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I’d be lying if I didn’t admit a thrill would run through me when I noticed him staring, which is moronic because he doesn’t like me. At all. And stupid me can’t stop stupid thinking of stupid him. The latest Oz train of thought: Did he go to his junior prom?
“Who did you go with?” Eli asks.
“Some friends. The guys rented a limo so it was cool.”
Eli switches his hands on the wheel. “Are you still in the advanced program at school?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Oz weaves so that he reappears in the passenger mirror. He wears a folded black bandanna and his hair blows in the wind. He doesn’t wear a helmet. Real smart. A car smashing into him would mean brain damage.
“Was one of those friends you mentioned your prom date?”
That question trips me up and I peer over at the walking, talking gene bank. Junior prom then advanced program and then back to junior prom. “Why the subject shift? Are you concerned a girl who’s smart can’t have a date to prom? Like all I do is stare at the walls in my room when I’m not scanning Wikipedia for mistakes? If so, you’ve been watching too many teen movies. Our generation believes in being well-rounded.”
A smile plays on his lips while he shakes his head. “Just answer. Did you have a date?”
Yes, and I went to his senior prom. At the end of that night he tried to kiss me and it was comparable to kissing Lars the dog sans the handkerchief. “There was a large group of us. Guys were a part of the group. We had fun.”
I didn’t directly answer and the way his smile reverses into a frown lets on that he’s aware. This is why I hate my annual visits with Eli. He’s nice to me and he does what he’s doing now: asks a million questions with this hopeful gleam in his eye that I’ll answer.
Because I hate hurting people, I’ll reply, but only so much because in the end there’s this deep, dark voice that whispers, Why does he care and what right does he have to ask?
“You don’t have your driver’s license.” Eli returns to one of his previous and safer topics. “How is that possible?”
“Where are we going?” I ask, not even bothering hiding the exasperation.
“Somewhere,” he answers. “Why don’t you have your license?”
“I don’t know how to drive. That’s how it’s possible.”
“Do you want to learn?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I hedge, then nibble on my bottom lip. Dad attempted to teach me this past fall, but I accidently pushed the gas when I should have chosen the brake. I creamed a row of bushes in our front yard and totaled the front of Dad’s Mercedes. Since then, neither Dad nor I have been eager to resume my lessons. “This past year has been busy. You know, school and stuff.”
“Stuff,” Eli says, as if he’s trying the word for the first time.
“Stuff,” I repeat.
His frown deepens and his fingers tap the steering wheel. The cords of muscles in his arms work with the motion and the tattooed stars move. Hmm. Never noticed before that not all the stars are shaded in.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Eli doesn’t look at me like he has with the two million other questions since we left Olivia’s.
“Yes,” I answer. “We’ve been together for a month. He’s the captain of the football team and he expected sex on our first date. Initially, I said no, but then he was a little grabby and I figured everyone my age is doing it, so I thought why not? I went home and told Mom and she put me on birth control so she’s cool when we do it in my bedroom now.”
Eli slams on the brakes and my body whips forward against the seat belt then rams back into the seat. The two bikes in front of us U-turn and there’s a loud grumble as the three behind us fly to catch up.
Completely red-faced, Eli glares at me with black, soulless eyes. “What did you say?”
“No,” I tell him calmly. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
Eli blinks and directs his attention to the steering wheel.
One of the bikes pulls up beside us. The name Hook is sewn on the front of his vest. “We okay?”
Eli nods then presses the gas. “Are you shitting me on the boyfriend or on the no boyfriend?”
“I don’t have a boyfriend.” I don’t know why I ran my mouth, but it’s annoying how Eli thinks he has the right to ask me absolutely anything he wants and how he expects a response. Year after year he visits Florida and year after year I try my best to play along, but why he craves an inside scoop on my life and why I owe it to him, I don’t understand.
He deserted us—me and Mom. In the end, he abandoned me.
