Yannik
No affection. Ever.
That's just how it's always been. There's never been a single time when I thought twice about the guy I'd just kissed. I tried to make myself care, attempted to pretend, but every time, all I felt was disgust, with a pinch of sick satisfaction.
"Well," the guy whose car I'm in lets out an awkward chuckle, licking his lips. I look at him, studying his features as if he were a beautiful ancient statue, paying attention to every detail. "I had a great time tonight, Yannik."
I still don't know why I do this. Still don't see the real reason. At some random moment, it just became a hobby, the one thing I'm finally good atâa mad way to show myself I'm worth something.
To show her I can do it better.
"Yeah, me too," I say softly, my voice nothing but a whisper, melting into the warm summer night air, merging with the musky scent of cologne. The car suddenly feels so small I struggle to take a breath as I see my date hesitate, mistrusting his own desires. He stares straight at the road to avoid making eye contact, awkwardly nervous and tense.
"Hey."
Shit, I still don't remember his name. But now, that's not what I need to care about the mostâhe turns to me so quickly it's obvious he was hoping I'd make the first move.
What a pussy.
I lean over the gearshift in one abrupt movement, my fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer, almost violently. I might hear a moanâa sound of air knocked out of his lungs from the impactâbut all I really listen to is something far more spiritual, something distant from this car, this neighborhood, this town.
Glory is the name of it.
He tastes sweet, like the vanilla shake he had back at the diner, and his lips are soft and warm, though he presses them together too hard, desperate to take more. I feel his hand on my thigh, sliding upward, his fingers digging into the flesh. The tension is enough to give me a simple idea of what this kiss means to him.
But all I feel is my mouth against his, a wet trace left on my lips as they're sucked and licked. A disturbing sensationâa finished trail, like the unsatisfying ending of a godlike movie, a storm after a perfect beach day.
Something like what a drug addict might feel when hitting the bottom after the very top.
"What's your name again?" I mumble against his lips, breaking the kiss. The sound of it ending rushes through the car. He pauses briefly, his shaky breath filling the silence. Then his eyebrows flinch as though he's about to furrow them.
"Dane," he exhales.
"Dane what?" There's a thread of desperation in my voice.
"Bonavich," he answers, pulling back just enough to look me in the eyes, chuckling softly. His gaze drifts back to my lips. "Why, wondering if it suits your name?"
He giggles. Poor guy, too scatterbrained by his boner to understand.
The look on his face as I get out of the car is familiarâit's the same every single time: desperation and confusion mixed with a lingering spark of desire.
Miserable.
"Wait, you're leaving?" His voice sounds nervous. Maybe that's why I stop before shutting the car door to give him a quick glance. His faceâcute and worriedâmakes me pause.
I point to the house behind me. "Duh," I say, raising an eyebrow. "There's a reason I told you to drop me off here, y'know."
"I knowâ" He looks as lost as a deer in headlights, making a weak attempt to keep me there. "We're still seeing each other tomorrow after school though?"
I can already feel it: the soft touch of paper, the rush of adrenaline, and the sting in my stomach as I write down the name of this jerk.
"You know the answer, Dane," I call out, shutting the door behind me before he can respond.
Probably the last time I'll ever hear his voice.
Not that it's a pityâthe guy's hella annoying.
The sound of the TV drifts through the house as I open the door. Dad must be spending his day off alone again. Good thing I'm the only one who seems to care about it.
I love how my room smells like pineapple and victory. How the pink glow of the lights wraps around me as I reach up to the top shelf of my wardrobe. My hands tremble slightly as I open the box.
I know the words written on the cardboard as if I had etched them myself. I can recall every tear on its edges, every crease marking the surface of this box that's older than I am.
And it makes me just as mad as it makes me proud, because the more I know her, the more I hate herâand hate myself for being her fucking copy.
"Dane..." I savor his name again, desperate to see it written down. My fingers clutch the pen like it's my salvation, even though the ink bleeding into the paper is the deadliest poison I can imagine.
Bonavich, Dane Bonavich.
