Tru Love (First Love Book 1) Page 3

  He walks past her, leaving his coat, and sits down in an empty seat one aisle over. Genny’s cheeks flame. What is wrong with me?

  My boyfriend isn’t into me. Not much, anyway.

  My mother is everything a woman should be, and exactly what I’m not.

  And, yeah, I am possibly attracted to a guy with an irritating hero complex.

  So not much. Really nothing at all.

  She sits fuming for a few minutes before she allows the thought to wiggle into her brain: She’s going to have to apologize to the boy from Bolivia, or wherever he’s from. And thank him, too. Right about now he’s probably wishing he let the Mercedes run her down.

  “You got something going with the new kid?”

  Genny turns to her right. Tabitha Walker. The whole school is filled with kids whose names sound like designer labels.

  She shakes her head and hopes the lack of verbal communication will put the discussion to an end.

  “He’s the hottest hottie to hit Fraser since I’ve been here.”

  The hottest hottie? Some kids fail the entrance exam and their parents pay their way in.

  “Look at that hair,” Tabitha gushes.

  Genny feels her neck grow stiff. She won’t look. Too bad she doesn’t need to. She remembers the color—the reddish brown of a fox—and the texture. Her hand must have brushed against the longish locks when they tumbled across the street. Thick hair. Tamer then Hunter’s curls, but richer, too. Soft.

  Genny shakes her head, trying to lose the thoughts. Behind her, she hears him laugh. She won’t forget that, either. Warm, straight-to-the-heart laughter that makes the hair on her arms shiver.

  This is disgusting, she tell herself. Her boyfriend is breaking up with her and she’s already thinking about another guy.

  “Good shoulders, too,” Tabitha continues, like she’s writing her wish list.

  Genny reaches for a song and starts humming, a not-so-subtle hint that Tabitha should shut up. Mrs. Lombardi walks into class and closes the door making it almost impossible for Tabitha to continue anyway. Mrs. Lombardi is all-business. She presses a button on the lap top connected to the projector and suddenly the room is shuddering under the booming voice of some famous mathematician—think Good Will Hunting–and his image looms on the canvas screen in front of them.

  Mrs. Lombardi’s hands fly to her ears. ”Oh, dear,” she mumbles. “What’s wrong now?”

  She’s not good with technology. Often, a student rises to correct her errors. This time Truman is to the computer before anyone else can peel their hands away from their ears. He pushes a few keys and the noise level drops by decibels.

  Mrs. Lombardi thanks him in that breathy voice responsible for her nickname—Marilyn.

  “Who are you?” she asks.

  “Truman Lennox, Ma’am,” he says.

  “That’s a lovely accent,” she comments. “Where are you from?”

  “Edinburgh.”

  Scotland. That was way down on her list of possibilities. She didn’t even think of it.

  “Scotland,” Mrs. Lombardi murmurs. “Well, welcome, Truman. I hope you’ve had a little calculus before landing in our city?”

  “A little,” he admits and pulls out his thousand watt smile.

  He turns and walks back to his seat. She watches him, so it’s no surprise to her when their eyes meet. His are warm, dark, intent on her face. He doesn’t smile at her, so she’s not completely defenseless. She has enough juice left in her brain to remember that she doesn’t want his jacket, doesn’t want his attention. Not really. She shouldn’t anyway. She has Hunter.

  He draws parallel to her desk and she nudges his jacket to the very edge of it, watching as gravity pulls on it.

  He catches it before it can hit the floor and she hears him murmur, “Genny,” in a tone that’s too close, too personal, too knowing her.

  Chapter Four

  Lunch is a total bust. Hunter isn’t in their usual place and when Genny texts him he doesn’t reply. She waits in line in the cafeteria, chatting with Serena. She looks over her shoulder a couple of times, but doesn’t see that familiar, comfortable head of curly blond hair. When it’s her turn at the counter, she chooses a diet soda, a bag of Doritos and an apple. Serena is still talking, about a topic Genny would rather never hear about again—Truman Lennox.

