Rolling Dice

by Beth Reekles

  “I don’t doubt you would,” he says, so seriously I don’t think he’s joking. Do I really come off like that? I wonder briefly. “But seriously, it’s fine. I’ll pay.”

  “Yeah, but …”

  “But nothing,” he tells me, pushing my purse away again as I start to bring my wallet out for the third time. “I’m going to pay and you’re going to say thank you, and then we’re going to have a nice evening and watch the movie.”

  “Do you want popcorn or anything?”

  “If you do, sure. I don’t want to look like the pig I really am and eat a whole thing myself. I will do that, you know.”

  I laugh. “Salted or sweet?”

  “Toffee,” he says, waggling his eyebrows like toffee popcorn is the most daring thing in the world.

  “Wild man,” I say sarcastically. “I should just start calling you Tarzan now. I’ll go grab popcorn,” I tell him. “Just so we don’t have to wait for the next twenty minutes and miss the commercials.”

  “Can’t go missing the commercials.” He shakes his head slightly, a grave look on his face as if to say that this would be truly tragic.

  “Exactly.”

  “Here,” he says, handing me a five-dollar bill. “I told you, I’m paying for tonight.”

  I step back and clasp my hands to my purse so he can’t give me the money. I shake my head at him and take a couple of steps back. “Toffee popcorn it is. And this one’s on me.”

  “Madison,” he sighs, stepping toward me.

  I cut him off hastily. “Uh, uh, uh! You can’t move or you’ll lose your place in the line. And then we may actually miss those commercials.”

  “Damn, you’re right,” he says with a melodramatic sigh. Then he smiles at me. “You will get this five-dollar bill by the end of the night.”

  “No, I really won’t. Large popcorn all right?”

  “Whichever one you want.”

  I join the line at the snack stand. I get a large Diet Coke since I know popcorn makes me thirsty—but I grab two straws, just in case—and when I eventually turn around with my snacks, Bryce is standing waiting for me, smiling.

  “Come on—we wouldn’t want to miss those commercials now, would we?”

  Chapter 16

  I’m acutely aware throughout all 108 minutes of the movie that Bryce’s knee is pressed against mine. It sounds kind of sad, I know, but it’s all I can think about. He doesn’t put his arm around me, but whenever our hands brush reaching to get some popcorn he twines our fingers together, until I begin to think he’s waiting for me to get some popcorn to take some too.

  He was right about being able to eat plenty, though; I have a few handfuls, but Bryce eats most of the box himself.

  I wonder if he’ll be cheesy and yawn before putting his arm around me. It seems like the kind of thing he’d do, in a jokey and cute way. He doesn’t, though, which makes me all the more aware of how our knees and elbows are touching.

  When the movie’s over—and it was a pretty darn good film—we stand up. I grab the popcorn box, and shake it so the kernels in the bottom of the box rattle around. I take a peek inside, and then look back up to Bryce, putting on a shocked expression. “Are you really going to leave all that popcorn?”

  He laughs and bumps my arm playfully with his as we walk down the aisle. “Maybe that explains why I’m so ravenous. Do you want to grab a bite to eat somewhere?”

  Given that yes, I’m hungry, and yes, I want to prolong this date with Bryce as much as possible, I nod and try not to smile too enthusiastically. “Sounds good to me.”

  “What do you feel like?” he asks pausing as I ram the popcorn box into a trash can. “Pizza? A burger? Someplace really nice? It’s entirely up to you.”

  I think for a moment. “Pizza sounds good to me.”

  “Everything sounds good to you,” he jokes, laughing. “I know this place that does really great pizza.”

  And fifteen minutes later, we’re being seated in a restaurant that smells of melted cheese and a delicious mix of dough, vegetables, and tomato. The carpets are red and the lighting is dim, so the whole place has a cute and cozy feel to it.

  We slide into a booth the waiter directed us to. “What can I get you guys to drink?”

  “Water, please,” I say.

  “I’ll have an orange soda,” Bryce says.

  “Okay. Here are your menus …,” the waiter says as he hands one to each of us, “and I’ll be back in a few minutes to take your order.”

