Don't say that. Don't even joke about it! The idea of ten weeks with a single, locked-down girlfriend—even the fake kind—gives me all over body hives. Sue me for making a face about that. I don't think you've thought any of this through. It would involve all of our friends, parents—even if we don't use my real name—text messaging, emails—and a lot of time. Time is something I don't have to burn. Plus, it would kill the variety of…of…yeah…girl fun in my summer,” I imply, wondering if she'll call my bluff. The only real summer varieties I score are the extra odd jobs I pick up at the rink.
She turns bright red and I have to hide my smile.
“Disgusting,” she snorts and reverts back to rubbing her temples.
Is this a habit of yours?” he asks.
“What?”
“Dropping stuff whenever you first see me? It's kind of cute. Flattering,” he adds, straightening while easily holding all of my stuff in his giant arms.
I've recovered enough to roll my eyes. “Maybe the habit is connected to your urge to rifle through my private things every time you see me?”
“It's possible. Your stuff is so randomly interesting.” He eyes my science kit and then scans through the pile of papers in his hands. “You got any other lists that need checking off? College tuition aside, I'm also trying to save for a new car.” He laughs.
Without another word, I turn my back and start for my Jeep, wondering if he can hear how loudly he's made my heart pound.
“Okay then, see you after school, Jess. It's a date. We'll have some fun! Good luck on your afternoon final!”
He sounds like a stupid megaphone. When I don't answer and hunch my shoulders, his low laugh adds a trail of goose bumps coursing down my neck.
My heart races and I look away. “Well I care. So, write it down. For nine weekends and eight thousand dollars, what's yours is mine including your friends.” I throw in a little sarcastic eye flutter. “We're going to be so head-over-heels-in-love. I can't wait to see how romantic you are!”
“Oh no. I refuse to be your kind of bumper-sticker-romantic. Don't mistake me for Mr. Darcy.”
I gasp. “You don't know Hunger Games or Forks, Washington, but you know Mr. Darcy? Start talking.”
“Crap! My grandmother's a fan. She's tortured me since birth with Mr. Darcy. Thanks to her DVD collection, I can quote Jane Austen faster than the Elmo song.”
I laugh, surprised again. “Prove it.”
“Elizabeth, daaarling!” He's launched into a breathless English accent. “I love, love, love you, and I never want to be parted from you from this day forward. Pardon me, whilst I puke…”
“No way!” I beam. “Let the contract state that I want the Mr. Darcy accent once a week!” I can't help but laugh again because he's shaking his head and laughing back.
I hop onto the stage and joke-sing: “The Phaaaanntom of the Opera is there, innnnnside your mind.” I attack the curtain with a flourish and sing on, “innnnside your mind.
Anne EliotI nod and tap my fingers against my knees. “What to do with a girlfriend while I work my hours at the TOG. Hmm…Can I really do this? Will I be able to pull it off? Will she be able to read at the snack bar tables without losing her mind,” I mumble.
“Do you always talk to yourself?”
“Yes. Bad habit. Does it bother you?” I walk back over to her side of the small stage.
“No. It's interesting. I hate people knowing my thoughts. But yours just fall out of your head so easily.” She shrugs.
“I never thought of it like that…but you're my girlfriend now…so who cares if you know what I think?”
Her cheeks turn pink, and I laugh.
With a lightning quick glance at me first, he reads one bumper sticker: “Member: BBB. Boys in Books are Better?
Anne EliotSay something, Jess. Say anything.
And just when I'm about to think of what I should say next, my mouth goes into whacked overdrive like I'm possessed. “The graphic art in Clone Wars is my favorite,” I say. “I love how they drew the characters. You know—how everything looks so angular and—”
My words tangle and freeze when my brain finally arrives to shut it down.
Say something but NOT THAT, you psycho!
“Clone Wars. Love it, do I? Yesss.” He's actually responded in a Yoda voice!
I blink.
His eyes are kind, sparkling with laughter and still, all too green. Yoda green!
So…you're not going to tell me what they mean? C'mon. What's the Hob? Why Forks?”
When I stand, I switch to my blatantly rude, you're-an-idiot tone. This is the one that always pisses off my mom. To be sure he's not missing my insult this time, I also cross my arms and speak very slowly like I'm speaking to a toddler. “The Hob is from The Hunger Games books. It's the underground market where the characters trade food and information. Forks would be the town in Twilight. The setting. In boy-speak, Forks equals the planet Tatooine for Star Wars. You know—Anakin Skywalker's childhood home? Or are you not familiar with any global blockbusters? I suppose I could use Sesame Street or Pokémon for a reference—if it would help you understand better?”
Bam. That should seal it. I couldn't have sounded more like a total bitch.
He nods. “No, I've got it. My bedroom was Tatooine for all of third and fourth grade. Boy-speak…that's funny.” He laughs again, and it sounds warm and—and—not at all offended!
Tatooine, huh? So awesome you know Star Wars facts,” he adds nodding. “Do you ever watch the animated stuff?”
Grin. Grin. Grin.
I'm seriously at risk of an old-style faint. Holy-WTHECK? My neck and cheeks are volcano-hot. My entire chest swarms with an uncontrollable butterfly attack.
Butterfly riot.
Butterfly massacre.
Person slaughtered: Me.
Method used: Dimple.
The guy has a dimple. Of course he does. To match the Hollywood chin divot. To make the lump on my forehead pound even harder.
Points for Gray Porter: 3,000,000-bajallion, trillion to the millionth power.
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