“You look good,” he says, almost under his breath, holding my gaze through the glass.
My face burns. “Please, you know you say that to all the girls,” I joke.
He breaks our eye contact. “What girls do you think there are?”
“Huh?”
“I don’t really pay attention either way, but what do…people…think?”
“That you’re a hot soccer player and you can have any girl you want?”
“See, this is what I mean when I say gossip, popularity, all of that shit doesn’t matter. There’s no truth to it. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I definitely haven’t been celibate since I moved to Sterlingwood…”
I make a face. “Marcus, there’s really no need to tell me how much sex you’re having.”
He rubs his jaw. “I just mean that there’s not, like, a string of girls.”
Why are you telling me this?I want to ask.
Instead, I infer, a little bit breathless, “There’sagirl?”
He stares at me. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been trying to get over someone all year.”
For a reason I don’t understand, my chest gives one quick, slight ache. No, Idounderstand. It’s because it’s sweet, so unlike everything that comes to mind when I think of Marcus Riddick. How has he turned out to be so different than who I always thought he was? I wonder what kind of girl gets to be the recipient of Marcus’s attention, his affection. I wonder why my lungs sting from something that can’t be jealousy but feels a little like it.
“Is she from your old school?”
“Hmm? She’s…yeah, before.”
“Oh,” I say. Give him a smile. “She’s lucky.”
Marcus surprises me by standing then. “I should get going. Before your mom gets home.” Somehow it is evening again. I spent nearly twenty-four hours in bed.
“How did you…why did you come over? You said you were driving past?”
The strangest thing. Marcus Riddickblushes. “We didn’t dream all weekend,” he says. “Not that we have to dream every day, but then you weren’t at school and I…I started to wonder if something had happened.”
“Well, thank you,” I say. “I feel so much better. I always…I miss my dad a lot when I don’t feel well. He always took care of me when I was sick. I got my appendix taken out a few years ago and it literally felt like a weeklong pizza party. My mom doesn’t…She’s not…Well, as you can tell, she’s the mayor.” It’s such a stupid comment, but somehow, I think he might understand.
“Yeah,” he says.
He pushes his hand through his hair. “It’s not a problem,” hesays, taking a step back and sounding weirdly formal. “Let me know if you need anything else. And you should really see your doctor.”
“I will this week,” I say.
He nods, turns around, and shuts the door of my room. A few seconds later, I hear the front door close. When I peek out the window, I see his truck backing out of our driveway.
I exhale and sit on my bed.
Marcus Riddick was just in my house. For hours. Making me noodles and cleaning up my pukey trash can.
What. The. Fuck.
When the world becomes weirdly wobbly, I figure it’s just more of the same topsy-turvy nonsense of the last day. But then my dresser disappears, my box of books from Dad.
Everything starts to vanish.
And that’s how I know I’m entering another dream.