  I open the menu up, and put it down in front of me. The first thing my eyes flit to is the prices—I let out a small, silent sigh of relief when I see that it’s not expensive. Not that I couldn’t afford it, but if he insisted on paying again, then I’d feel terrible.

  I don’t check out the food on the menu, though; instead, I look around. It’s not a big restaurant, but there’re enough people to make a nice background buzz of conversation that mingles with the low, soft mood music.

  I turn back to study my menu, but I feel Bryce staring at me. I look up under my bangs, which almost cover my eyes now that my head is tilted down, and see that he’s smiling at me. “What?”

  He shrugs. “Nothing.”

  A minute later, the waiter comes with our drinks, and takes our orders. I’m shocked when Bryce orders exactly what I want: a chicken and vegetable pizza. So I say, “I’ll have the same, please.”

  When the waiter’s gone, Bryce says, “Was that purely coincidental, or …?”

  I laugh. “I wanted that pizza. What, do you think I picked it just because I couldn’t decide for myself?”

  “You might’ve,” he jokes. “I have good taste in food—it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Right.”

  There are a few heartbeats of silence before Bryce takes a deep breath, lets it out again, and leans closer. “So, Madison, tell me something about you. Anything at all.”

  I think for a moment. Surely there’s something that doesn’t betray what I used to be like back in Pineford?

  “I have an older sister. Jenna. She’s studying at NYU.”

  “Really? Cool. What’s she studying?”

  “Art.”

  He nods slowly, thoughtfully. Then he sips his orange soda and says to me, “You know, that’s not telling me something about you personally. How am I supposed to get to know you if you don’t tell me about yourself?”

  I laugh, but I sound a little nervous—I hope it’s only to my ears it sounds off. “Okay then, how about … America’s Next Top Model is my guilty pleasure.”

  “That’s the kind of thing.”

  “Now it’s my turn to ask you something,” I say. “How come you’re such a big soccer star?”

  “It’s a good sport,” he tells me with a smile. “I was in Pee Wee Soccer Pals when I was a little kid. Went to soccer camp a couple of summers. I’m hoping it’s going to get me a scholarship to a good college.”

  “What do you want to do in college?”

  “Law. A couple of colleges would take me on a sports scholarship. I’ve heard it’s pretty competitive …” He looks at me and asks, “What do you want to do in college?”

  I shrug. “I haven’t thought about it much. Maybe history? It’s one of the few subjects I’m good at.”

  “Unlike AP Physics?” he teases, smirking over the top of his glass.

  “Very funny.”

  “Sorry. Still no chance of you getting moved out of that class to somewhere else?”

  I shake my head. “I went to the office to ask again. Apparently Mrs. Willis tried to shuffle my schedule around, but for some reason it wasn’t working. I’ve given up. I’ve got Dwight, so I’ll be able to cope.”

  “Dwight?”

  “Yeah. Dwight Butler,” I add, when Bryce gives me a prompting look to tell me he doesn’t know who I’m talking about.

  He thinks for a moment. I can see his eyes darting around like he’s trying to picture him. Then he says, “Oh, yeah. Hangs out with a kid missing an e
yebrow?”

  Half an eyebrow, I correct him mentally. Aloud, I say, “Yeah.”

  “Since when do you hang out with that guy?”

  “I met him before the party at the beach. And he’s my lab partner for Physics.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why? Is there some kind of problem with that?”

  “What? No, no!” he exclaims hurriedly, wide-eyed. “I didn’t mean it in that way. I just wondered because, you know, he’s … kind of a nerd.”

  “So?”

  He shrugs. “I guess it’s not a bad thing. He’s just—well, a loser.”

  “I didn’t get that impression.” My stomach churns; I should be defending Dwight, but I’m too scared to risk damaging Bryce’s—and everyone else’s—opinion of me. I cringe, thinking how shallow I’ve become.

  “Something tells me you don’t really care all that much whether it’s socially acceptable for the popular new girl to be all buddy-buddy with the nerdy guy.”

