Read Online The Secret Side of Empty by Maria E. Andreu - Free Book Online

whatever intel she can on Nate, but not to reveal my interest. “What about those tennis guys? We had the weirdest thing with them on the strip the other day.”
    “Who?”
    “Ferriss. And some kid Nate. A few others.”
    “Oh, probably Jackson was there. Crazy, kind of hyper?”
    “Curly black hair?”
    “Yep, him.”
    “Yeah, he totally terrorized my cousin while she was visiting.”
    “He’s nuts. The other ones are marginally normal. Ferriss has been going out with Tracy for, like, two years. Nate was seeing that girl from chem, what was her name?”
    “Naomi,” offers Joon helpfully.
    Argh. Kick to the stomach.
    “I thought they broke up?” says Laurie.
    “I don’t know. I thought someone said they saw them at the movies.”
    “No, they broke up at the end of the summer,” says Laurie. “Anyway, he’s cute, right?”
    I shrug. I don’t know these girls well enough to trust them with my hots for Nate. Plus, Nate and I had, like, one conversation. I don’t want to seem all stalker-y and pathetic. Which I am, but he doesn’t need to know.
    The dance goes on like this, no sign of Nate, no dancing, just gossip and soccer talk, college visit stories. The Nate question is forgotten after three spectacular break-up stories, one involving an overdose of aspirin and a guy pulled out of school for a month of rehab. By the end of the dance, I’m tired of hoping. I’m feeling kind of stupid for making Chelesa suffer through a Willow dance for nothing.
    “C’mon, Chels, we’ve got to get home.”
    “You sure you guys don’t want to go to the diner?” asks Laurie.
    “No,” says Chelsea, “we should get home.” I am sleeping over at Chelsea’s house, and her parents are pretty strict on curfew.
    We pull into Chelsea’s drive, say a quick hello to her dad, who is watching a Vietnam documentary on what can only be described as a movie theater screen. We go up to her room. I change into sweats and a T-shirt, and Chelsea puts on pink pajama bottoms with hot pink monkeys on it and an old T-shirt from Boston College. She pulls her laptop on her lap while she chews on a Twizzler.
    “So he didn’t go,” she says.
    “I know, whatever.”
    She stares at her screen, then gets in closer.
    “M, check it out. Laurie just posted a picture on her wall. Isn’t that him?”
    I scoot in next to her and look. Yes, it’s him in a red sweater, crammed into a booth with Laurie, Joon, and a few other guys, all grinning wide for the camera. God, he looks good in red.
    “Isn’t that the diner? Laurie just posted it from her phone.”
    “Whatever.”
    “You should friend him,” she says.
    “I’m not friending him.”
    “I’m logging out and you’re friending him.”
    “No, Chels! That’s desperate. I don’t want to.”
    “Fine, okay.” She drops it, and I’m grateful. “But check your account if you want. I’m going to go brush my teeth.”
    As she pads off down the hall, I log into Facebook. The friend request icon is lit up with a red 1. I click on it.
    Friend request from Nate Robinson. With an email. It says:
    “Hey, Laurie said you were at the dance but I looked and looked and didn’t see you. I got there kind of late, I guess that’s why. I can’t keep chasing you around town, so how about we be friends on here?”
    I lift my hopes back up and hold them in my hands as I click “Accept.”

    T HE KITCHEN IN C HELSEA ’ S HOUSE IS BLINDINGLY , SPARKLY WHITE . There is a slab of marble on a giant island holding a bowl of apples big enough to stock the produce section of any reasonably sized supermarket. No one family could ever eat that many. Food as decor.
    Chelsea grabs some frozen waffles and puts them in a toaster oven which is magically hidden behind some cabinet doors, like the refrigerator and everything else.
    “So . . .” You can tell she’s been holding the conversation off until the right time. “We’re going to Siobhan’s, right?”
    “Yeah.” I’m still a little stunned my