Jema

I Need to Go {twelve}

God, Mr. McKormack is so hot. I don't know if I've said this before—probably—but it still stands.

Good thing I'm naturally bad at science and don't have to act, because then he'd catch on. I've spent every Thursday in his classroom for the past five months.

I sit on his desk and recite what I know about the human brain, and he nods, staring at me with his green eyes.

He said we were friends last week. I've been calling him by his first name for months now, and sometimes he tells me stories about his college life. I even know about his past imaginary friend, Spank. I told him about my mom and dad getting a divorce, and he told me his parents divorced when he was six. Not easy things to talk about, but he trusts me. I'm not messing that up.

One time, after I got a high B on a test, he bought me McDonalds as a gift. We ate and laughed and talked.

I definitely have a crush on him, and sometimes, I don't even hear him speak. I just watch his lips move and his eyes brighten up. I watch the muscles underneath his shirt and I stare—I freaking stare—at the natural imprint in his pants.

"Jema?"

"Yeah, sorry."

"Okay, you have to know the difference between regions. Have to. It's critical," Cameron says. I nod. I sit and watch him plug grades into the computer. "There's a dance next weekend, right?" I nod. "You going?"

"Probably not."

"No? I thought you might be going with Trinlee Firestall," Cameron teases. I shake my head. He laughs and stands up, facing me. I can smell his cologne, even this late in the day. "You're not close to her?"

"Not my type," I sigh. He raises an eyebrow. I have barely, barely hinted that I'm gay to Cameron. Not that it would make any difference, but we don't talk about relationships anyway, even though he's teased me about my closeness with Trinlee a few times.

He steps toward me, close enough that I can see the brown in his eyes. "Not your type? Too blonde?"

"Too... girly..." I say slowly, trying to figure how to go about this.

"She's elite, you know this," he chuckles. "So what kind of girls do you like?"

I sigh. "None." Cameron's eyebrows are raised, and I wiggle mine, too. Then he steps even closer to me. "I never said I liked girls."

"Well, well, Jema," Cameron is close to me, and I suddenly know exactly what's going on, "there's another thing we have in common."

My eyes are open during the first kiss, and by the second kiss, they flutter shut. I must be imagining things. I've imagined this before, yes, but this time, it feels real. It's March 13th, Thursday, and I'm sitting in a classroom, making out with my teacher.

I keep my hands plastered to the desk, but Cameron is close, and his hands grab my waist, and his tongue probes at my mouth while I try to keep breathing. It feels good but it feels wrong, and what if people saw us?

Cameron finally stops kissing me, and I sit there, eyes closed. This is not good. We've crossed so many lines, all in a few minutes. Why does he—when did he—

"Jema?" he whispers, kissing my bottom lip.

"I need to go," I say quickly. I hop off his desk and grab my backpack, but I drop it twice because of how lightheaded I am. "I-I need to go."

"Wait, wait—Jema don't freak out—"

"I need to go. I'm sorry. I need to go."