  “He is divine,” Serena practically purrs. “I can say that today because Victor is home sick.” Her boyfriend. “And anyway, he knows I could never be serious about a novio guero.”

  A white boy who can’t turn his r’s.

  “Why aren’t you with Hunter?” she asks.

  Genny shrugs. “I think we broke up.”

  Serena’s mouth falls open. “You think?”

  “It’s hard to tell with Hunter,” Genny admits. “He’s always so happy.”

  “True. He’s a lamb. Soft and cuddly. But tell him about the wolf and he runs.”

  Genny told Serena earlier about her mother’s expectations.

  “Is that what you think it is?”

  Genny doesn’t think of her mother as a wolf. She’s intimidating, but that’s because she’s beautiful and everything she touches turns to gold.

  “That, or when you brought up taking that step, he realized he doesn’t feel that strongly for you.”

  “Ouch,” Genny mumbles, but the truth is, she appreciates Serena’s honesty.

  “Hunter,” Serena begins, thinking her words through before she releases them, “is a great guy. Remember all that dove and eagle stuff we learned last year in history? Hunter is definitely a dove. I don’t think he’ll ever fight for you. I don’t think you should expect that of him.”

  Genny thinks about this. Hunter states his opinions, he doesn’t defend them. He listens to what others have to say, and respects their position, he doesn’t challenge it.

  Genny thought it was maturity. Now it just seems spineless. Why won’t he even consider letting their parents meet?

  Because he’s just not that into her.

  “I’d rather have an eagle,” Genny decides.

  “We all want an eagle,” Serena agrees, then says a little breathlessly, “Or a wolf.” She nods her head toward the corner of the cafeteria where Truman Lennox is sitting with an audience of seven or eight girls—some seniors. “Don’t you just get wolf off of him? That hair.”

  Genny thought fox, but wolf is probably a better description. He seems stronger, bigger than a mere herbivore.

  “Let’s eat outside,” Genny suggests and leads the way.

  “Are you loco?” Serena pulls on her arm. “I spent a good hour with the straight iron this morning. I’m not putting this—“ she indicates her pressed and artfully piled hair with a wave of her hand, “out in the rain.”

  “It’s raining?”

  Serena looks at her like she’s wondering just when Genny joined them on planet Earth.

  “How did you get to school this morning?”

  Genny groans. She hasn’t told Serena about this morning and really doesn’t want to revisit her fifteen minutes of fame.

  “I just broke up with my boyfriend,” Genny reminds her. “So I didn’t notice the weather. Give me a break.”

  Serena nods. “You’re right. I’m really sorry about that, not that you seem choked up about it. He wasn’t your true love or anything, of course, but still, your novio. My aunt had a husband like that. He was her best friend. No passion.”

  Genny wants to argue that with her friend, but she’s probably right. Passion is supposed to be red-hot, isn’t it? Something that makes your heart knock against your ribs?

  They settle at a table that’s only partly occupied. Unfortunately, Homer is sitting with his tuba wrapped around his torso like a snake. Genny hopes he doesn’t start up until she and Serena have eaten and escaped.

  The school’s marching band is one of the best in the state. They win awards all the time. They also practice at lunch, on the soccer field behind the school, but some of the players
get antsy and start early. Homer is a regular offender.

  Serena isn’t taking any chances. She pins Homer with her eyes and says, “Don’t blow on that thing, Simpson.”

  “Homer,” Genny whispers. She doesn’t want to antagonize the guy and she thinks they’ll have better luck winning him over if Serena gets his name right.

  “Sorry, Homer,” Serena corrects and smiles so that her lips curl with an apple pie sweetness.

  “What do you have against music?” he asks.

  “Well, if you must know Harold,” Serena starts. Her best friend is hopeless with names. It took her three months to get Genny’s right on a consistent basis and she later admitted that she practiced at night, with her eyes closed, memorizing the feel of it in her mouth. A trick the speech therapist taught her. “Genny just broke up with her boyfriend, another music man, so tunes are the last thing she wants to hear.”

