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The Superman shirt guy hasn’t said anything; he glances from me to Broadway and back to me. Half of his mouth raises in a smile.
Broadway guy places a headshot-grin on his face, tilts his head, and says, “You’re lucky.”
I turn to look up at him, blinded for a minute by the sun halo that shines theatrically behind his dark waves of hair. I want a camera. Right this minute.
Nope. That’s not it. I want something different. What is it again? Oh. Right. I want to assert my autonomy.
I raise one eyebrow. “Lucky? Really? To get a chance to throw a frisbee with you? Why? Do you have some kind of boys’ club that you’re letting me try out?”
I know I sound snotty. I’m pouring it on too thick, but I am so tired of being treated like a kid just because I’m small. I don’t like to be spoken to like I’m a child.
I know what people think of me. It’s not a big secret. When you’re an inch shy of five feet, very blonde, and tend to grin (and possibly giggle) when you’re nervous, people make assumptions. But I’m not a kid. And I’m not dumb. I’m not even as young as I look.
And this guy’s reaction to me is way too much of a reminder of stupid Eli Green, my major dating mistake in high school. He was just like this guy. A show-boater. Confidence in excessive amounts. Selfish. Talking down to me. Thinking I needed him to rescue me, clear a path for me into the grown-up world. No way. I don’t need another guy like that. Not as a friend, and definitely not as more.
I am not weak. I am not needy. And they’re lucky to have me.
Broadway guy and Superman have obviously made some assumptions about me. I’ll show them. “So? Does your little club have a name?”
Neither of them answers. My barrage must have shocked them. I’m not done. My hands go to my hips. “How should I refer to this dude’s hangout I’m lucky to be invited to?” I can feel sarcasm (and meanness) dripping from me. I’m really not mean. But I will be taken seriously.
With a direct question, someone has to respond, but for a few seconds, they just stare at me.
I may have overreacted.
Finally, Superman-shirt shakes his head. “Not at all. I believe you misunderstood. Dex meant you’re a lucky charm.” His posh British accent startles me. He nods behind us toward Ginger’s retreating back. “The cheeky chemist has never agreed to join us for frisbee, or, well, anything else.”
Oh. Well. Maybe I made a few assumptions of my own. And I was clearly wrong about at least one of them.
I nod and smile, hoping that it covers enough territory that I appear to be both apologizing and graciously accepting that “lucky” compliment.
“Dex?” I ask. I face Broadway. “Is that you?”
He puts out his hand. “Dexter Kaplan.”
I shake it, wondering if this means my snotty outburst is forgiven, if not forgotten. “Joey Harker.”
“I know,” Dexter Kaplan says. Another version of his smile, a little smaller and therefore more sincere, touches his mouth, and I immediately want to do the same—touch his mouth, that is. I love this place.
Wait.
He knows? Is there a measurement of time short enough to convey the quickness with which my entire face goes red?
“How do you know?” Did my voice just crack? It did, didn’t it? Maybe he doesn’t notice. Maybe I don’t look like a blushing, self-conscious child. I can’t make myself let go his hand, but he’s not letting go, either.
Something in his smile ratchets back into the range of overconfident. Less appealing. He gestures at the lawns and buildings surrounding us. “I know everything that goes on here. This is my world. And,” he says, a patronizing tilt of his head bringing him closer to me, “you’re welcome to be part of it.”
Gross.
“That’s the worst thing I have ever heard,” I tell him.
Superman laughs.
Dexter now looks a tiny bit repentant. “Moreau mentioned your name in an email.”
Of course. Right. Obviously. Official news about new hires and all that. In fact, I might have received the same email if I had managed to make the Chamberlain online passwords work.
I vow to get right on that after today’s meetings.
