♫ I Feel The Love - Tritonal, Ross Lynch, R5
"Molly, come answer the door!" my dad shouts at me once more, impatience growing in his tone.
Staring back at myself in the mirror, I mouth, "You got this." And then, I patter out of my room, jogging down the stairs to the front door.
One last breath in before I swing it open to reveal a six-foot-tall teenage God dripped in cargo pants and an oversized long-sleeve.
"Hi, Jack," I say through a smile.
He gives me an unenthusiastic nod as I scan over his body thinking he couldn't be any more perfect.
With a scowl he asks, "Well are you going to let me in or...?"
"Oh—yeah, right." Quickly, I step aside as he takes a long stride onto the hardwood floor inside the entry way.
His head cranes up and around, taking in my home as I shift uncomfortably waiting for his reaction. For the first time, I wonder what his home is like.
What if this place looks like a total dump to him.
My family does pretty well—I'd say we're like high end middle class. But, also my dad is the homemaker in this household and its apparent in his eccentric touches around the house.
Plants litter every surface, lined along the floor in colorful pots, some even hanging from the ceiling near where we stand. And there's wacky, abstract art plastered everywhere.
It's not exactly a traditional home.
Just then, my dad's footsteps reappear. "I came to meet the new friend!" he sings as he rounds the corner, round tanned cheeks stretched into a lopsided grin.
Once he meets Jack's eyes he freezes. "Oh, this is your friend? I thought you said you were working on a school project?"
"We are Dad," I assure him with a smile. Trying to save Jack, I go to tug on his sleeve to pull him upstairs with me, but my dad insists on talking.
"You go to Wilcrest?" he asks Jack in confusion. Understandably, I failed to mention our all-girls school had a new male student.
"Uh—yes, I do," Jack replies running a hand through his messy brown hair.
My dad lowers his brows and looks to me out the side of his eyes.
"Dad, this is Jack," I explain to him slowly, hoping he catches my drift to be cool around him.
He definitely misreads my tone as he widens his eyes and nods. "Oh! Okay. Well, hello Jack. Very nice to meet you."
I sigh and pull the boy up the stairs behind me as my dad calls up to us, "You two have fun!"
Tugging Jack's sleeve, I pull him into my small room, closing the door shut behind us.
"Uh—I think your dad thinks I'm trans," Jack says once we are alone.
Nodding I tell him, "Yup. Yeah, no he for sure does." I walk towards my desk to reach my laptop before pulling out the plastic chair to take a seat. "But it's cool. My parents are like super progressive."
Jack stands in the center of my room, brows crinkled. "Yeah, great, but like I'm not trans, so..."
"Right." I nod. "You can sit," I tell him motioning towards my bed.
He shrugs his maroon backpack off his shoulders and tosses it on my floor before taking a seat onto the edge of my bed.
Jack Moody is on my bed.
Quickly, I turn my back towards him, hoping he didn't notice my face, which from the burning sensation in my cheeks, has to be a deep color of red right now.
Attempting to busy myself with work, I flip open my laptop. "So, have you decided who you want to write about?"
No response, so I turn back towards him. His long body is bent over, unlacing his converse. He tugs one off each foot before pulling his legs up onto the bed, scooching back to rest against my pillows.
I'm drooling—no, quite literally, I am drooling.
My hand wipes over my mouth as I shut it closed tightly.
"Yeah, I don't really care. Just pick anybody," he says to me. "Like, Steph Curry or something?"
"Steph Curry is your hero? Like the basketball player?" I ask wrinkling my nose. Eyeing the boy, I try to picture him watching sports, but it just doesn't fit his exterior. "Didn't expect you to be a basketball fan."
Jack shrugs, throwing a hand up slightly. "Yeah, I'm not...like at all."
I shake my head at him, smiling a bit. "So, pick someone else." The boy looks down at his hands, like he's deep in thought, but offers no other suggestions. "It's easy! Like, who's your favorite musician?"
He sighs. "I don't know...Travis Scott?"
