Shut Out, Kody Keplinger [book recommendations for young adults txt] 📗

was staring at Cash.

In the middle of a library.

“So,” I said, clearing my throat and trying to sound cool and detached. Instead, what came out was pretty flirtatious. What was it about this guy that always made me do that? “It’s funny. You can’t do geometry but you read Greek plays?”

Cash’s blush deepened. “Yeah… I know it’s a little lame. But you’re sure you’ve never read anything by Aristophanes? Not even one play?”

“It’s not lame,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “I love the Greeks. I’ve read Antigone and Medea and Oedipus and—”

“Wow,” Cash teased. “No wonder you seem so tense sometimes; all you read are tragedies. Do you have something against smiling?”


“No, I just… always end up reading the tragedies, I guess.”

He leaned a little closer. “Maybe reading a comedy would be just the thing to help you loosen up a bit. You have a great smile—I’d like to see it more often.”

I looked down, smoothing my hair behind my ear. “Thank you.” Then we were staring at each other and I felt my heart speed up and I knew this wasn’t the situation I wanted to be in, so I said, “Anyway, yes. I mean, I’m sure—I haven’t read anything by Aristophanes.”

I turned and knelt down to pick up the book I’d dropped off the ladder, needing to look at anything besides Cash. Why did I always fall into his trap?

Maybe if I ignored him, he would walk away. I could go back to shelving and Jenna could give him something to do and I wouldn’t have to look at him for the rest of the day. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

“He wrote about a sex strike, you know.”

“What?”

I looked up and found Cash grinning down at me. So much for ignoring him. Quickly, I shifted back into a standing position, hugging the retrieved book to my chest.

“Aristophanes,” Cash said, moving a little closer to me. “He wrote a play about a group of women in Athens going on a sex strike to convince their husbands to end a war. I figured maybe that was where you got the idea.”

I felt the heat rise into my cheeks. “You know about the…?”

“Everyone does,” Cash said. “All the guys on the team are talking about it.”


“Oh.”

“So,” he said, leaning against the bookshelves beside me, keeping his eyes trained on mine. “Why are you doing it?”

“To end the rivalry.”

“No. I know that part. I mean…” He hesitated, running a hand over his head and smoothing his short brown hair. “I mean, what made you decide to do it now? Like, what pushed you over the edge or whatever?”

I bit my lip and looked over at the books to my left. We were in the D’s. The spine of A Tale of Two Cities jumped out at me from the shelf, golden letters popping off the black binding.

I wasn’t going to tell Cash the truth. No way. I wasn’t going to tell him about my boyfriend putting the fights before me, or about the booty call. He was the last person I wanted to know about my problems with Randy. Not that we had many. Just this stupid feud.

Instead, I needed him to know that I was perfectly happy with my relationship. Maybe if he got the message, he’d stop flirting with me. Stop reminding me of his rejection.

“I got really upset when that kid tore his ACL,” I said, deciding to tell part of the truth. “When you told Randy about it in the cafeteria, I realized that the fighting had gone too far. And then Randy got a little banged up, too, and I just… I knew the war wouldn’t end until both sides called it quits, so I came up with the plan to have a strike. The girls all loved it.”

“Yeah, poor Pete.” Cash sighed. His flirty smile melted for an instant into a softer, more natural one. “I think he’ll be able to play next season. I told him I’d practice with him in the spring so he doesn’t lose his place on the team.”


“That’s nice of you.”

“He’s a good kid. He deserves a shot.” He hesitated for a second, glancing away from me when he asked, “So how does Randy feel about this sex-strike thing? I’m sure he hates it.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked, shifting a little so we weren’t standing so close.

“I don’t, uh—I just know it’s hard on a lot of us guys,” he said quickly. “Just wondering how he’s coping.”

“Randy’s cool with it,” I said, which wasn’t really a lie. He hadn’t taken me seriously enough to be unhappy about the strike. “I mean, he’s gotten hurt in this rivalry. I’m sure he’ll be grateful once it’s all over.”

“Uh-huh. Well, that’s nice.” For a second, Cash looked annoyed. Or at least I thought he did. Because I blinked and the expression had left his face. He was smiling again, and I was sure I’d imagined the whole thing. “I should get back to work,” he said. “See you around, Lissa.”

Then he turned and left me between the stacks, not as happy to see him go as I’d hoped I’d be.

