Right away, she slams the notebook closed, dropping her pen on top of it. She stares at you, not answering that question.
You drop the stack of comic books on the table. Her attention turns to them as she asks, “Did you even read any of them?”
“Read all of them,” you say, pulling the chair out beside her, but you don’t sit down in it. No, instead you slide up onto the table, sitting there with your sneaker-clad feet planted on the chair. You’re not wearing the black shoes that go with your uniform. “They were better than I expected. Kind of pissed I have to wait to see how it ends.”
“Now you know how I feel,” she says, fiddling with the comics, putting them in order. “I’m surprised you read them.”
“I told you I wanted to.”
“I thought you were just humoring me.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because that’s what everyone does,” she says. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I don’t fit in around here. People aren’t mean, but they aren’t nice, either. They just tolerate my presence.”
“Well, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” you counter, “but I’m not their favorite person, either. Some of them hate me. Most ignore me. Used to be they humored me, but now? Hell, look at me. I could sit here like this all day and nobody would say a word, like I’m invisible.”
“Like Breezeo,” she says. “You’ve disappeared.”
You nod. “That’s how it feels.”
She smiles. “I don’t know if it makes a difference, but I see you.”
Silence falls between the two of you. It isn’t awkward. It almost feels comfortable. She starts tinkering with the pen on top of her notebook. You stare at it for a moment. “Are you not going to tell me what you were writing?”
She shakes her head.
“You write in that notebook all the time.”
It isn’t a question, but she answers, anyway. “Almost every day.”
“What, is it a journal? Like a diary or something?” you ask, and her cheeks turn pink as she lowers her head. “Ha! It is, isn’t it? Have you written anything about me?”
You reach for the notebook, but she snatches it away. The pink on her cheeks is full-blown red now. “It’s not a diary. It’s a story.”
“A story,” you say. “What kind of story?”
“The kind you write,” she says. “Or, well, the kind I do. Because I am. I’m writing a story.”
She fumbles her way through that explanation.
You laugh. “Yeah, but what kind? Drama? Action? Mystery?”
“All of that,” she says. “It’s a bit of everything.”
“Does that include romance?”
She doesn’t answer, throwing a question back instead. “Why are you so interested?”
“Because I am,” you say. “Would you rather I just humored you?”
“No.”
She’s quick with that answer.
She’s blushing again.
There’s noise outside the library. Students roam the halls. Lunchtime is coming to an end.
You shove off of the table, getting to your feet. Looking around, you sigh deeply before your eyes meet hers. “You want to get out of here?”
Her brow furrows. “Get out of the library?”
“No, I mean get out of this hellhole,” you say. “My car’s parked outside, if you want to go.”
She gives you a look, one that says she thinks you’re joking, but once you pull a set of keys from your pocket, she realizes you're serious.
“Club meetings are starting,” you say. “It’s not like you’re missing anything. Besides, what’s life without a little adventure? Might give you some inspiration for your story. We'll call it a 'fuck your clubs' field trip.”
You walk away.
She hesitates, just a moment, before grabbing her things and following, falling in step beside you. Her eyes dart around the parking lot. “We won’t get in trouble, will we?”
“No promises,” you say.
Despite your answer, she doesn’t waver.
You drive a blue Porsche. It’s not as flashy as some of the other cars, but it’s enough to make her pause. “Wow.”
She’s fidgeting as she gets in the car.
You don’t waste time driving away.
You head into Albany, going through a drive-thru to grab some lunch. You buy her a sandwich and a chocolate milkshake, although she insists you don’t have to—she has no money. Food in hand, you head to a theater in town. You lead her inside, slipping through a back door.
People are everywhere.
A dress rehearsal is in progress. Looks are cast your way, a few people greeting you as they rush past. This isn’t your first time coming here. They’re confused, though, when they look at her, like her presence is something they can’t fathom. She hesitates, so you grab her hand and pull her through, letting go once you’re clear of the crowd.
She stares at her hand as the two of you take seats out in the empty theater. You eat and chat and watch the rehearsal. A Dr. Seuss musical. She sips her milkshake, laughing at the Cat in the Hat causing chaos on stage, and you get so lost in the moment that time slips away.
“We need to go,” you tell her. “It’s three o’clock.”
Even rushing, you barely make it back to the school before the day is over. You park your car, but you don’t get very far. An administrator is lurking. Hastings saw you leaving together and tattled.
“Cunningham. Garfield.” The man looks between you. “My office. Now.”
Twenty minutes later, the two of you are sitting in that office when both fathers show up. They walk in together, neither man smiling as the administrator explains the situation.
Your father says nothing. He just stands there, listening.
Her father, on the other hand, is fuming. His nostrils flare as he yells, “What the hell were you thinking? Skipping? Do you know what it costs me to send you here? And how many times do I have to tell you never to get in a car with a stranger? Are you crazy?”
She stares down at her hands, biting her cheek, not answering his questions.
Three days of detention. That’s the punishment.
You all walk out together.
It’s sudden, out of nowhere, as your father’s calm mask slips. Right in front of the school, he says not a word, but he swings, hitting you in the chest with a closed fist. It’s hard enough that the girl hears it from a few feet in front of you. Hard enough that her father hears it, too.
They both turn to look.
The blow knocks the air from your lungs. You fight to catch your breath, grabbing your chest, but you’re not surprised at all. This isn’t some fluke.
“Go straight home,” your father says, his voice calm, even as he gets right in your face. “I hope you know this isn’t over. We’ll deal with it later.”
With that, he walks away.
You linger a moment, your gaze drifting to her, before you leave.
You don’t know this, but that girl? She cries the entire way home from school. She isn’t crying because she got in trouble. It isn’t out of guilt or shame. Her tears have nothing to do with herself. She cries for you, because of the look she saw on your face when you walked away. There’s anger in your eyes again and tension in your jaw, and now she knows what that means.
Chapter 7
KENNEDY
“Surprise!”
I'm caught off guard as that word rings out behind me, startlingly close in the aisle. Spinning around, eyes wide, I nearly slam right into a lurking body, all six-foot-three of him wearing a straight black suit, looking the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome. “Whoa.”
“Didn’t scare you, did I?” he asks. “You looked like you were in your own little world. Almost didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Oh, no, I’m just... surprised to see you,” I admit, gazing at him. Drew. “What are you doing here?”
“Came to see you,” he says. “Haven’t heard from you since you cancelled our last date. I tried calling, but figured you were busy with work, so I thought I’d stop by, maybe buy you lunch.”