Jesse's Girl
Page 39
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I pretty much love sailing over Franklin while holding Jesse’s hand. Thinking back to this afternoon when we were lounging on the purple cushion, I still can’t believe what happened, that he looked deep into my eyes and gently touched my arm. I felt sparks then, and I’m still feeling them now as the Ferris wheel plunges through rushing air back to the earth.
I decide right then that I’m going to take Mom’s advice this time: if Jesse really wants me, he’ll let me know. He’ll show me. I haven’t had time to pine over Jesse, and I don’t want to start. But his calloused fingers—rough like sandpaper from playing guitar—feel so warm and solid in mine. I can’t ignore that. I don’t know what I’d do if I had the chance to be with him, and that scares and excites me.
There’s this anticipation I get when I’m about to strum guitar strings. I get a similar feeling when I look at Jesse. It’s a feeling of I want to be near him, and what’s next?!, and I crave that sensation as much as playing guitar. My interest in him has nothing to do with the fact that he’s a star. I like him for his temper and his sweetness, his pranks, his protectiveness, his laugh. And damn, when he sings, my skin tingles as if he’s kissing me all over.
After the Ferris wheel, we go through the funhouse of mirrors, where Jesse gets trapped by a bunch of younger girls who want pictures and his autograph, so he gets his black Sharpie out and starts signing shirts and scraps of paper. An elementary school girl tells him, “I love ‘Agape.’ The way you played piano makes me want to learn how, but my parents say I can’t right now ’cause they just had a baby and piano lessons…aren’t as important.” Her voice trails off.
Does that mean her parents can’t afford lessons? Jesse looks over at me, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing—that this little girl’s story might be similar to mine. The publicists snap pictures of Jesse with the girl for his website.
And then the four of us head over to the Harvest Dance at the fairground’s barn, where a slow Tim McGraw song is playing. Groan.
Bales of hay and large pumpkins fill the barn, and it smells like campfires and hot apple cider. I do love the way the fair people decorated, using wheelbarrows and hay and rusty farm equipment and wildflowers and gourds. Strings of white lights droop from the wooden rafters.
I’m standing elbow to elbow with Jesse when his hand slides into mine. “Wanna dance?”
I swallow and nod.
He leads me onto the dance floor and wraps his hands around my waist. I smile up at him as we dance junior-high style, two feet apart. Lots of gaping kids from school watch us dance. Connor Crocker—a junior at my school—pumps his fist at me, laughing, and I smile back at him.
The paparazzi who’ve been following us today snap pictures, and Gina and Tracy are managing them, but Jesse doesn’t seem to notice. If he’s happy, I’m happy. Dr. Salter and Mr. Logan buy cups of hot cider and sit on a bale of hay together, chatting, but they both keep looking over at Jesse, checking on him as if he’s a kindergartner.
“What are you thinking about?” Jesse asks quietly.
“You.”
“Yeah?” His voice is gravelly and thick, and we go from dancing far apart to having no room between us at all. His chest presses to mine, and I tighten my arms around his neck.
“I’m thinking about you too,” he whispers.
The music changes from Tim McGraw to Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly.”
“This is my favorite song ever,” I say.
“You have good taste,” he replies, and my heart swells because he respects my music choices. He rests his nose against mine. It’s like we’re in our little cocoon beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. He softly sings the song to me in the most romantic moment of my life.
And that’s when I hear, “Maya, we need to talk.”
I turn to find Nate looking mighty pissed. He stumbles back at the sight of Jesse.
“Can I cut in?” Nate asks.
“No, you may not,” Jesse says and twirls me away, leaving Nate dazed. I can’t help but snort. But what did he want?
We dance until I hear Dave shouting my nickname: “My!” He hugs me, and then I introduce him to Jesse, and I meet the famous Xander of Taco Bell, who is quite cute with his styled blond hair and tight polo shirt.
