“Yeah, I’m in pretty big trouble,” I admit, enjoying every second of it.
We spend our morning band practice marching. Most of my time is spent practicing chords and new sheet music on the xylophone—wheeling it to the field to watch the rest of the band march, wheeling it back when we’re done. My shoes are caked with wet, dead grass, so I spend my independent hour—the time I’m supposed to be practicing the piano—digging away the grass and mud. It’s an excuse not to play. I don’t even pretend it’s anything but.
When Owen’s feet are waiting on my desk, his pencil eraser pressed in-between his lips, his cocky smile underscoring the intensity of his eyes as they watch me move through the desks between the door and our row, I melt.
I melt.
I melt every time.
I don’t bother to move his feet, instead sitting in my seat, resting my arm along the top of his ankle, enjoying the nearness of any part of him. I catch the stares from the others in the class. Most people take us in, dismiss us, and then move on. Others, girls who I’ve seen in the rotation, whisper and stare a little longer than most. But Owen never moves from our touch, and neither do I.
Every class is the same. And when it’s time for lunch, Owen actually waits for me by the classroom door, walking by my side to the cafeteria. Just before I reach to open the door, his pinky grabs mine. I stop to notice, my eyes looking at the way our hands look together, my fingers shaking with nerves, until eventually Owen weaves his entire hand through mine, his grip leaving no doubt that this touch—it’s intentional, and it isn’t fleeting.
“You wanna skip lunch and head outside to make out in front of Willow and Jess?” I joke, really just a mask for how nervous I still am with him. Owen smiles and laughs once, but then he shakes his head, leans in, and kisses my cheek.
“Nah. I’d rather just be with you,” he says, his eyes meeting mine, but looking down quickly as he pushes the brim of his hat lower. He’s nervous, too.
We both pick out a few small things for lunch, and Owen follows me to the table, my friends all watching him sit next to me, take my tray for me, then open the tab on his soda.
After several long awkward silent seconds, Owen puts his soda back down on the table and wipes his hands along his jeans, drying them from the moisture from the can. He reaches across the table to Jess, his hand out for a shake.
“Hi. I’m Owen,” he says, his eyes daring Jess to break, for the table to break and everyone to finally get over whatever it is they all seem to find weird. Jess takes over eventually, smiling back and shaking Owen’s hand, laughing at himself.
“Sorry, we’re band geeks. We lack social skills,” Jess says, and Willow ribs him.
“Speak for yourself,” she says.
“Especially this one. She’s like head band geek, so…ya know,” he says, grimacing and earning an even harder jab from Willow.
“Owwwww! Hey,” he says, rubbing the spot she poked, looking up as Ryan slides behind him to his seat next to Elise.
“Hey, O. What’s up?” Ryan says, his eyes setting on Owen’s left arm, which is now around my shoulders, his fingers slowly scratching at my shoulder, possessively. “Ahhhh, never mind,” Ryan adds, a quick wink before giving the rest of his attention to his lunch.
“You coming to practice today?” Ryan says, his mouth mumbling through a giant bite of his sandwich.
“Yeah, I should make them all now. Quit the job. Mom’s getting a second, at least, for a while,” Owen says, and I reach down and slide my hand over his knee, just wanting to let him know I know the depth of it all—how much his mom working, him working, is integral to his family.
“Cool. Hey, you should come watch, Kens,” Ryan says, his eyes smirking when he mentions the invitation.
“Oh, no. She’d get bored,” Owen says, and I can feel him stiffen next to me.
“No, I wouldn’t. I love watching you play,” I say, a little too quickly, the admission that I’ve watched him before, ever at all, falling out in front of everyone.
“You love watching me, huh?” he teases, his mouth slowly taking in a chip, crunching leisurely, while his smile slips back into place.
All I can do is stare back into his eyes, his eyes that are daring me to say anything different, to pretend and lie, and try to convince the rest of the table that I don’t watch him. His eyebrows raise, and my face burns from the redness.
“Practice is at four,” he says, his head falling to the side, and his look growing more adoring.