From What I Remember (2 page)

I am interrupted from my free fall by Max’s firm, bronzed arm reaching across my waist. My breath catches in my throat. Beautiful, sexy Max Langston—whose green eyes are lethal weapons, whose lopsided smile is impossible to resist, whose charm is legendary, and whom I’ve barely spoken to in six years of school until three days ago—is lying next to me. If I knew anything about statistics, I’d say the chances of this actually happening are improbably low, and yet here we are, against all odds, our bodies grazing each other, my face flushing with heat.

Max is wearing only boxers, sliding down so low on his hips I can see his V-line. He moves closer. All my senses are on high alert as our limbs intertwine, finding their comfort zone. His body fits perfectly into mine. His fingers inch their way under my T-shirt and gently stroke my stomach. He makes circles around my belly button. His touch is tender and yet totally electrifying. It’s almost too much to bear. His soft, full lips brush my neck. He doesn’t even have morning breath, as I’m sure I do.

“Hey, you,” Max says, smiling lazily. “We got pretty messed up last night.”

“Yeah,” I say, hoping he’ll offer more, giving me a better picture of what exactly happened toward the end of the evening, when my disk got erased.

“I hope we didn’t do anything stupid,” I say, fishing for information.

“Yeah, pretty sure we did.” Max laughs softly, and then his eyes close again.

That’s all I get?

It’s hard to know if he remembers much. Although I can’t help taking pleasure in the fact that he doesn’t seem at all upset to be waking up next to me. I gaze at him, wondering how someone can look that good first thing in the morning. I am in way over my head. I haven’t a clue what happens next.

Max takes my hand in his, which is when I see them—two identical gold bands. One on his hand. One on mine. The rings catch the sun; light shoots off the gold and bounces around the room.

What exactly happened last night? I am ablaze with an unsettling mix of passion and panic. I’m sweating now, which can’t possibly be appealing. What have I done? I’ve got high school graduation, a summer internship at the San Diego Arts Council, New York University in the fall, and parents who are going to freak. I’ve been MIA for the past twenty-four hours. I’m in Mexico with Max. And we’re wearing rings that look suspiciously like wedding bands. This is bad. Very, very bad.

I’ve never even been on a date.

Or had sex.

Or have I?

I rack my brain, but the things I can’t remember skirt the dark edges like storm clouds. I turn back toward Max, and for a fleeting second the dread dissipates. He looks so lovely and content as he drifts back to sleep, his chest rising and falling with each breath. It’s heart-stopping.

I turn away, and the panic sets back in, full-throttle.

I sit up, intent on hatching a plan, and that’s when I see Lily Wentworth standing in the doorway, staring at me.

s. Murphy drones on, partnering up our English class: “Brendon and Julie, Nadia and Sam, Kylie and Max…”

Wait, what? Kylie and Max? Terrible idea. I’ve managed to escape all interaction with Max Langston in six years at Freiburg, since I got here in seventh grade. We’re at opposite ends of the social spectrum, which is probably why Ms.

Murphy put us together. She’s spiteful like that.

“An assignment? No way,” Lily Wentworth blurts out. Lily has her head buried in a huge leather bag that probably cost hundreds of dollars. She never looks directly at anyone. She always looks past people, her eyes flitting around, searching for something or someone better.

“But tomorrow’s the last day of school.…” Lily whines. While I hate Lily, bitch extraordinaire, she makes an excellent point. Right now, in classrooms all over the country, teachers are handing out candy and patting self-important seniors on the back for a job well done. Not Mistress Murphy, as Will and I call her. (We’re pretty sure she works nights as a dominatrix.) She has found new and inventive ways to torture her students year after year.

“We’re not supposed to get any more homework,” Charlie Peters adds.

All bets are off. No one seems to care that they’re talking back to Mistress Murphy. Something no one would have dared last semester, when grades mattered a whole lot more.

“And that is precisely why I am giving you this assignment, Mr. Peters. I’m tired of seniors riding out spring semester like school is over. If you stop exercising your mind, it atrophies. And next thing you know, you’ll be on the street begging people like me for spare change. And I won’t give you any,” Murphy says.

Harsh.

A flicker of a smile crosses Murphy’s face, which is all sharp angles and pinched features. She’s enjoying this. She
definitely
dabbles in S&M. I can see her now, clad in leather, holding a studded riding crop as some poor guy pleads for mercy. There are sighs all around. But unlike everyone else in class, I don’t mind one last writing assignment. If I’m going to be an Oscar-winning screenwriter, I might as well hone my craft. What I do mind is working with Max. It’s clear he’s not into it.

