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Landen O’Brien act probably won’t cut it with this girl since she obviously doesn’t give two shits what anyone else thinks. By the time she points me to her street, I’ve relaxed a little but I’m getting lightheaded from trying to inhale her warm peach and honey scent. Rich and sweet and enticing as all hell. To make matters worse, she’s wearing a dress that bares smooth, tan legs begging to be wrapped around me.
    I shake my head to remove the inappropriate images assaulting my mind and clear my throat. “So you like classic rock?” I ask, hoping she does. She’s barely said a word and I’m struggling to fill the silence. There’s a bandage marring her forehead. I want to ask about it but it looks like she worked pretty hard on arranging her hair to cover it so I keep my mouth shut.
    “I do,” is all she says. But I sense she’s smirking at me. “Why do you ask?”
    “Uh, no reason.” But there is a reason, kind of a lame one, and I think she knows what it is.
    “You have it, don’t you?” Her smile makes my heart speed up, and I’m nervous around a girl for the first time in my life.
    “Have what?” I ask, still content to play dumb in case this is a sore subject. I’m probably like the millionth person to make the connection. I watch helplessly as she snatches my iPod off the dock in the dash. Shaking my head, I give her an apologetic grin when Layla , the rock version, comes through the speakers.
    “Ah, and you have the ballad as well. Good for you.” She’s still smiling and it’s doing something to me. Either it’s because of me, or because of my iPod, whichever. I could seriously watch this girl smile forever. The thought kind of freaks me out but I shrug it off. When I pull into the driveway she says is hers, I want to think of a reason to keep her talking. And smiling. Like, maybe for the rest of her life. Because apparently this girl makes me lose my mind.
    I’m tempted to walk her to her door and ask if I can drive her to and from school every day. But the coach told me I made the soccer team today so I know I won’t always be able to drive her home.
    “So, um, thanks for the ride,” she tells me, unbuckling her seatbelt.
    “No problem.” For a second our eyes meet and it looks like she’s about to say something else.
    Again, I scramble to fill the quiet. “Um, hey, what happened?” Gently, my hand brushes her hair to the side, and I’m off balance just from the realization that she’s letting me touch her.
    “Oh, nothing. I’m clumsy,” she says with a shrug, but her hands are shaking. I know I need to go, to back off. I can sense it. But there’s something about her ocean-colored eyes that keeps me from looking away. Something’s up. I know. I’ve had bandages and casts and injuries I couldn’t tell anyone about either. But the tension is literally rolling off her so hard she’s nearly vibrating. Subject change needed.
    “You don’t ever drive to school?” I ask, noticing there’s no car in the carport.
    “Don’t have a car,” she answers shortly, and then she looks away and pushes her door open before I can ask any more questions. As much as I want to beg her to stay in the truck a little longer, tell me more about her name, her favorite music, the bandage on her head, I can tell she’s overwhelmed. So I let her leave.
    She doesn’t look back once. My eyes are glued to the image of her walking away from me. It doesn’t make sense, but it bothers the hell out of me the whole way home.
    As I turn onto my own street, I remember I was supposed to stay after school today for team workouts. I promised my dad I’d stop by the football field to try out for the open kicker position. Shit.
    Mentally I make up an excuse about feeling sick and leaving school early to tell the coaches when I see them tomorrow. But when I pull up and the Colonel’s truck is in the driveway, I know I’m fucked.

“Y ou’re home early,” Aunt Kate says when she comes home a few