  “Serena!” Genny protests.

  “What?” She blinks her eyes like her innocence is offended.

  “Do you mind not airing my business?”

  “The truth shall set you free,” Serena says. “And let the boys know you’re back.”

  Genny sighs but misses her chance to set Serena straight when Homer lifts his tuba to his lips and starts playing, ‘Torn Up by You.’

  Genny’s sure she’s paralyzed. She tries to stand up, but her legs won’t cooperate. Words swirl around in her head, but never make it to her lips. When Homer slides down the bench toward her, serenading her, she panics and looks at Serena with death in her eyes. But she’s no help. She’s as stunned as Genny, as rooted to the spot as if they were in quicksand. Her eyes and mouth are both wide with horror.

  It is as bad as Genny was thinking.

  Serena recovers first. She jumps to her feet and shoves her carne asada down the horn and then rips into Homer as he clutches wildly at his instrument.

  “Laton! Bocaza! Tu hablo burradas!” She shoves her can of Coke past Homer’s hands and down the same chute as her burrito, then she bends over the table and snaps her fingers in Genny’s face. It breaks the spell. Genny’s up and running. She doesn’t think about where she’s going, knowing the only place acceptable at this point is out. Outside. Away from the eyes, the snickers, the last echoing notes of Homer’s sympathetic melody.

  It is raining. Misting, really. But Genny doesn’t notice this until she’s off school grounds and crossing Sutter Street—in the same crosswalk she’s now made famous. She wipes at the film of water on her face, wondering if her tears are mixed in there. This has been the worse day ever—in anybody’s life. The thought pounds in her head. Keeps time with the beat of her heart. A headache. She never gets headaches.

  “Hey! Wait up.”

  The voice is directly behind her and she recognizes it. Great, Mr. Scotland with the hero complex. Genny ignores him and puts more steam into her galloping walk.

  He catches up, though, and keeps pace with her, saying nothing. Genny doesn’t look at him. She tries not to breathe through her nose, because there’s no denying it, the guy smells good. Too good. And has the face of a steamy, lost-at-love guy in a music video. It probably isn’t fair that anyone is born with a face so perfect and she reminds herself of how annoying perfection really is. Botticelli didn’t like it. He painted nothing but fat ladies.

  They walk in silence until they’re deep into the Sunset District. He doesn’t seem to mind that she’s ignoring him. At some point, he swings his coat over her shoulders and says, “Please don’t toss it on the ground. It’s taken a beating today.”

  So have I, Genny thinks. She pulls the leather around her, slows her pace, and when she spots a stone bench outside the park they’re circling, she sits down. He settles at the other end and leaves a good two feet between them.

  Silence. It builds up between them until Genny feels the pressure in her ears.

  “Don’t you want to say something?” she asks.

  “I’m sorry?” he takes a guess.

  “For what?”

  “For saving your life so you could live through one of the most embarrassing moments in the history of Fraser Preparatory School?”

  She groans, covers her face with her hands, and wishes she was a crier. Would tears wash away everything that happened today? No. Sadly. So what would be the point?

  “Are you practicing for a career with the fire department?” she asks. “Or do you just have this, I don’t know,” she waves a hand at him, “Need to save?”

  “You just seem to need a lot of help today. But now I understand why.”

  “Really? Enlighten me,” she invites.

  “Well, did you really break up with your boyfriend today?”

  “I think he broke up with me.”

  “Even worse.”

  “It is.” But not for the reason he thinks. “He was my friend first.”

  “Oh.” He packs the single word with a lot of understanding and Genny wonders if he’s ever done the same thing—dated a girl who should have stayed a friend.

  “We never should have dated,” she admits, knowing it’s true. “We ruined a good thing.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “What would you know about it?”

  “A lot,” he admits, and Genny watches, amazed, as a dull red color comes to his cheeks. “Kids here like to talk.”

  “Gossip,” she corrects.

  He nods. “You just started dating. Maybe you can return to normal. No harm, no foul.”

