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“That’s what you want?”
I nod, but I’m such a little liar. All I want to do is kiss you until I fall asleep. I want to slide in between your sheets, and find out w
hat goes on inside your head, and underneath your clothes. I want to make a fool of myself over you.
Mr. Bexley’s door is ajar so I speak as quietly as I can. “It’s freaking me out.”
He can see that it’s the truth. I’ve got desperate, crazy eyes. He nods and just like that: Control, A; Delete. The kiss never happened.
I pray for a diversion. A fire drill. Julie calling me to say she would never meet a deadline ever again. I’m not the only one praying for the floor to cave in.
“How was your . . . date?” His voice is faint, his knuckles white. Being nice to me is a lot of effort.
“Fine. We’ve got a lot in common.” I try in vain to wake my computer.
“You’re both extremely small.” He’s frowning at his own computer as if this is the worst conversation he’s ever been party to. Being friends with me does not come naturally.
“He didn’t even tease me about the strawberries. Danny is . . . nice. He’s my type.” It’s all I can think of to say.
“Nice is what you want, then.”
“It’s all anybody wants. My parents have been begging me for ages to find myself a nice guy.” I keep my voice light, but inside, a little bubble of hope is rising. We’re talking like friends.
“And did Mr. Nice Guy drive you home?”
I know what he’s asking me. “No. I got a cab. By myself.”
He breathes out heavily. He rubs his face in exhaustion, then looks at me through his fingers. “What shall we play now?”
“What about Normal Colleagues? Or the Friendship Game? I’ve been dying to try either of those.” I look up and hold my breath.
He sits up straight and glowers at me. “Both would be a waste of time, don’t you think?”
“Well, ouch.” If I say it sarcastically, he won’t know I’m serious. He opens his planner, pencil in hand, and begins making so many annotations that I blink and turn to my computer. I can’t care about his stupid planner anymore. His pencil, my spying experiment. It all ends right now. It’s all been a waste of time.
I tell myself to be glad.
TODAY IS A magnificent black T-shirt day. Write today in your diaries. Tell your grandchildren stories about it. I tear my eyes away, but they slide back moments later. Underneath that T-shirt is a body that could fog an elderly librarian’s glasses. I think my underwear is curling off me like burning paper.
It’s a week after the kiss that I never think about. Bexley & Gamin’s Alphabet Branch is being herded onto a bus like cattle.
“Waivers,” Joshua is saying over and over as people slap them into his hand. “Waivers to me. Cash to Lucinda. Hey, this isn’t signed. Sign it. Waivers.”
“Who’s Lucinda?” someone farther back in the line asks.
“Cash to Lucy. This ridiculously small person right here. Hair. Lipstick. Lucy.”
I know someone who is going to be riddled with paint shortly. The line surges forward and I’m nearly flattened against the bus.
“Hey, I didn’t tell you to trample her.”
Joshua whips them all back and rebalances me beside him like a bowling pin, the warmth of his hand searing through my sleeve. Julie then touches my other elbow and I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Sorry for missing the deadline the other day. I can’t wait to have a proper night’s sleep. I’m like a zombie.”
She hands me her twenty and her nails have French tips. I curl my slightly chipped nails into my palms.
“I was hoping for a favor,” she says, and over her shoulder I can see Joshua tense, ear tilted to our conversation like a satellite. Eavesdropping is unbecoming. I draw Julie away a little, my hand outstretched as people continue to slap twenties into it.
