Page 5 of The Rival Kiss

“Norman—sorry, we didn’t realize anyone else was here.” Harry’s voice comes out so breathless, my pulse kicks up another notch. Harry. Breathless. Because of me.

What just happened?

He lowers me to the floor, and the four of us look at one another. Privately, I’ve always thought of the school principal as a human bullfrog, all jowls and belly perched on thin legs. I’ve never been a fan of his school day fashion choices, which favor mustard-yellow and short-sleeved business shirts. But his Saturday night outfit is somehow worse. Perhaps with an extra two buttons done up on that shirt and some shoes that don’t belong on a fifteen-year-old, it wouldn’t be so bad.

By contrast, the monochromatic Mrs. Blackmore only ever shows the skin from her neck up, but I eye the flush on her cheeks and one untucked corner of her gray silk blouse. Yikes.

Harry fixes a steely gaze on the two, and I jolt when he uses his “teacher voice.” “Norman.Mrs.Blackmore.”

At that, the older pair stammered explanations. “I—we—it was just—”

“We were only—there was a report, uh—”

Sweet jumping jacks, has there ever been such excruciating awkwardness in all of space and time?

Harry shifts ever so slightly closer to me and mutters, “The lady doth protest too much.” I smother a laugh—how can he even think up Shakespeare quotes at a time like this? Harry clears his throat and speaks louder. “Maybe it’s time for everyone to go home.”

Norman is already backing out of the door. “Excellent idea. See you ready for class on Monday.”

A flustered Mrs. Blackmore follows him, and then it’s just Harry and me left in the room. Silence falls. Loaded silence. My gaze sinks to the tacos on my feet and I wait for Harry to break it.

He does not.

I risk a look up, and he’s grinning. I roll my eyes. In our constant game of bickering, that kiss has given him years’ worth of ammunition. And he knows it. The best comeback I can muster is, “Oh, shut up.”

“I literally didn’t say anything.” But there’s laughter in his voice.

I ignore it, turn, and scribble an actual whiteboard marker over Harry’s sketch. The ink shifts the permanent marker stain, and the drawing wipes away beneath my eraser. I take a deep breath, inhaling both the marker’s fumes and calming oxygen. This night has been too weird.

Harry follows, erasing his side of the drawing. Then he stops. “Maisie.”

Hearing my name in his deep voice raises goosebumps along my skin. Curse these hormones flooding my bloodstream. I manage a neutral, “Hmmm?”

“Why did you need the computer so badly?” He actually sounds sincere.

I sigh and set the eraser down, still facing the board. It makes the admission easier. “I applied for the vice principal job. I need to recall the email.”

He sets down his eraser too. “Why?” There’s no mocking in his voice, so I risk a glance up at his face. He’s looking at me—really looking at me, attention on my eyes, and not even a hint of a smug grin lurking in the corners of his lips.

So I’m honest. “I’m not ready. It would be a mistake.”

He ponders that for a second. “I wasn’t ready for you to kiss me, but it turned out pretty great.”

I narrow my eyes, and he shrugs innocently and gestures to the empty doorway. “Norman never suspected a thing.”

I reach past him to grab the bottle of whiteboard cleaner from the other end of the board. “Not the same thing.” I squirt the board liberally with cleaner, erasing the final ghost of Harry’s drawing. I have to stretch on my tip toes to reach the top, but Harry has stopped helping.

“You would be a great vice principal. You love an insane workload, you’re stubborn enough to take on anyone, and you’re the only one patient enough to negotiate with someone like him.” He points at the empty doorway.

I just shrug and pick up the whiteboard cleaner to return it to my desk drawer where it belongs. Everything he said is true, but that doesn’t erase the way I want to hyperventilate when I think of that resume email.

Harry stays where he is, but his gaze weighs heavily on me as I open the drawer. “You don’t like to fail.” He says it as a statement as I drop the bottle of cleaner in the drawer.

“Correction: I don’t fail.” I close the drawer to punctuate my point. I persist, I prepare, I evaluate, and I adapt. But I do not fail.

I straighten and look up at him. We’re done here, right? But he stands still, watching me, head cocked. “I think you will screw it up.”

My jaw drops open. Not the encouraging pep talk I’d half-expected him to give.

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