Mr. Logan and Dr. Salter come and clap Jesse on the back. “We’re old,” Dr. Salter says with a yawn. “I’ve gotta hit the sack. You kids okay to get home?”
“We’ll be fine. Thanks for coming,” Jesse says.
I decide right then that I’m going to take Mom’s advice this time: if Jesse really wants me, he’ll let me know. He’ll show me. I haven’t had time to pine over Jesse, and I don’t want to start. But his calloused fingers—rough like sandpaper from playing guitar—feel so warm and solid in mine. I can’t ignore that. I don’t know what I’d do if I had the chance to be with him, and that scares and excites me.
There’s this anticipation I get when I’m about to strum guitar strings. I get a similar feeling when I look at Jesse. It’s a feeling of I want to be near him, and what’s next?!, and I crave that sensation as much as playing guitar. My interest in him has nothing to do with the fact that he’s a star. I like him for his temper and his sweetness, his pranks, his protectiveness, his laugh. And damn, when he sings, my skin tingles as if he’s kissing me all over.
After the Ferris wheel, we go through the funhouse of mirrors, where Jesse gets trapped by a bunch of younger girls who want pictures and his autograph, so he gets his black Sharpie out and starts signing shirts and scraps of paper. An elementary school girl tells him, “I love ‘Agape.’ The way you played piano makes me want to learn how, but my parents say I can’t right now ’cause they just had a baby and piano lessons…aren’t as important.” Her voice trails off.
Does that mean her parents can’t afford lessons? Jesse looks over at me, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing—that this little girl’s story might be similar to mine. The publicists snap pictures of Jesse with the girl for his website.
And then the four of us head over to the Harvest Dance at the fairground’s barn, where a slow Tim McGraw song is playing. Groan.
Bales of hay and large pumpkins fill the barn, and it smells like campfires and hot apple cider. I do love the way the fair people decorated, using wheelbarrows and hay and rusty farm equipment and wildflowers and gourds. Strings of white lights droop from the wooden rafters.
I’m standing elbow to elbow with Jesse when his hand slides into mine. “Wanna dance?”
I swallow and nod.
He leads me onto the dance floor and wraps his hands around my waist. I smile up at him as we dance junior-high style, two feet apart. Lots of gaping kids from school watch us dance. Connor Crocker—a junior at my school—pumps his fist at me, laughing, and I smile back at him.
The paparazzi who’ve been following us today snap pictures, and Gina and Tracy are managing them, but Jesse doesn’t seem to notice. If he’s happy, I’m happy. Dr. Salter and Mr. Logan buy cups of hot cider and sit on a bale of hay together, chatting, but they both keep looking over at Jesse, checking on him as if he’s a kindergartner.
“What are you thinking about?” Jesse asks quietly.
“You.”
“Yeah?” His voice is gravelly and thick, and we go from dancing far apart to having no room between us at all. His chest presses to mine, and I tighten my arms around his neck.
“I’m thinking about you too,” he whispers.
The music changes from Tim McGraw to Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly.”
“This is my favorite song ever,” I say.
“You have good taste,” he replies, and my heart swells because he respects my music choices. He rests his nose against mine. It’s like we’re in our little cocoon beneath the brim of his cowboy hat. He softly sings the song to me in the most romantic moment of my life.
And that’s when I hear, “Maya, we need to talk.”
I turn to find Nate looking mighty pissed. He stumbles back at the sight of Jesse.
“Can I cut in?” Nate asks.
“No, you may not,” Jesse says and twirls me away, leaving Nate dazed. I can’t help but snort. But what did he want?
We dance until I hear Dave shouting my nickname: “My!” He hugs me, and then I introduce him to Jesse, and I meet the famous Xander of Taco Bell, who is quite cute with his styled blond hair and tight polo shirt.
Mr. Logan and Dr. Salter come and clap Jesse on the back. “We’re old,” Dr. Salter says with a yawn. “I’ve gotta hit the sack. You kids okay to get home?”
“We’ll be fine. Thanks for coming,” Jesse says.
