“Fine. What do I have to do?”
Whoa. “Really? Are you serious?”
“You dared me to do something. So, what do I have to do?”
I could only stare at her. She wanted me to come up with . . . what? Some kind of challenge? All I could think of were those reality shows where contestants had to complete ropes courses or eat animal intestines raw.
“You’re joking, right?”
Mara folded her arms over her stomach. “This was your idea. Come on, Taggish. What will it be? TP the school grounds? Spray paint an old building?”
She was serious. She seriously expected me to come up with some way for her to prove she could let loose.
“Are you crazy?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What? Those things are small potatoes to you, are they, Mr. Troublemaker? Tell me. What do I have to do to prove myself?”
My mind raced with ideas. But that was crazy. “What if we get in trouble?”
Mara sneered. “Isn’t that the whole idea?”
My mouth dropped open. “You want me to get you in trouble? On purpose?” Again!
Mara seemed to think about it for a minute. “You dared me, and I’m accepting the challenge. Nothing illegal. I won’t go to jail to prove I’m not uptight.”
I was sure my eyes were as big as dinner plates.
“We start this weekend.” She crawled toward the door of the house. “See you later.” And then she left me there, staring after her.
What had I gotten myself into?
6
Mara
What had I just gotten myself into?
By the time I went back inside, dinner was already over and everyone had left. Only Mom and Dad remained, and they were engrossed in a new episode of Call the Midwife.
My conversation with Taggish had left me feeling drained. Actually, the whole day had me feeling ragged.
I trudged up the stairs to my room and dropped in a heap on my bed. I hated feeling this way. Out of sorts. Out of control. Anxious. It was the fear of those feelings that had led me to my current predicament with Taggish. But what was so wrong with obeying the rules?
Nothing. There was nothing wrong with doing what was right.
But there was something wrong with me. I could feel it. Deep inside me, I felt locked up. It never used to bother me. Locked up was better than disappointing my parents for being disobedient. Or my teachers. Or anyone, really.
But now . . . now, maintaining perfection was just as stressful as letting people down.
I rolled off my bed. I needed to do something else. I needed to paint. Mom had asked me to paint Thank You cards for my graduation party. I’d already finished around fifty of them but needed to do about fifty more.
I filled two jars with water from the bathroom faucet and set them on the art table Dad built for my sixteenth birthday. Using blue masking tape, I secured a fresh card to the desk and picked up my brush. I’d decided flowers would be the simplest. There were many varieties and so many colors. I could paint watercolor flowers in my sleep.
As I dipped my brush first in the water and then in the paint, I wished it was so easy to come up with an idea for the scholarship competition. While I could competently paint flowers and butterflies and landscapes, it wasn’t so easy to capture emotion, drama. And really, what was art if it didn’t make you feel something?
For the next hour, I painted flowers—roses, dahlias, lilies, and daisies. I’d sign the bottom of each card once they dried, a keepsake for friends and family who sent gifts for graduation. It was a good idea. I enjoyed making them, but after a while, I felt an itch, a yearning to do something different.
I finished the fourth card and set it on a table across the room where I put all my paintings to dry, then pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and taped it to my desk. Using a pencil, I sketched. With no plan in mind, I let my hand work. Faint lines turned bold, and after a while, a face emerged.
Deep-set, piercing eyes. Angular cheeks and jaw. Strong chin and sculpted lips.
My hand stopped.
I traced each stroke with my eyes, memorizing every detail. As if I needed to. The image had come from my memory. I just hadn’t realized it had settled in so deeply.
Taggish.
I was half tempted to rip the page to shreds, but in the end, I couldn’t. When I’d sketched enough, I laid down my pencil and picked up a brush. Instinctively, I knew which colors to mix to achieve the exact shades of his blond hair, his chocolate brown eyes, and the golden glow of his skin. He really was beautiful. Funny how I’d never noticed that before.
Of course, before I’d been too busy being irritated by him.
I was still irritated by him.
But I was something else, too. Something I didn’t know how to name.
I kept going back to that kiss. I hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t expected it, but oh, how I’d enjoyed it. And what did that say about Taggish? Did I like him, too?
It was too soon to tell.
I liked his face, so I added details, colors, textures. Long into the night, I worked, perfecting, capturing. And when I finished, I saw something new, something I’d never seen before. It wasn’t Taggish, even though it was, but it was more, too.
Gently, I removed the masking tape and carried the painting to my drying table. I set it in the middle of the other paintings I’d done over the last few days. There was a striking difference I couldn’t explain or label. I only knew I’d paint him again. I wanted to sit back down at my desk and begin right away, but I could hardly keep my eyes open.
Without taking the time to change my clothes, I crawled into my bed. Exhausted as I felt, I couldn’t make my brain shut off. A lot had happened that day. I didn’t even know how to process it all. So, I didn’t. But there was one thing I wanted to remember, one thing I relished.
Soft lips. Rough whiskers. Solid muscles. Those exhilarating moments before Ms. Fox stepped in and stopped Taggish from kissing me.
My insides went liquid. I didn’t know what the next couple of weeks would bring, but for one crazy second, I hoped they might include another kiss.
“You’re doing what? With who?” Kennedy asked. It was Saturday morning, and we were enjoying the warm temperatures on the deck behind my house. I had a sketchbook propped on my knees, and Kennedy had been scrolling through her phone, which led her to ask if I wanted to binge-watch a season of Supernatural later that night. Of course, I couldn’t, when usually I always could, hence, the interrogation. But Taggish had said we’d do something Saturday night, and I still hadn’t explained to Kennedy about my conversation with him. In the end, I’d decided not to.
“I’m hanging out with Taggish.” On second thought, I should have told her I had to babysit. But then she would have offered to go with me so we could still hang out, and then I would have had to come up with some excuse as to why she couldn’t go with me, and I’d ultimately get tangled in my web of lies. I guess it was a good thing I told her the truth.
Kennedy’s mouth dropped open. “You’re going on a date?” She gasped. “With Taggish?”
“Oh, my gosh! No!” I said, but Kennedy wasn’t listening. She jumped up from where she’d been sitting across the deck on the porch swing and joined me on my lounger.