It's Monday afternoon, the last block of the day, and a full six minutes and thirty seconds into chemistry cla.s.s when Ben finally comes in. He smiles at me, totally catching me off guard. And totally making my face heat up.

I saw him earlier today, too, and I had a similar reaction. We were pa.s.sing one another near the front entranceway of the school when we collided, and his shoulder b.u.mped against my forearm.

It nearly made me drop my books.

I mean, it wasn't just just the mild collision. It was the way he lingered there, asking me if I was okay, telling me it was an accident, running his fingers over my arm to make sure I was okay. He gazed into my eyes and smiled an irresistible grin-as if we shared some secret. the mild collision. It was the way he lingered there, asking me if I was okay, telling me it was an accident, running his fingers over my arm to make sure I was okay. He gazed into my eyes and smiled an irresistible grin-as if we shared some secret.

My heart pounded, and my insides turned to bubbling lava. I secretly hoped his b.u.mping into me wasn't an accident at all, but 100 percent intentional.

Ben slides into the seat beside mine and starts flipping through his notes.

"Is everything okay, Ms. Hammond?" the Sweat-man asks, obviously noticing my s.p.a.ceyness, and how I can't stop staring.

Ben looks beyond delicious, dressed in layers of chocolate brown. He glances at me, checking for my response, and so I give a quick nod, my insides stirring up even more.

Sweat-man continues with his lecture, failing to say anything about Ben's lateness, which only confirms the rumor that the princ.i.p.al's given Ben carte blanche as far as promptness goes. There are several theories as to why his tardiness is accepted. Some think it's for Ben's own safety-because he's constantly getting hara.s.sed, and maybe the administration is afraid a fight will break out in the hallway as people are changing cla.s.ses. Others say it's because he has a phobia-either claustrophobia or agoraphobia, or possibly a blend of both.

Personally, I don't know the reason for his lag time. I'm just really happy to see him.

While Sweat-man prattles on-something about chemical and ionic bonding-I can't help noticing the olive tone of Ben's skin, the mole on his left cheek, and how every few minutes he turns to glance at me.

When cla.s.s is finally over, he collects his books in a stack and then moves past me, the sleeve of his shirt brushing against my back, sending tingles all over my skin.

"I'll see you later," he says in a hushed tone.

I nod, wondering if he really means it, if he really intends to see me later, or if it's just his way of saying good-bye.

He heads up to talk to the Sweat-man, and I'm so tempted to hang around and wait until he's done.

But Kimmie spots me first. She pulls me from the doorway, yanks me out into the hall, all the while babbling on about how she needs to get to the mall-STAT-to buy herself some decent underwear.

"Sounds like a dire emergency," I say, keeping an eye on the chemistry room door.

"It is is an emergency," she insists. "How can a girl this chic-meaning me, before you ask-run around with a rubber band holding up her undies?" an emergency," she insists. "How can a girl this chic-meaning me, before you ask-run around with a rubber band holding up her undies?"

"Wait-what?"

"I have three words for you: underwear, broken elastic waistband, down around my ankles in Spanish cla.s.s."

"Okay, but that was way more than three words."

"Whatever," she says. "Here, feel my ball." She gestures toward her waist.

"No, thanks." I grimace.

She smirks and shows me the ball of fabric bulging out from her vintage poodle skirt-where she's obviously got a rubber band tightened around her panty fabric to hold said panties up.

Meanwhile, I continue to keep focused on the door, antic.i.p.ating Ben's exit.

"Did Kimmie tell you about Spanish?" Wes shouts, barreling his way up the hallway toward us.

Kimmie rolls her eyes. "Do we really need to rehash all the details?"

"Of course we do," he says. "Just picture it: it's before cla.s.s, and Kimmie's on her way up to the front of the room to sharpen her pencil, not even realizing her underwear is falling down around her ankles. The next thing you know, Davis Miller grabs for it-"

"Okay, first of all," Kimmie interrupts, "let's just say there's been a lot of drama going on at my house as of late. A girl-even the most fashionably minded-doesn't always get it right, especially when she's racing out the door first thing in the morning for fear her dad might ask for another lesson on setting up a Ferrari blog. By the way, he wants everyone to call him Turbo from now on."

"And second of all?" Wes asks.

"Davis Miller is clearly the result of birth-control failure," she says. "He looks like a walking Mr. Potato Head with those bulging eyes, that bulbous nose, and those blubbery lips."

"But he does play a mean electric guitar. Have you heard his rendition of 'Walk This Way'? Seriously, it'll bring tears to your eyes." Wes uses the corner of his sleeve to dab at the invisible tears on his cheeks.

"Because it's so horrible?" Kimmie asks.

"Because it would make Steven Tyler proud."

"Who?" Her face scrunches up.

While the two continue to argue over what makes great music, I keep an eye on the door, until I notice them staring at me, arms folded, awaiting my response.

"What?" I ask, feeling the color rise to my cheeks.

"My question exactly," Wes says. "What's up with you today?"

"Nothing." I sigh.

"Not nothing," he says. "You look like the old woman who swallowed a fly."

"I guess she'll die," he and Kimmie sing in unison. he and Kimmie sing in unison.

"Very funny." I laugh.