  I shrug, avoiding answering the question. Heck yes, I care. But if he thinks otherwise, I’ll let him think that.

  He smiles wider, chuckling under his breath. “See, that’s what I meant about you earlier. You’re interesting.”

  “I think weird might be the word you’re looking for,” I mumble. I instantly clamp my mouth shut, unable to believe I actually just said that.

  Bryce heard me; but he laughs, like he thinks I’m joking. “No, that word definitely doesn’t describe you. Pretty. Intriguing. Funny.”

  I blush—I can’t help it. I bite my lip as though I’m trying to stop smiling, and duck my head because I don’t want him to see me blush. Then I remember—oh yeah, no curtain of hair to hide my face. I laugh. “Is this you trying to be cute on the first date?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Is it working?”

  I giggle. “Yes, it’s definitely working.”

  Bryce leans back in his side of the booth with a confident kind of smile. “Good.”

  Over the rest of dinner we talk about all kinds of things. Miraculously, I manage to avoid telling him too much about myself before I moved to Florida.

  But we chat, and it’s not as uneasy and forced as I’d feared. In fact, it’s just nice. I laugh and smile, and even though I occasionally panic about what to say, I find I’m having a good time.

  Bryce gives in eventually when I insist on paying for my half of the bill. It does take a while to convince him, though; at first he wouldn’t even let me leave the tip.

  He gets me home about quarter of an hour before my curfew.

  Except he doesn’t park right outside; he parks two or three houses down. I know what’s coming: the goodnight kiss at the end of the first date. I may not be up to scratch on date etiquette and guys, but I’ve seen enough movies and read enough books and magazines to know that much.

  And I don’t blame him. I bet my parents—okay, my mom in particular—will be peeking out the window.

  “I had a good time tonight,” I tell him, unbuckling my seat belt. “Thanks.”

  “It’s no problem,” he replies. That smile must have girls’ stomachs filled with butterflies. I know mine is. “I had a great night too.”

  There’s a moment that seems endless; I wait with bated breath, wondering if he’s going to kiss me or not. I don’t want to move first in case I look silly.

  Then Bryce leans toward me and presses his lips gently against mine. I kiss him back, and all of a sudden feel light and warm inside.

  We both break the kiss at the same time, but Bryce doesn’t move away; his forehead rests against mine, his breath mingling with my own.

  “I said yes because you were nice to me,” I whisper.

  “Sorry?” His voice is as quiet as mine.

  “You wanted to know why I said yes. I said yes because you were nice to me and you didn’t even know me.”

  He doesn’t say anything for a couple of seconds. I count seven heartbeats thudding heavily inside my rib cage before he reacts; and then he puts a hand up and tilts my face toward his so that he can kiss me again.

  “Madison,” he breathes softly, staying close so that his lips brush against mine, “I’m very glad you said yes.”

  Chapter 17

  Bryce is waiting for me after my World History class first period the next day. At first I think he’s just waiting to go in to see the teacher or something, so I smile and say hi, then carry on walking.

  “Whoa, don’t leave so fast,” he laughs, jogging a couple of steps to catch up to me. “I wait for you outside your class and you walk off?”

  I laugh, but then I do a double take and pause, my pace slowing. “You waited for me?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  “Oh.” I smile brightly up at him. “Thanks.”

  “What class do you have next?”

  “Art and Photography,” I tell him. “How ’bout you?”

  “English Language,” he sighs, not sounding very enthusiastic, and rolling his eyes. “Tell me why The Catcher in the Rye is such a great book?”

  I grin at him. “It’s not that bad. We read it last year, in my old school. I liked it. I loved the whole thing with Holden and his hat—”

  “It’s not that bad?” He raises an eyebrow. “It sucks.”

  I shrug. “Whatever. To each his own. I maintain that it’s one of the best things ever to grace my bookshelf.”

  He laughs, and we round the corner, turning into the bustling main corridor. Usually I’d be shoving my way through people, but everyone seems to just part for Bryce like he’s Moses at the Red Sea. Like he has some kind of force field clearing his path.