Logan was five minutes and sixteen seconds late to pick me up. I didn’t even bother asking where he’d been, because I was sure he’d been at home since right after five, when his shift finished at the auto parts store. Most likely, he’d just lost track of time. I didn’t quite understand how anyone could do that. I was always aware of what time it was. Constantly. How did someone let seconds or minutes or hours just slip away from them?

I don’t know. But Logan was the master of it.


We were about to head out the door when I heard Cash call to me from across the room. I turned and found him hurrying toward me.

“Here,” he said, handing a thin paperback to me. “I checked it out for you earlier.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“Lysistrata,” he said. “The Aristophanes play I told you about. I thought you might find it interesting. Considering your plans and all.”

“Oh, um… Thanks.”

“No problem. Let me know what you think.” He smirked and touched my shoulder playfully. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll like getting away from the tragedies.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, I’ll let you get going. See you later, Lissa.”

“All right. See you,” I said, moving toward the library door, holding the copy of Lysistrata to my chest. I was sort of curious to read it. “Okay, Logan, let’s go…. Logan?”

I glanced over my shoulder. Logan was talking to Jenna at the front desk, and she was totally chatting it up with him. Flipping her hair, batting her eyes, smiling. Ugh. My skin crawled. Jenna didn’t smile. Not unless she really wanted something.

Like my brother, apparently.

“Logan,” I said too loudly. “Hey, come on. Let’s go.”

“All right, all right.” He sighed, stepping away from the desk.

I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath, trying to erase from my memory the image of Jenna and my brother flirting.


“You don’t have to be so demanding, you know,” Logan said, walking out to his Jeep with me at his side. “It really isn’t very attractive.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I appreciate it. Now can we just get out of here?”

I took a look back at the library as we drove away. I could see Cash walking across the parking lot, a streetlight casting his shadow across the pavement. When I looked away, I realized I was hugging the copy of Lysistrata like it was a prized possession.

Quickly, I stuffed the book into my backpack and, before Logan could notice anything was up, I started commandeering the radio dial.


chapter thirteen

I dreamed about Cash that night.

Not a prophetic dream where he died in a fiery car accident, or a goofy dream where we walked on Mars and ate cotton candy or something stupid like that. No, this dream was… Well, it involved me, Cash, and that library sex scene from Atonement that I wasn’t supposed to be thinking about whenever Cash was around—even though I couldn’t help it. And in my dream, there was nothing uncomfortable about the bookshelves.

I rolled over and slapped the snooze button, but lying there, as the dream flooded into my conscious brain, I discovered that the extra seven minutes of sleep wouldn’t do me any good this morning. The shame would keep me awake instead.

I climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom, turning off my alarm clock along the way. I couldn’t get my mind out of the dream. Even after I was done showering and getting dressed, or when I ran downstairs to catch the bus.

Somehow, having a dream like that about Cash made me feel… guilty.

“Why would you feel bad about that?” Chloe asked in our first-block computer applications class after I confided in her. “It’s not like you can help what you dream about. And damn, the boy is hot. Who doesn’t have raunchy dreams about him? Too bad he’s such a tease. He could be the ultimate stud if he wanted, but he won’t even move beyond the flirty stage with girls. Maybe he’s part of some crazy religion or something.”

I blushed and opened up an Excel spreadsheet to start the project we’d been assigned. I always told Chloe everything. About my family, my relationship with Randy (the parts that weren’t too private, at least), my college plans, and even my dirty dreams. But there was something she didn’t know about: what happened between Cash and me at Vikki McPhee’s party over the summer.

“Seriously, though,” she pressed, leaning over to see what buttons I was clicking to start the arithmetic functions on the spreadsheet. “Why do you feel guilty?”

“I don’t know…. Because I have a boyfriend?” I offered, not mentioning the fact that I’d never had that kind of dream about Randy. “Doesn’t that make it sort of wrong?”

“No,” Chloe said flatly. “It doesn’t. You can’t help who or what you dream about. It’s not like you’re cheating on him. Besides, boys can do it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she said, checking my screen again to figure out how I’d created the assigned bar graph, “boys check out girls, talk about girls, and totally dream about girls they aren’t dating, and it’s cool as long as they don’t actually act on it. But when a girl

like you does the same thing, she feels dirty or guilty or whatever. I don’t get that.”

“Yeah,” I murmured. “I guess I don’t, either.”

There were a lot of things I wasn’t getting lately. Like how it wasn’t okay to like sex too much because then you were a slut, but not having it made a girl weird. Or how boys like Cash could get away with flirting too much but a girl would