self-absorbed.”
Even as I said it, I knew this was going to prove to be a challenge for Amy.
“I’ll help you,” I said. “You guys don’t have any classes together, anyway. But when he does come up to you, I’ll be your director. We’re pretty much together all the time as it is, and I know exactly what it takes to piss off Ryder Cross. I might as well have a PhD in it.”
“I’m still not sure …”
“Please, Amy.” I clasped my hands together and gave her the biggest, saddest eyes I could manage. “ Please . I need this.”
“You really like him that much?” she asked.
“Yeah. I think I do.”
I was not a particularly romantic person. Up until now, I’d only ever had two crushes in my life. The first was my childish obsession with Amy’s brother. The second equally as unattainable crush was on Greg Johnson, the news anchor. A celebrity crush, if you will.
But Ryder was different. The fluttery feeling I got in my stomach wasn’t based on how he looked (though staring at him in history class was not entirely unpleasant) or just because he was nice to me (because he wasn’t always). My feelings for him had formed over the course of our instant message conversations — all of which had lasted hours. I’d never talked to anyone for hours before, aside from Amy. We’d just clicked . He was smart and surprisingly funny.
Even if he was also a pretentious hipster.
“You hated him a couple of weeks ago,” Amy said. “What if you change your mind about him again?”
“I won’t,” I assured her. “Believe me, Amy. He’s not the asshole we thought. I mean, he sort of is, but not exactly. Ugh. I know I sound crazy. Just tell me you’ll help. You have to.”
She looked down at her half-eaten lunch. “I guess I will. As long as it doesn’t go on too long —”
“Eee! Thank you!” I sprang across the table to throw my arms around her, my chest landing right in her plate of french fries. “I love you, I love you, I love you! You are my favorite human being, Amy Rush.” And with that, I planted a kiss right on her cheek.
She blushed, either pleased or embarrassed. Then she said, “Um … Mr. Buckley just walked into the cafeteria, and he’s giving us a very strange look. Probably because you’re on top of the table, so …”
I laughed and pushed myself up and away from her, easing back into my seat. “I’ve done weirder things in class. He’s used to it.”
“I don’t know if that’s something to brag about,” she said. Then her eyes widened. “Oh, no! Your shirt.”
“What?” I looked down.
Ketchup.
On my white shirt.
All over my boobs.
“Fan-freaking-tastic,” I said, even though I was laughing.
“Sorry,” Amy moaned. As if it was her fault I’d launched myself across the lunch table.
“It’s cool,” I said. “I’ll just tell everyone I’m dressed as a murder victim. I mean, we’re only a few days from Halloween. No one will think twice.”
The bell rang and we threw our trash out before heading to our third block classes.
“I have my gym clothes in my locker,” Amy said. “You could borrow that T-shirt. It might be a little stinky, but there’s no ketchup on it.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Maybe I’ll start a new trend.”
But my mind changed when I spotted Ryder heading down the hallway toward us. The reality of what I must look like hit me, and I was suddenly far less comfortable with it. I was supposed to be making a good impression, after all, and perhaps it wasn’t best to start off with a giant red splotch across my breasts.
I ducked into an alcove, dragging Amy with me. We pressed against the wall and stayed quiet as he walked by, alone.
He was always alone.
My heart ached for him a little, almost overriding my embarrassment.
Once he’d turned the next corner, heading toward the library, I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Amy gave me a small, knowing smile.
“So …,” I said. “Yeah. About that
Even as I said it, I knew this was going to prove to be a challenge for Amy.
“I’ll help you,” I said. “You guys don’t have any classes together, anyway. But when he does come up to you, I’ll be your director. We’re pretty much together all the time as it is, and I know exactly what it takes to piss off Ryder Cross. I might as well have a PhD in it.”
“I’m still not sure …”
“Please, Amy.” I clasped my hands together and gave her the biggest, saddest eyes I could manage. “ Please . I need this.”
“You really like him that much?” she asked.
“Yeah. I think I do.”
I was not a particularly romantic person. Up until now, I’d only ever had two crushes in my life. The first was my childish obsession with Amy’s brother. The second equally as unattainable crush was on Greg Johnson, the news anchor. A celebrity crush, if you will.
But Ryder was different. The fluttery feeling I got in my stomach wasn’t based on how he looked (though staring at him in history class was not entirely unpleasant) or just because he was nice to me (because he wasn’t always). My feelings for him had formed over the course of our instant message conversations — all of which had lasted hours. I’d never talked to anyone for hours before, aside from Amy. We’d just clicked . He was smart and surprisingly funny.
Even if he was also a pretentious hipster.
“You hated him a couple of weeks ago,” Amy said. “What if you change your mind about him again?”
“I won’t,” I assured her. “Believe me, Amy. He’s not the asshole we thought. I mean, he sort of is, but not exactly. Ugh. I know I sound crazy. Just tell me you’ll help. You have to.”
She looked down at her half-eaten lunch. “I guess I will. As long as it doesn’t go on too long —”
“Eee! Thank you!” I sprang across the table to throw my arms around her, my chest landing right in her plate of french fries. “I love you, I love you, I love you! You are my favorite human being, Amy Rush.” And with that, I planted a kiss right on her cheek.
She blushed, either pleased or embarrassed. Then she said, “Um … Mr. Buckley just walked into the cafeteria, and he’s giving us a very strange look. Probably because you’re on top of the table, so …”
I laughed and pushed myself up and away from her, easing back into my seat. “I’ve done weirder things in class. He’s used to it.”
“I don’t know if that’s something to brag about,” she said. Then her eyes widened. “Oh, no! Your shirt.”
“What?” I looked down.
Ketchup.
On my white shirt.
All over my boobs.
“Fan-freaking-tastic,” I said, even though I was laughing.
“Sorry,” Amy moaned. As if it was her fault I’d launched myself across the lunch table.
“It’s cool,” I said. “I’ll just tell everyone I’m dressed as a murder victim. I mean, we’re only a few days from Halloween. No one will think twice.”
The bell rang and we threw our trash out before heading to our third block classes.
“I have my gym clothes in my locker,” Amy said. “You could borrow that T-shirt. It might be a little stinky, but there’s no ketchup on it.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “Maybe I’ll start a new trend.”
But my mind changed when I spotted Ryder heading down the hallway toward us. The reality of what I must look like hit me, and I was suddenly far less comfortable with it. I was supposed to be making a good impression, after all, and perhaps it wasn’t best to start off with a giant red splotch across my breasts.
I ducked into an alcove, dragging Amy with me. We pressed against the wall and stayed quiet as he walked by, alone.
He was always alone.
My heart ached for him a little, almost overriding my embarrassment.
Once he’d turned the next corner, heading toward the library, I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. Amy gave me a small, knowing smile.
“So …,” I said. “Yeah. About that
Similar Books