  When we finally reach my Art room, I pause before following some of the kids inside. I turn to say goodbye to Bryce, and as I do, I see Carter behind him. I shoot him a smile, and he returns it—but quickly stops when Bryce turns to see who I’m smiling at. Carter ducks his head and doesn’t look back up at me.

  For a moment I’m frozen in place, staring at Carter, feeling shocked, and a little hurt. What’s up with him?

  I shake myself mentally as he goes into the classroom, and turn back to Bryce. “Uh, thanks. For walking me to class, I mean. Um. Yeah.” I shut up before I stammer and babble any more, and settle for a smile instead.

  “No problem. I’ll catch you later.”

  “Okay.”

  He gives me a kiss on the cheek, and then carries on down the corridor toward his English classroom.

  I sense a few people looking at me as I walk into class. They’re whispering too—loud enough that I can make out what they’re saying:

  “Are they dating?”

  “I heard they totally hooked up at Tiffany’s party on Friday. Jane told me all about it.”

  “She’s been here, like, what, a week? And she’s already getting together with him?”

  “I’m so jealous—he’s totally hot.”

  “… don’t you think? I mean, just look at that nose stud. So gross.”

  I clench my jaw, breathing deeply. They’re only talking about me because of Bryce. They can judge me for that all they want—it’s only a few stupid rumors; it doesn’t mean anything. What matters is that I’ve got some friends, and they’re only too happy that I’m with Bryce now. Moreover, I’m happy. So they can carry on; it’s all a load of trash anyway.

  I know it’ll be all over the school by the end of the day. News travels fast here. But at least it’s not exactly bad news … Actually, I think, it’s pretty darn good news.

  So I lift my chin instead of looking down at the floor. I make my way to my usual spot next to Carter, and drop into my seat, pretending to be absolutely oblivious to the gossip.

  “Hey,” I say to Carter, smiling.

  “So, you and Higgins, huh?”

  I shrug my shoulders alternately. “I guess so.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “Um, I …” I clear my throat. “Tiffany’s party? We were all playing truth or dare, then …�
��

  “Ah, truth or dare,” he says, nodding knowingly, looking me right in the eye. “I see.”

  “We only kissed, though,” I say hastily, making my voice deliberately loud, in case he’d heard I’d slept with Bryce. I don’t want that kind of reputation. “Then we went to the movies last night and …”

  “And then you lived happily ever after,” he finishes for me with a wry smile.

  I laugh. “Oh yeah, totally. Planning the wedding and everything. Would you like to see some sonograms?”

  Carter laughs, and I see him relaxing.

  “You still think it’s weird that I talk to you even though I’m friends with them, don’t you?”

  I have to say it: I know it’s why he looks kind of uncomfortable around me sometimes; why, when he saw Bryce, he pretended to ignore me.

  The look on his face and his few seconds of silence are enough to tell me I’m right.

  “That’s stupid. You’re just being silly.”

  He laughs. “You’re a very blunt person, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like—”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t mean that in a bad way. It was more of a statement. It’s good that you don’t believe that you can’t talk to certain people because they’re not at the same level in the social pyramid. Although, I think you pretty much rival Tiffany now. Dating the most popular guy in school does give your own popularity a boost.”

  I laugh. “I suppose so.”

  Then Carter says, “Dwight likes you.”

  I don’t say anything—just knit my eyebrows and tilt my head to the side, giving him a questioning look.

  “You know,” he says, shrugging. “He likes you. Not likes you likes you,” he clarifies hastily. “But he likes you as a friend, at least. Even if you are too good for him now.”

  I snort. “Yeah, sure. Just because I hang out with some cheerleaders and jocks?”

  “Madison, come on. Don’t tell me you don’t know that nerds and jocks don’t mix.”

  The way Carter says “nerds and jocks don’t mix” makes it sound like it’s some kind of universal law. It sounds so incredibly ridiculous that I burst out laughing. Carter grins back at me, chuckling—although I’m not sure if he’s responding to the fact that I find it funny, or to the fact that what he said is actually ridiculous.