"Okay, well he's a bit of a hot topic these days. Maybe let's scratch that," I mumble. "Let's think. Maybe a political figure?"
Jack looks at me like I've grown two heads. "Not a politics guy? Got it."
Trying to think, I drum my fingers against the white wood of my desk for a minute.
"Well, who are you writing about?" Jack finally asks me.
"Oh, that's easy," I say with a wide smile. "Ross Lynch. Because he's like super talented and sweet, and really pretty—I mean not as pretty as you. Not that I think your pretty, I just..."
The words tumble out too fast for me to stop them. Jack stares back at me with raised brows as I clamp my mouth shut, eyes wide.
"So, you don't think I'm pretty?" he taunts, tilting his head at me.
Just the sight of his long body stretched across my bed, smiling smugly at me makes me sweat.
"No," I say in a shaky voice. "I don't think you are."
Hastily, I turn around once again to bury my nose into the laptop on my desk.
It's uncomfortably quiet for a few moments, allowing me a beat to recover from the embarrassment. With a sigh, I turn back to face him.
"It doesn't have to be anyone crazy," I try to reason. "Who do you look up to? It could be a friend or family. Sibling? Parents?"
For a moment, I study him as he contemplates my words. And then he says softly, "My mom."
"Okay! That's a great answer," I encourage. "Tell me about her. Like, what does she do for work?"
Jack starts to pick at his nails as he remains slumped against my pillows. "I mean, she used to have a lot of different jobs."
"A hustler," I say. "That's a great attribute to look up to!"
The boy frowns still staring at his hands.
"Tell me more." I turn back towards the laptop to begin taking notes to use for his essay. "Like, what does she like to do for fun?"
"I changed my mind." His voice is suddenly firm, all playfulness having exited the building.
Whipping my head around, I say, "What? No, that was a great choice."
"No," he states, and then softens, lightening up his tone. "It'll be too much work. For me to have to tell you everything to write."
My body slumps against the plastic chair as we fall back into silence. "So...Steph Curry, then?"
"Yeah," he affirms with a nod. "Steph Curry."
With a huff, I turn to pull open a Google tab to begin boring myself to tears with the man's Wikipedia page. I could not be less interested.
"I'm gonna have to get going soon," Jack says as my mattress creaks under him while he sits up. He begins tugging his shoes back on, lacing them up as he goes.
"Already? I haven't even started yet," I whine.
He frowns at me. "I gave you my idea. You have to do the work now. That was the deal."
"Well, where are you even going?" I say with annoyance.
"Running home for a bit before Emma's party."
Of course. Emma McKinney would find a way to run off the first man I get into my room. That girl has somehow managed to be a thorn in my side since the moment I learned of her existence.
Jack eyes me with a puzzled expression. "Are you not going? She said everyone was invited."
Throwing my head back, I scoff. "Yeah, well that can be assumed to exclude me."
He stands from my small bed walking over to where his backpack rests on the floor. "You should come."
"What?" His words catch me off guard. Jack Moody wants me to go somewhere he is.
Jack shrugs the backpack onto his shoulders, his muscles stretching beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.
"She said everyone was invited; you're part of everyone," he explains as if it's that simple. "So, come."
I sink back into my chair, contemplating it for a moment. But what is there to really consider? Jack's telling me to go, and it's going to piss Emma off, so what's the problem, really?
"Okay. But can you give me a ride?" I ask with a smile. He scrunches his nose at me, but before he can refute it, I add, "My bike is still at Burger Shack."
After that whole debacle, I couldn't muster up the courage to return for it. At the mention of the infamous incident, Jack smirks at me.
"Alright, but I'm not stopping for you to throw up this time," he teases, and while the embarrassment burns at my cheeks, I still smile back at him. "I'll come back by in a couple hours?"
I nod at him hurriedly and then he heads out of my room. Once his footsteps patter down the stairwell, I lean forward to peak out the window behind my desk so I can catch one last glimpse as he climbs into his vehicle.
The old red Toyota pulls out of the drive, and adrenaline begins to flood my body at the realization: I'm going to a party with Jack Moody.