"No." Kimmie corrects me. "Funny would be Wes continuing to dress like a third grader on school-picture day. I mean, honestly. d.i.c.kies and boat shoes?" She tsktsks at his outfit. "Totally two decades ago."

"This from the girl who wears enough black eyeliner to paint a large hea.r.s.e, casket included," Wes says.

"Not to mention granny panties," I add.

"Okay, minus the geriatric Skivvies, it's called style," Kimmie argues. "And we need to get Wes some, p.r.o.nto. Camelia, are you in? Something tells me you could use some shopping therapy. Nothing like a fresh pair of undies to lift the spirits."

"That's what I I always say," Wes says, girl-ifying his voice by raising it three octaves. always say," Wes says, girl-ifying his voice by raising it three octaves.

I nod somewhat reluctantly, warning her that I have to be back early for a tutoring session with Matt.

"Don't worry about it." She links arms with me. "We'll have you back in ample time to rendezvous with your ex."

We move quickly down the hallway, en route to our lockers, Kimmie blabbering on about how she'll be forever remembered as the girl with the huge-a.s.s granny panties.

Before we turn down the hallway to get to our lockers, I glance back one last time in the direction of the chemistry lab.

And that's when I see Ben, standing in the doorway, staring right back at me.

"Hold up," I say, stopping us in our tracks. "I think I forgot something."

"What did you forget?" Kimmie asks.

"Something," I say, pretending to search in my bag.

"Something, huh?" Kimmie looks in the direction of the chemistry lab.

Ben is still there.

"Something tall, dark, and dangerous, maybe?" She puts her hands on her hips. The poodle on her skirt glares at me, foaming at the mouth (a Kimmie-designed applique).

"Maybe." I shrug.

"And maybe you're too transparent."

"Like tissue paper," Wes adds.

"Well, Kimmie should know about tissue paper," I say, gesturing toward her stuffed bra. "I really think he wants to talk to me."

"So, then, why doesn't he come over here? Why is he just standing there, gawking at us?" Kimmie asks.

"The angoraphobia thing," Wes whispers, to remind her.

"That's agora agoraphobia, you dumb-a.s.s." She swats his head with her rhinestone purse. "The poor boy doesn't have a fear of rabbit wool."

"Don't you think it's weird he's hanging around you all of a sudden?" Wes asks.

"He's not hanging around me hanging around me," I snap.

"First, the parking lot," Kimmie begins. "Then you guys are conveniently paired up as lab partners."

"So he can poke you with his test tube," Wes chimes in.

"Right," Kimmie says. "And don't forget this morning in front of the school. We saw the way he rubbed up against you in the doorway."

"He didn't rub up rub up against me," I bark. "We b.u.mped into each other." against me," I bark. "We b.u.mped into each other."

"Call it what you will," Wes says, "but that move would be considered illegal in some states."

"What, are you guys spying on me now?"

"Well, the mauling in lab cla.s.s is public knowledge," Wes explains. "As for the doorway incident, Kimmie and I were on our way to say hi, but you and Ben the Butcher-that's what people are calling him, FYI-were looking a little too chummy for a party."

"And that was just in a doorway," Kimmie adds.

"Right," Wes continues. "Just imagine what could happen if we left you two alone in an entire foyer."

"Definitely peculiar," Kimmie says.

"Whatever," I say, refusing to get into it. I turn and head toward Ben.

But he's no longer anywhere in sight.

17.

After finding Wes the perfect non-third-grade school-picture-day outfit, complete with Adidas sneakers to replace his "two decades ago" boat shoes, and Abercrombie jeans in lieu of the d.i.c.kies, Kimmie and I drop him off at the arcade and make a plan to meet him at the food pavilion in a half hour.

Meanwhile, we make our way to the lingerie store.

"They can't just be any any undies," Kimmie explains, picking through the pile of cotton briefs. "They have to call out to me. They have to say, 'I. Am. Worthy.' I mean, we are talking about my caboose here, right?" undies," Kimmie explains, picking through the pile of cotton briefs. "They have to call out to me. They have to say, 'I. Am. Worthy.' I mean, we are talking about my caboose here, right?"

"Right," I say, playing along, trying not to laugh out loud, even when she gives her caboose a shimmy-shake.

While Kimmie continues to look around, I decide to check out some pj's. I find a really cute pair-a snuggly pink hoodie top with matching fleece shorts. I hold them up to myself in the mirror.

"Too cute," Kimmie says, sneaking up behind me. "That's what you want to be wearing when the fire department rescues you in the middle of the night from the window of a blazing building."

"Exactly what I was thinking." I roll my eyes.

"So, I got the goods." She jiggles her shopping bag at me, having already paid.

"And did they call out to you?"

"These babies didn't just call; they screamed."

"Well, unfortunately, my wallet is screaming, too." I reluctantly return my pj's to the rack, and we head out to meet Wes, lingerie catalog-the price we're paying him for being our taxi this afternoon-in hand.

We end up making a couple more stops, including a trip to the drugstore for some self-tanner, which, according to Kimmie, is exactly what Wes's "pale-a.s.s" complexion could use.

"You'll be stylin' in no time," she tells him.

"I'd better be," he says. "Because if I don't start bringing some girls home soon, my dad's gonna sign me up for Girl Scouts. No joke. He's already threatened it twice."

"Well your dad's a psycho," Kimmie says.