Things I’ll Never Say by Ann Angel Read Free Book Online

slacks swishing. He looked up at her, changing his smile into one a teacher gives a colleague. “Maybe we better talk about Western Civ class,” he said.
    I frowned. “Why?”
    â€œBecause,” he said. “Because you know why.”
    I shrugged. “No one will know.”
    â€œI kind of like my job,” he said. “And this is inappropriate.”
    I laughed. “Inappropriate,” I repeated, because my friends and I would laugh at someone using that word sincerely. He didn’t laugh with me. His expression stayed even. I watched him, trying to ascertain whether he really didn’t want to talk like this. Trying to determine how to keep the power.
    â€œLet’s talk about Western Civ, then,” I said, but when I did, I leaned back and crossed my legs slowly, letting him watch. I’d seen girls at Dorrian’s do that. I’d seen them hold guys in their grip. I couldn’t do that there, but maybe I could do this with Mr. P.
    He smiled, seeing what I was doing.
    â€œGo ahead,” I said. “Teach me something.”
    He shook his head. He wasn’t smiling.
    â€œ
You
are a dangerous girl.”
    A month later, I went into the city with my friends. Dorrian’s was its usual mass of beautiful girls and boys in ties and sports jackets with their prep schools’ crests. The bouncer knew us, never questioned our fake IDs. He didn’t even ask for them anymore. This was when parents like mine ran off to Paris or Nantucket and left hundred-dollar bills on their marble kitchen counters for the teenagers to do with what they would. This was when the other kids at Dorrian’s did cocaine in the bathroom stalls, using their parents’ American Express cards to chop up the powder and rolling up those hundred-dollar bills to snort it into their noses. This was when parents like mine were long gone, when they didn’t care, when they didn’t see that their children — like
me
— were in need of their love.
    My friends and I ordered our sea breezes and sex on the beaches and brought them back to our table. We didn’t care about getting drunk. Drinking wasn’t our thing. We were there for the boys, for that sweet moment when a boy homed in on us, when we knew that this night might matter, that
we
might matter in some greater way.
    And that is when Mr. P. walked in.
    I didn’t alert my friends. I watched him walk up to the thick wooden bar. He had a friend with him, some guy who was taller and thinner and just generally more attractive than he was. My whole body was on fire, vigilant. I was certain he was there because of me.
    â€œOh. My. God.” One of my friends squeezed my arm. “You will never guess who is in here!”
    I tried to act nonchalant. “It’s no big deal,” I said.
    â€œNo big deal?”
    Our other friends — there were four of us in all — craned their necks to see who we were talking about.
    â€œIt’s Mr. P.!” the first friend screamed, and they all freaked.
    â€œShhhh!” I tried to control them. None of this mattered to them. They still giggled and whispered when he walked by at school. It was different for me. My feelings about Mr. P. had changed. I wanted his attention. I wanted him to want my attention. I needed them to shut up and stop acting like teenage girls. But before I could control them, Mr. P. turned, scanning the booths and tables for girls, and for a moment his eyes met mine.
    And then he quickly looked away.
    Without thinking, I stood and went to him. I heard one of my friends say, “Kerry!” I couldn’t deny that Mr. P. took a few steps backward, like if it weren’t me, someone he had to see every day, he would have just turned and left.
    â€œHey,” he said. He glanced at his friend. “What a coincidence.”
    â€œAnd who is this?” His friend smiled at me and put out his hand.
    I shook it.
    â€œI forgot they let