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“A trumpet,” she said.
“Why did you choose trumpet? You like playing it?”
She side-eyed him, wondering if he was playing a joke on her. Why would Finn Brennen be interested in her band choices? “I was demoted from the oboe.”
His laughter surprised her.
“Why did you take band?” He pushed the library door open and held it for her.
“I’m on a secret mission to ruin them from within by getting them to play hardcore punk.”
He chuckled, his left arm brushing against her as she passed by him on her way out. A whiff of soap, deodorant, and remnants of chlorine drifted toward her from his skin.
“Seriously, though, why?” he asked, walking next to her in the hall.
“Okay. It’s the uniform. I love the uniform.” As if anybody could love that ugly, green synthetic horror.
He laughed again. A short, husky, deep sound. She noticed his gaze sliding down her body as if he was looking for the uniform, though she was in her regular jeans and tee. She returned his gaze, and their eyes met.
“I am trying to get them to play more pop songs,” she said more seriously. “Maybe we’d be laughed at less if we stopped playing only uncool, old march tunes.”
“You like pop?”
“Don’t you?”
He just looked at her and smiled. She felt the smile spreading wider on her lips too.
She had never talked to a guy like that, especially not a guy who belonged in Finn Brennen’s league.
During that first tutoring session, she found it hard to look straight into those unbelievably blue eyes, and was unprepared for how comfortable he had made her feel, and how easy it had been to talk to him, especially given that she didn’t talk with many people in general. All the girls from freshman year to senior knew Finn, the star of the swim team, with a swimmer’s body to top off his dark blond hair and ocean blue eyes that were set in a wonderfully male-proportioned face.
“Pearl Jam is my favorite band, so …” He shrugged.
“So, no pop?” Her smile hid her surprise. Finn Brennen. Pearl Jam. Interesting. There was something raw in their music.
She scrutinized his face.
“I do pop, too. Who’s your favorite?”
“All sorts. These days, I’m into Abba,” she replied.
“Timeless,” he said. “Can I give you a ride home? My car is … Unless you came with yours?”
She scoffed. “I don’t have a car. I walk.” She walked every day, seeing others like Eric Hays, who lived on her street and drove alone in his car, or in groups like Libby Latimer and her friends, Luke and Roni, who drove to school together. The latter didn’t live near her, and she wouldn’t get into a car with the former, even if her legs stopped working.
“So, can I give you a ride home?” They had reached the exit.
“Sure. Thanks.”
He opened the car door for her. She was impressed by the chivalry and by the non-flashy model he drove. How different than Eric Hays’ new red BMW.
“Sorry, my friends left it all messy last night,” he said, picking up an empty paper cup and napkins from the front seat and throwing them into the back before she got in.
She buckled up as he started the engine. Sucking in her lips, she had just realized she had never ridden a car with a boy before. She had never been on a date either. While this wasn’t a date, it was still exciting.
“You can move the seat back a bit, so you’ll have more legroom there,” he said.
She looked at him. He was backing up from the parking spot, his arm on the back of her seat, his head turned backward, the posture highlighting the magnificence of his well-built, wide torso.