  “Maybe.” She thinks about that. It would be like Hunter to let things go soft and in a few days act like the past two months never happened. It fits the dove profile Serena described to her.

  “Thanks.”

  Genny looks at him and smiles, because for the first time in this miserable day she feels a ray of hope. He stares at her for a long time, though, his mouth flat but his eyes flared in surprise.

  “What?” Genny asks.

  “You have the most amazing eyes,” he says.

  “I know.” Violet. That, her dark hair and high cheekbones, make her the spitting image of Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet. Genny’s watched the movie with her mother.

  “And modesty, too,” he says and laughs.

  “You do that a lot,” Genny observes. “Laugh. Mostly at my expense.”

  “I’m not laughing at you,” he begins, then changes his mind. “Well, maybe a little bit.” His voice grows serious, deeper, so that Genny thinks about the night sky. “This morning wasn’t funny,” he says. “You weren’t paying attention. At all.”

  And she thinks again about his strange comment. Does Truman think he can read minds? Probably not. It was a heated moment, at the peak of an adrenalin rush.

  In any case, Genny chooses to fill the moment with long overdue grace.

  “Thank you for that,” she says, and blushes because she should have said it much sooner. “I’d be road kill for sure if you hadn’t tackled me.”

  “You’re welcome. Try not to let it happen again, though. By my count, you have seven lives left.”

  Six, she thinks. And maybe even less.

  “Like you said, today was an off day. I’m usually more observant.”

  He nods and stands up. “You ready to go back?”

  Genny glances at her watch. By the time they get back to school it’ll be time to go home.

  “It’ll be better to face the music now,” he suggests, and his lips twist with the irony.

  “Funny,” Genny says.

  “Sorry. It will be funny, though. Next week,” he amends.

  “You think?” She’s still reluctant.

  “If you let this grow over night, coming in tomorrow will be harder.”

  He’s probably right, but she’d really rather go straight home. She’s wet, even swallowed up in his jacket. Her hair and make-up are a mess. Right now, a hot bath and comfy sweats are all she wants.

  “You look fine,” he says.

  Genny cocks her head and looks up at him, squinting her eyes as she
tries to figure him out.

  “I have a sister,” he offers. “She’s twenty years old and at college now, but I remember how much she hated the rain in her hair and everyone knowing she broke up with her boyfriend.”

  He offers his hand and after another moment of hesitation, Genny accepts.

  Chapter Five

  The doorbell rings at precisely five-thirty and Genny unfolds herself from the couch, walks to the intercom set in the wall, and presses the button to release the front gate. As she makes her way to the door she wonders what her mother was thinking today: Italian or Thai? They had American last night—burgers and buffalo wings delivered from Casey’s Most Excellent Cuisine. Genny hears the scraping of footsteps on the mosaic tiled stairs and then a soft rap on the stained-glass panels of the door. She doesn’t bother with the peep hole. They take delivery at this time every night. Her mother doesn’t cook and doesn’t want to hire one. Not when they live in one of the finest cuisine capitals of the world, as her mother likes to put it. Genny opens the door and pulls the cash out of her pocket.

  “Thai,” she says through a smile as the curry flavors rise to her nose.

  “The very best,” the woman assures her. She hands Genny the white bag and accepts the bills with a nod.

  “You need change?”

  “No,” Genny says. “Thank you.”

  She closes the door, opens the bag and buries her face in it. “Yum.”

  She takes the food into the living room, pulls the cardboard boxes out of the bag and arranges them on the coffee table.

  “Well, at least I’m a pampered prisoner.”

  The school contacted her mother to report her missing and before Genny could call and tell her she was fine, her mother alerted her father and both of them left messages on her voice mail—Genny’s cell phone was in her bag on the table in the cafeteria. Serena put her things in the locker they share and when Genny pulled her phone out of her bag, it was flashing an angry red.

  Truman insisted on checking in at the office and Genny watched as he sweet-talked the secretary, and even the vice principal, into a show of compassion for Genny’s situation—first her near-death experience in the crosswalk and then the emotional trauma of her public heartbreak.