“Crap, not Kylie Flores. She’ll actually want to do it,” Max says, loud enough for everyone around him to hear, including me. What an asshole.

A bunch of people laugh. Ha-ha. So witty. He may be perfect on the outside, but inside it’s a different story. If he had a thought in his head, it would perish from loneliness. Max, as always, basks in the attention. He tips back in his chair and tosses his shaggy, sandy locks, like a preening bird.

Like everyone at Freiburg, Max is a spoiled rich kid, floating in a vapid sea of privilege, completely and blissfully ignorant of how the rest of the world lives. Everyone, that is, except for Will. Thank God for Will. God knows, I wouldn’t have survived without him.

Luckily, two more days and Freiburg Academy is in my rearview mirror. I will fly off to New York University knowing the worst is behind me and the best is yet to come. The world will embrace what Freiburg didn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t—my biting sarcasm (which, unfortunately, is often on the fritz at Freiburg), my fiery temper (which I consider a sign of a passionate soul rather than a lack of self-control), and my offbeat looks (I’m half Mexican, half Jewish, which looks great on paper, less so in the harsh white light of La Jolla). I will shed this coat I’ve been forced to wear that reads Token Scholarship Student. I will reinvent myself and become someone fabulous, fascinating, and ecstatically happy. I will be unrecognizable to all who knew me, including myself. The Freiburg class of 2012 can kiss my ass. I will finally be free of the social chains that bind me.

Okay, that’s a little over the top. Not my best prose. It sounds more like a bumper sticker or a fortune cookie than actual insight. But it’s all I’ve got right now, and it paints the picture. Life at Freiburg sucks. Plain and simple.

“You will interview your partner and write a thousand-word essay about the two books that made the biggest impression on them during their years at Freiburg. The paper is due tomorrow, the last day of school. If you choose to abstain, I will fail you on the paper, which will count toward your final grade in English this semester and could impact your total GPA. Let’s see how your college of choice feels about that,” Mistress Murphy announces.

Surely the administration wouldn’t condone this move, but Murphy is a renegade. She’s been teaching in these hallowed halls for so long, her outrageous behavior goes unchecked at this point. While everyone else can slack off, Murphy’s threats tap right into my own particular brand of crazy. I will have to do this paper. I’m currently number one in my class with my GPA, a long-held goal of mine, but an F could throw things wildly out of whack, dropping me to number two. The top is a precarious place at a competitive private school like Freiburg, and it requires constant vigilance.

“Does
Playboy
count?” Luca Sonneban shouts out. Jesus, he’s dim. How did he get into Freiburg, anyway? Aren’t there some basic requirements for one of “the nation’s premier learning institutions,” which is what is etched into the massive granite arch at the entrance of the school? I guess when your dad owns the country’s largest chain of grocery stores, admission standards tend to be waived. A bunch of guys high-five Luca, like he’s just said the most scintillating thing ever.

Mistress Murphy sucks in her breath and glares at Luca. “Go directly to the headmaster’s office, Mr. Sonneban, and do not bother to return to class. Ever. You will receive an F on the paper.”

Luca saunters out of class, all confidence and swagger. He couldn’t care less about the F. The rest of his life is taken care of, and he knows it. I wonder if I would be cavalier and cocky like that if my parents had more money than God? I hope not. But who knows? If I didn’t have to prove myself every damn minute, maybe I’d be dancing on a desk with a lampshade on my head. Students cheer Luca on as he exits. He lifts his fist in the air in salute. Really, people? Do we want to encourage this guy?

I’m sure Max’s favorite book is something so glaringly obvious it’ll feel like a blunt object to the back of my head.
The Catcher in the Rye
or, worse,
The Guinness Book of World Records
.

After class, I walk straight to Max’s locker, where he’s standing with Lily (über-girlfriend) and Charlie Peters (sidekick). Max and Lily have been dating since the beginning of senior year. It was only a matter of time before the most beautiful boy and the most beautiful girl coupled up. If they hadn’t gotten together, the world would have spun off its axis or something. Everyone treats them like royalty. It’s so predictable and irritating, it makes me want to scratch out my eyes. As I approach, I can hear them discussing this weekend’s postgraduation party at Charlie’s house, to which I am not invited. The DJ, the songs, the food. You’d think they were planning a moon landing, they’re so intense about it.

Of course I’m invited to the official Freiburg Graduation Fiesta, as are all graduating seniors, but in keeping with the fascistic social code that is life at Freiburg, you only go to the Graduation Fiesta if you’re not invited to the nonofficial, thereby cool, graduation party, which is being hosted by Charlie. Hence, losers only at the Fiesta. No, thank you very much.