I know his name from the games I went to last season, from all the times TJ and Samuel complained about this guy flaking on the team as the three of us shared a blunt in TJ's garage. I've probably heard it from Cormac too, one of those times he talked about football like a teenage girl obsessed with her douchebagâcrush.
My eyes scan the paper. A sick satisfaction wells in my chest as I see Dane Bonavich finally added as number ninety-four on my list.
My heart pounds against my ribs, threatening to shatter the bones. I try to catch my breath, but the air escapes from my lungs before I can inhale properly. I want to stop, to take a moment to reflect, to hate her. But my mind is already far away, somewhere only the two of us existâme and her.
Yes, this is how it must feel.
Supremacy.
***
"First day. You're doing great so farâ" the sarcastic smirk on Mr. Dawson's face makes me sick. "Last year, you got suspended before you could even step into the classroom."
Oh, yeah. I remember. The day some girl came at me with her fists up because, apparently, I'd kissed her man. I didn't even make it to my locker that dayâbut the crazy bitch got five stitches, and I got suspended for a whole month.
A nasty story, but only because I walked out with a busted lip.
"Speaking of that, I went through your records this morning," Mr. Dawson says slowly, focused on his laptop screen. The sound of mouse clicks is the only other noise in the room. "Let's just say, attitude issues isn't exactly what colleges are looking for."
No shit.
"I'm not going to college, so..." I bite my tongue to stop myself from swearing, just to avoid proving to my history teacher rightânobody's looking for a problematic girl to join their program.
The room is awfully quiet. Of course, it's just me and Mr. Dawson here at seven a.m., discussing my attitude. Apparently, this man has no personal life, and now I have to deal with it because I promised Dad I'd try my best and actually make it to class this time.
"You should consider it, Yannik." His voice gets serious as he glances at me over his glasses. "You've got the best score in my class," he pauses, and I focuse on the sound of the printer spitting out the papers, which he catches and drops on the desk in front of me. "And I figured you may be interested in enhancing your transcript."
I stare at the paper he's handed me. My nails tap rhythmically against the desk as I scan each line.
"He just transferred from West High due to some... issues," Mr. Dawson explains, his voice fading into the background. "Santiago's an excellent student, but let's be honestâhis history grade is concerning."
My eyes skim the paper, but everytime I see his name, all I can think about is how good it sounds, dancing on the tip of my tongue, begging to be pronounced.
Santiago. Santiago Jones.
He's cute, even managed to look good in his school photo. Transferred because of "issues", which obviously means troubleâsounds hella fun.
Am I getting fresh meat today?
"Guy's dumb with dates and names," I mutter, and Mr. Dawson doesn't bother to disagree. God, now I need to see his grades in History, just to feel smarter.
"Wellâ" Mr. Dawson coughs, then takes the paper and tucks it into a folder before I can get another look at this Santiago boy. "What do you say?"
I curl my lip in silent response. "About what?" I stare at Mr. Dawson as he smirks, his head down. When he looks back up, there's a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Tutoring," he says, and I shiver. "Come on, Yan, you're the best person for the job. Plus, I'll consider talking to other teachers about writing you a recommendation."
Oh, this motherfucker.
I hate seeing him get what he wants.
I roll my eyes at the thought of teaching History to some guy. And the challenge is actually teachingânot just role-playing until he gets so horny he can't think straight. "Alright, I guess," I mutter bitterly, disgusted by my own surrender. The smile on Mr. Dawson's face only gets wider.
"Good!" He stands up, and I'm on my feet just as fast, desperate to get out of here. Maybe, go to the locker room with TJ and Sam, shake the stress off with a puff or two. I hate staying here, watching my history teacher pull my strings like a puppet.
"See you in class, Yan!"
The door closes behind me so quickly it's like Mr. Dawson was dying for me to leave. Maybe he was, and that's why he set this whole deal upâto keep me busy so I wouldn't cause trouble.
He's lucky this Santiago boy is cute, or I'd have said no.
Walking down the hallway feels weird after a whole summer away from school. So new, I almost forget where my locker isâuntil I see some guy opening it.
This Santiago boy is even hotter in person... If you ignore the fact that he's trying to rob me.