Tate Collins, the rendezvous at his house or at intimate little restaurants where Tate reserves the whole place for just us. He tells me about his music and that he hasn’t wanted to write anything new in a long time.
We’re more careful about the paparazzi, steering clear of any major hot spots. Tate gets asked to do interviews and talk show appearances, Rolling Stone even wants to do a feature article about his sudden reappearance after a year, and to tell the world who his new mystery girl is. But he turns them all down. He doesn’t want to talk about us, about the last year. He just wants privacy, and to be with me.
So instead, he takes me on long drives down to Laguna Beach. Once we go as far as La Jolla, where we sit on the patio of a small, hole-in-the-wall ice cream shop overlooking the ocean, sharing a dish of lime sherbet.
Carlos is my alibi during these late nights and weekends. I tell Grandma we’re spending all our free time studying at the library or at Carlos’s house—that it’s too hard to focus at home with Mia and Leo always there.
When really I’m with Tate.
But even when we’re parked in his car overlooking the Pacific, or we’re curled up on his couch watching whatever movie I choose, we still don’t kiss. Not yet, he tells me whenever I draw close. Not yet.