At eighteen, he was a hometown hero. Salem’s golden boy. Not only a high school sensation — Prom King, Class President, quarterback of the football team — but poised to be a college one, too. He was Harvard-bound, a legacy, but rumor said he had the grades to back up his family’s longstanding tradition of enrollment. He was no longer Lifeguard God. He was just…
A god.
Period.
Girls swooned at his feet when he looked their way, grown men shook his hand when they saw him on the street. His picture was on the front of the local newspaper every other day during football season, it seemed, and I occasionally (okay, slightly more than occasionally) cut out these clippings and added them to my ever-expanding G.G. shrine, which I kept in a shoebox under my bed.
Three years before, I’d adored Graham Graves.
Now,everyoneadored Graham Graves.
He was golden.
And me? I was five years behind and a whole universe away, awkward in a way only thirteen-year-old girls can be awkward. Not yet quite settled in my body, unsure of how to walk or talk or carry myself or style my hair. Still experimenting with makeup — and, for the most part, failing miserably in such experimentations. (Hello, turquoise eyeshadow.)
Needless to say, when I ran into Graham and a gaggle of his friends at a local pizza shop one July afternoon — a considerable number of whom were girls, including one specifically stunning blonde who was hanging on him like she’d fall out of the booth if he removed his hand from her waist — I kept my eyes downcast and pretended not to see him.
He wouldn’t remember me anyway.
At least, I didn’t think he would. For, though the sea-urchin afternoon was burned into my memory in indelible ink, fueling the raging torch I still carried for him from innocent childhood crush into ardent adolescent obsession, I was not naive enough to think it was a monumental moment inhislife. In fact, I doubted he’d ever given me another thought after Aunt Colette’s Thunderbird rolled away that day.
So, I hovered in the corner, waiting by the takeout counter, half-hidden from view by a display stand full of mini bags of chips, waiting for the checkout guy to call my order. Aunt Colette had sent me out to pick up our dinner at Flying Saucer Pizza, which was conveniently located a block away from The Gallows and just so happened to serve the best veggie pie in town. We were going to eat at the shop while she took inventory, then walk home together when it got dark.
“Got a takeout order here,” the guy behind the counter boomed. “Gwendolyn?”
My head jerked up at the sound of my name. My eyes went not to the counter as I planned but, for some unfathomable reason, lifted right to the table in the corner where Graham Graves was sitting with his posse. Straight into a set of unwavering green eyes.
Eyes that pinned me to the spot in an instant.
My heart tripped over itself inside my chest as our gazes locked and I felt color bleed into my cheeks, a fierce blush stealing across my skin as the seconds slipped by. He was looking right at me. He was so stunningly handsome it stole my breath. And I…
I was…
Me.
Quite suddenly, I didn’t want him looking at me. I didn’t want those green eyes, the ones I’d spent so many nights wishing and hoping and dreaming would find mine again, to see how awkward and acne-ridden and flat-chested (yes,still— I was a late bloomer in that department, I couldn’t even fill out a B-cup bra until my senior year of high school) I was, standing there in my cut-off shorts and faded black t-shirt, the one that said THE GALLOWS in spooky font that matched the sign outside my aunt’s shop, with the letter “O” in the shape of a noose.
“Gwendolyn!” the takeout guy called again.
I ripped my eyes from Graham’s and turned, flustered, toward the counter. Unfortunately, in my haste to get away from those piercing eyes, I wasn’t looking where I was going and barreled straight into the display stand. It went over with a thud that made everyone in the joint jolt three inches in their seats. Bags of chips flew in all directions, scattering across the floor. Heads turned. Strangers winced their sympathy.
None moved to assist me.
I fell to my knees, scrambling to pick up the chips. My face, already red, burned with such heat I thought I might burst into flames. I’d collected nearly all the bags and was half-crawling to the fallen metal rack when, suddenly, a hand reached down and righted it with a powerful yank. Arms full of chips, I tilted my head up to look at whoever had helped me, expecting the guy behind the counter.
To my surprise, it was Graham. He was looking down at me, lips tugged up in a half smile, gaze curious. I tore my eyes from his and got shakily to my feet, shoving the mini bags of chips into the stand without a word. They were disorganized, definitely not back in the exact spots they’d flown from, but I was too embarrassed to do anything about it at that moment. It was all I could do to keep my jellied legs beneath me as I propelled my body toward the takeout counter and slapped down a twenty dollar bill.
“Keep the change,” I murmured, hands curling around the cardboard pizza box.
The guy behind the counter gave a low grunt of thanks, blessedly not commenting on my graceless collision with his chip display. I turned on my heel, pizza box held out in front of me like a shield, and began to march toward the exit. My feet faltered when I saw Graham.
He wasn’t back at his table with his friends. He’d just finished sorting the chips into their proper places, lining them up by brand so the logos were all facing front, and was now standing directly in my path, between me and the exit, with his arms folded over the broad planes of his chest. His t-shirt was faded red from many washes, and it said WITCHES on the front — the mascot of the Salem High football team. I tried not to notice how good it looked on him, against his tan skin and well-defined forearms. I tried not to notice anything about him, but that was difficult, seeing as he was… well…
Graham.
His eyes held a teasing light that made me nervous. Was he going to humiliate me in front of everyone? I’d already humiliated myself enough, I didn’t need any help in that regard. He leaned in a few inches and I swear, all the air in the pizza shop seemed to compress inward. My heart was slamming away at my ribs like a jackhammer. It was all I could do to keep breathing.
“At least you didn’t require first aid this time,” he whispered lowly so only I could hear, obliterating any hope I’d had that he’d forgotten me entirely since our first meeting. “Progress, Firecracker. Progress.”