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He said them, right?
Yes, he did.
Even though he hasn’t turned around or stopped doing whatever it is that he’s doing.
What is hedoingthough?
“I can hear you fuckingthinking from over there.”
This time, I have no confusion as to who spoke because his shoulders tense up and his arms jerk, as if his entire body is speaking along with his lips.
Or more like snapping at me.
Which gets my back up and I dig my fingers into the trunk. “I’m notfuckingthinking.”
At this, he finally stops and straightens up, cocking his head to the side slightly as if paying attention to me. The only thing he doesn’t do is turn around as he says, “What?”
I know he can’t see me but still I lift my chin as I reply, “I’m just thinking.Period. No fucking.”
Okay, that sounded so much better andsmarterin my head, I swear.
Also, not funny.
But apparently it is because it makes him chuckle in response, his shoulders moving again.
And this time I notice that they’re broad.
Probably because he’s straightened up now and isn’t hunched over that string of his. In fact, his shoulders are broader than any guy’s shoulders in my class, either at my old school or the new.
“No fucking, huh,” he drawls. “Well, there’s a lot to unpack there, in that statement. But I don’t think you wanna go there.” I frown as to what he means but he keeps going. “So instead, why don’t you tell me what you’rejustthinkingabout?”
His tone makes me narrow my eyes.
Actuallyeverythingabout him is making me narrow my eyes.
The fact that he sounds so amused, his voice thick and raspy — something else that I’ve come across for the first time ever; no boys at my old school or new sound like him — and that he still hasn’t turned around to face me while speaking, like he doesn’t think I’m worthy of being looked in the eye while talking.
The sheer arrogance.
The sheer conceit, haughtiness, hubris.
Theegotism!
It makes me come out of hiding — it wasn’t a very good hiding spot anyway, since he’d already spotted me — and put my hands on my hips as I say, “I’mjust thinkinghow rude it is that you’re talking to me and yet you haven’t turned around and shown me your face.”
This time I don’t think I’ve said anything remotely funny, but he still chuckles.
It’s almost a laugh, actually, and I breathe out sharply, ready to say something else, something even more stern, but he springs up to his feet so quickly and so suddenly turning around that I snap my mouth closed.
And simply stare.
And gaze, gape, goggle and gawp at his face for the first time.
A face that looks like… summer.
That’s my first and very nonsensical thought. How cananyonelook like aseason?
He does though.
