“Fuck off, Cruz,” Owen says, staring intensely at his friend, who backs down quickly. Owen is tall, and his body is broad, his muscles cut, but he’s not the biggest guy in our school. Yet, when he gives a certain look, one with warning, it’s unbelievably effective. His friend walks over with his hand out, reaching for Owen’s, and Owen makes him wait a few long, painful seconds before he reaches back, slapping hands and pulling the other guy in to bump chests.
“This your chick?” the guy asks, nodding to me, his eyes flirtatious. I should probably be offended by being claimed and called someone’s chick, yet hearing it, and seeing Owen’s chest lift in response, makes me feel proud of being possessed—by him.
“This is Kensi, and yes, she’s my chick,” Owen repeats.
“Ahhh right. I feel ya, brother. Kensi, nice to meet you. You coming to our game tonight? You’ve gotta come see your man in action; he’s got skills,” Cruz says. I look to Owen as he puts his hands in his pockets and shrugs, forever modest. But he smiles, a smile that makes me think of last night, of his lips on me, his hands on me, and I blush right in front of his friend.
“What time? I’d like to go,” I say, looking up at Owen again.
“We play at six,” he says, his smile sliding into a pleased look that lets me know he’s happy I’m going.
“Sweet. Party at Sasha’s after,” Cruz says, slapping hands with Owen once more before turning to walk back to the group of guys waiting by the outside stairwell.
Owen starts pushing my instrument again, and I trail behind, now thinking about everything after Owen’s game—about going to that house again, about the things I saw other couples do there. Not just the sex, but the drugs and drinking. I also can’t help but remember how I felt the last time I was there—afraid and angry.
“We can just go home after the game, you know?” Owen says, pausing when we reach the band-room door.
“I know,” I say, my lip lodged between my teeth. I never say I don’t want to go, because there’s a part of me that wants to feel that rush again, of being somewhere that feels dangerous, and somewhere alone with Owen.
He sighs deeply and smiles with tight lips, pulling me into his chest, the softness of his black hoodie like heaven against my cheek. I want to do nothing else but stay here for the rest of the day.
Unfortunately, my reality slams into us—Willow opens the door, knocking into my xylophone and ending my hug-fest with Owen, my boyfriend. My. Boyfriend. Owen. I’m his chick. I let the silly grin and butterflies in my belly carry me through the rest of the morning, and I even let myself touch the piano a little during my independent study. I wouldn’t really call it playing, but it’s more than I’ve done in weeks.
In English, Owen’s feet are in their rightful place on my chair again. I reach down and squeeze his ankles, threatening to trap them before he slides them away and I sit in my chair. His breath surprises me when I feel it against my neck, his hand sliding my hair out of the way so he can drop a quick round of tiny kisses on my neck and ear. His desk is propped forward on its front legs just so he can reach me.
He backs away when he hears Mr. Chessman coming, pulling his pencil to his lips, chewing on the eraser, his other hand flipping the edges of his book. We’re wrapping up our discussion of Crime and Punishment today. Owen’s been anxious about it ever since the heated debate that sent him out of our classroom.
“Owen, can you join me in the hall, for just a minute?” Mr. Chessman’s voice surprises us both. Owen looks him in the eyes for a few solid seconds, like he’s trying to read his mind, before leaning forward and dropping the pencil from his lips.
I watch them both walk from the room, the door swinging open and closed behind them, then I turn my attention to Cal. His smug smile pisses me off, and he nods toward the door, saying something under his breath to the girl sitting next to him, who only giggles. I hate him for judging Owen.
When Owen and Mr. Chessman return to class, there’s a long awkward silence, the class watching Owen—waiting for him to pack his things, to leave, or to have some type of reaction. But he doesn’t. He simply leans forward again, picking up his pencil, and flipping his book open to the final few chapters, pressing his thumb down the seam to hold his book open.
Disappointed, most of the class turns back to the front, giving their focus over to our teacher. But I notice Owen’s hand, the one with the pencil, flexing and twisting and tapping the lead, letting the sharp point leave a red mark on the tip of his thumb. His face is low, his hair pushed forward, and I can tell this is one of those times, one of those moments when Owen wishes he could hide.