“Me, too.”
He takes the fingernail brush from my hand and sets it on the table. He knits his fingers between mine, our palms together, knuckles toward the ceiling like we are going to play uncle. Our hands are slippery from the soapy water and there is something sensual about the way they slide against each other.
“So maybe at least one of us will win,” I say.
He nods. There is a tension in the air, but not a bad tension. Not jealousy about the scholarship. It comes from where our hands are joined and it runs up my arm. I feel it in the thrumming of my heart. Zenn must feel it, too.
“We have maybe a half hour before my mom may or may not come stumbling through the door.”
I swallow once before I croak out, “Yeah?”
“Do you want to spend it giving me a manicure that will be ruined tomorrow? Or should we do something more productive with our time?” His slippery thumb caresses mine.
“Like … study?” I suggest, teasing. I squeeze his fingers between mine lightly. He squeezes back.
He shrugs and takes his left hand out of the bowl. He reaches for my other hand.
“We should study,” I say, as he pulls me up from my chair. “You have to graduate to qualify for that scholarship, and guess what? I got your trig homework from Mr. Haase.”
“Oh, yay,” Zenn says. He tugs on my hands, leading me around the table toward him. He guides my hips so I’m sitting on him, facing him, straddling his lap. He takes off my glasses and sets them on the table. I have a feeling we’re not going to be doing any studying.
I’m definitely okay with that.
“That would be pretty hot, huh?” he says, sliding his hand down my braid. His fingers catch in the rubber band and gently tug it out. “If I started talking trig?” He leans close and says, “Sine. Cosine.” His lips touch my earlobe and I hold my breath. “Tangent.”
“God, that is hot,” I whisper, only half-joking. I slide my fingers into his hair and he closes his eyes in pleasure. He slowly untwines my braid. I close my eyes, too.
“Secant.” He kisses me softly, his lips barely brushing against mine. “Chebyshev method.”
“God, you make even Chebyshev method sound dirty.”
“It’s not me,” he says innocently. “Chebyshev method just sounds dirty.”
I open my eyes and pull away from him slightly. I trace my fingers over his face: the tiny moon-shaped scar under the arch of his eyebrow, the slant of his straight and perfect nose, his cheekbones, his full lips. He didn’t shave this morning and his jaw is slightly rough. My fingertips make a quiet rasping against his chin.
“Viète’s infinite product,” he says. Seriously, I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anything sound as sexy as he can make a simple math formula.
“I don’t understand something.”
“I can’t help you with Viète’s infinite product. That’s your thing.”
“No. I don’t understand how you didn’t become superpopular within minutes of transferring.”
“Me?” He looks incredulous. “Popular?”
“Seriously. You are so … so good-looking.” I probably shouldn’t be so open with my compliments. I’m sure there’s some kind of coy game I should be playing, but I never learned.
He rolls his eyes. “Right.”
“You are. And you’re funny and artistic and smart and you have a kick-ass truck.”
“I do have a kick-ass truck,” he concedes.
“I would think those vulture girls would have swooped in at the first sniff of fresh meat when you showed up.”
He tucks my loose hair behind my ears. “I’m poor. I dress for shit. I don’t have time to play sports. And I couldn’t care less about any of this high school bullshit.”
“And … you’re kind of a rebel,” I add, as if he’s proven my point.
“Eva,” he says, sliding his still-damp hands just under the edge of my shirt, pressing his fingers lightly against my lower back. “I don’t have the time or patience for anyone whose biggest concern is kissing their friends’ asses. You don’t play their game, they don’t want you in their circle. You know that.”
I think of Josh, balancing on the fragile tightrope of popularity. He’s right.
“I mean, you’re smart and funny and pretty, and you’re not popular.”
“I’m not pretty.”
“Why is that the compliment that you resist?”
I’m not sure. I enjoy being called smart and funny, but when he compliments my looks I feel funny in a different way.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s because you are deeper than a puddle. But you are. Very. Pretty.”
I can feel my cheeks burning. I change the subject, but his talk of my good looks has made me warm inside. “How’d you get your cool truck anyway?” I lean down and press my lips against where his jaw nearly meets his ear.
“Dave — from the body shop? — he got it for a steal, we fixed it up. He gave it to me as an early graduation present.”
“Wow.” I catch his earlobe lightly between my lips. “That’s pretty generous.”
Zenn’s breath hitches. His fingers press into my back. “I bring him a lot of work.”
“Ah. So it’s, like, commission.”
“Kinda.”
He squirms a little beneath me.
“Am I making your legs fall asleep?” I ask, trying to lift my weight off his lap slightly.
He shakes his head. “Nothing is falling asleep.”
His suggestive tone makes me blush again. I look down without meaning to, and then blush more.
I kiss him, my hands on either side of his face, holding him like he might run away if I let go. He pulls lightly on my hips, pressing me down against him more firmly. We kiss, and kiss, and his hands wander up and around, exploring. If I thought we had more time, I’d take off my shirt and his shirt and anything else that’s getting in the way. But we only have minutes before his mom could walk in.
“This is crazy,” I whisper. “What are we doing?”
“Therapy, I thought,” he whispers back.
I pull away. “Seriously. What are we going to do?”
“About … the scholarship?” he asks.
“About everything.”
Zenn smooths my hair. He bites his lip in a way that makes my insides tangle. But he doesn’t answer.
Chapter 33
I don’t tell my parents about the scholarship. I’m not sure why, exactly. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to jinx it, or because nothing is for sure. But I don’t tell them anything.
I do contact Stephanie Rayner and set up a phone interview, during which I find myself almost underselling my qualifications. It’s not my intention when I dial the phone, but once we’re talking about math, it sounds flat and uninteresting, even to my own ears. It’s numbers. Formulas. Dry, perfect calculations.