Out of Order Read Free

see:
    Colton Trammel is somebody special .
    I waited, elbows resting on the car roof, until I made sure she got in okay. And when the door shut behind her, I pounded the roof with my fist: one, two, three. Just to get under control enough to crawl back in the car and drive off, so I didn’t go up and knock on her front door and say something stupid like the rest of the truth. That I, Colt Trammel, Studly Hombre, have never gone all the way. Right up to the edge, but I’ve never tasted the whole tuna taco.
    Because I’ve always wanted Grace to be my first.
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    When you’re in love with somebody and they’re mad at you, two things happen. One is that every second hurts. If you weren’t in love, you never would havenoticed these seconds passing, but now you can feel every single miserable one of them, like you ate some bad chicken enchiladas at a Tex-Mex buffet.
    The second thing is that you are being pulled against your will toward the person you love, like a moth to a bug zapper. For example, even though I haven’t seen her all day, I know exactly where Grace is, and I can feel every inch of space between us trying to get smaller.
    As I’m walking to fourth-period English, I know that she’s just on the other side of the school—down the hall, turn left, cross the breezeway, left again, through the double doors on the right—that’s the cafeteria where she’s sitting down with her little brown lunch sack. I know she’s there, eating and talking and breathing.
    Of course, I can’t even think about going to see her, because if I think about it, I’ll end up doing it. And deep down, I know exactly what I really need to do about Grace. I know—I’m just not sure I can manage.
    Because what I’ve got to do is…nothing. Stay away from her; let her be the one to crawl first, for a change. That’s the smart thing. After all, most people would say that she’s the one who’s not good enough for me . I mean, Grace is good-looking—but I am too. It’s a simple fact: I’m a stud. I’ve been out with plenty of other girls, while I’m the only guy Grace’s ever dated. So I know a lot ofstuff, while she’s lived a pretty protected life, guywise. Her dad’s real strict, so she couldn’t even go on a real date till she turned fifteen. Her first date was me, her second date was me, all the dates she’s ever had have been me. I’m all she knows.
    There’s no need to break down and call her like I always do. No point in humiliating myself by hunting her down at school. She’ll come around, if I can just lay off.
    I go on to fourth period alone, walk in the classroom, sit down. My desk is by the window because I do better in wide-open spaces. Or at least next to them.
    The bell rings. Mr. Hammond walks in a moment later. Damn. If there was any mercy in the universe, we’d have a substitute today.
    Mr. Hammond’s okay, as far as teachers go. His only bad point is that he hasn’t cut me any slack yet. My mom about had a stroke when she saw that 68 he gave me for the first six weeks.
    Grades aside, Mr. Hammond’s got some good points. He doesn’t call my mom and complain about me. He lets me run errands for him, which most teachers don’t once they get to know me. He doesn’t say stuff like “This is easy , Colt, it’s simple ,” so that I feel like an asshole when I don’t get it.
    So I like Hammond okay, and though I’m not doingtoo good in here at the moment, I have hopes that he won’t play hardball when the next progress reports come out.
    â€œOpen your books to page ninety-seven—‘The Chimney Sweeper,’ by William Blake,” Mr. Hammond says. “I think you all are going to like this one.”
    He starts reading it out loud, with lots of pauses and expression. Grace would love it, all that expression in his voice. Me, I think