by Melinda Metz
Maria knew psychic powers weren’t the same as alien powers, but Isabel seemed ready to yell at anyone who even talked about using powers.
“Earth to Maria!” Liz’s voice broke into her thoughts.
Maria narrowed her eyes at her best friend. “So,” she said. “UFOnics with Jerry?”
Liz chewed her lip. “I don’t know. …”
Maria shook her head sadly “I have two words to say to you—”
“Pomeranian better not be one of them,” Liz warned.
“Just Mends,” Maria said. She didn’t mean to be harsh, but sometimes Liz really needed a push. “You know I’m right,” she added. “Max already made this decision for you.”
Liz sighed. “Okay Okay, okay, okay,” she said. “I’ll go tell Jerry.”
“We have the place to ourselves,” Isabel announced as she unlocked her front door. “Max is at work, and so are my parents.” She led the way into the living room.
Alex wondered if girls had any idea what effect words could have on a guy. Words like “we have the place to ourselves.” Six basic words, not one of them sexual or anything. But whoa. They sent a shock wave through Alex’s body.
She just meant it as your basic informational statement, he told himself. Like “we have some soda in the fridge” or “we get HBO.” It wasn’t some kind of invitation.
He sat down on the couch. Isabel sat next to him—so close, he could feel the heat of her body.
Or wait, he thought. Was I wrong? Was it a total girlspeak invitation? Anotch down from something like “my bed has a very firm mattress?”
Because if it was an invitation, then he should accept. It was the polite thing to do.
Stop this. Right now, Alex ordered himself. Try to regrow a brain. Of course it’s not an invitation, you moron. She saw the guy she loved get killed about two seconds ago.
Alex took a deep breath—and the scent of Isabel’s spicy citrus perfume filled his nose. Oh, great. Would it look totally ridiculous if he got up and moved to that chair across from the couch? Because that would make things a lot easier.
Or maybe they could go upstairs. She could lock herself in her room, and he could sit outside the door and talk. He was really good at that.
“Do you want to watch TV?” Isabel asked.
No hidden meaning in those six words at least. “Sure,” Alex said.
Isabel handed him the remote, a surprising move from her. Not that she was totally selfish. Not totally But she did like things her own way—even little things like what TV show to watch—and she pretty much expected people to cooperate.
Alex flipped on the TV and started channel surfing. Isabel moved a little closer to him, making actual skin-toskin contact between his arm and her arm. His brothers would laugh themselves sick if they could see their little brother getting all excited by touching some girl’s arm.
But Isabel … she could turn him inside out with one look from those killer blue eyes. It had been that way since the first day he transferred to Olsen High. He saw her in the hall. She ignored him.
“Is this okay?” Alex asked, stopping on one of the endless talk shows.
“Sure,” she answered. “Do you want something to drink?”
Another safe six words. But it would be even safer in here if he could get her away from him for a minute. Maybe when she was gone, he’d move over to the chair. That would be okay. Sort of casual.
And while he was over there, he’d remind himself a few hundred times that this was not a guy-girl event. This was a friend-friend event. Where one friend—that would be him—helped a beautiful, blond, perfectly bodied friend—that would be her—get through a really bad time. Maybe next time he did this, he’d bring Liz. Or Liz and Maria. He could use some chaperons.
Isabel stood up. He thought she would head into the kitchen. But she didn’t. She just stood there, staring down at him. He stared back, trying to figure out what she was thinking from the expression on her face.
Then she was on his lap. He didn’t know if he reached up and pulled her to him or if she flung herself into his arms. It didn’t matter. She was there. And her lips were on his.
So maybe it really was an invitation, he thought. And then he couldn’t think at all. He was totally caught up in the feel of her hands in his hair. Her breasts against his chest. Her tongue brushing his.
He was not going to survive this. He was going to combust. Burst into flames so hot, there would be nothing left of him but a pile of cinders.
He didn’t care. All he cared about was getting even closer. He couldn’t get close enough. Alex wrapped his hands around Isabel’s waist and pulled her tighter against him. He thought he heard her give a little whimper of pleasure.
He reached up to stroke her cheek—and his fingers came away wet. His eyes snapped open. And the fire burning through him went out.
Isabel was crying. Tears streaked her face. Alex suddenly realized he could taste salt on his lips. Oh, God. She’d been crying her heart out, and he’d been so caught up in the feel of her mouth, of her body, he hadn’t even noticed.
He was an idiot. A moron. Like that little whimper was Isabel getting all passionate because she was into the way Alex was touching her. Right.
“I’m sorry,” Isabel mumbled, her voice husky.
“It’s okay It’s fine.” Alex wanted to jump up and run out of the house. But that’s not what Isabel needed from him. She needed him to be there as a friend. She needed him to hold her as a friend.
Alex pulled Isabel’s head down on his shoulder. He cradled her in his arms. “You should go ahead and cry. It’s good to cry. My mom is always saying that. Try convincing a house full of guys that, though.
He kept talking, saying anything that sprang into his head, keeping his voice low and calm. Trying not to think about her arms around his neck, her body pressed against his.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” Isabel said, her voice muffled against his shirt.
Alex knew it wasn’t true. He knew there was only one guy Isabel really wanted here with her. And it wasn’t him.
* * *
“Dylan, do you know what the—” Michael stopped, censored himself. “Do you know what a kimbie is?” he yelled. He didn’t know exactly where Dylan was, so Michael yelled loud enough that he could be heard anywhere in the entire house.
He hoped that little weasel Dylan hadn’t snuck out. The Pascals had said he was supposed to be helping Michael with the baby-sitting. And he was going to be one very sorry junior high school rodent if he didn’t answer Michael pretty fast.
Michael tried to spoon another bite of applesauce into the baby’s mouth. Sarah, that was her name. After so many foster families it got a little hard to keep track.
Sarah let the applesauce slide into her mouth and spat it back out. Then she laughed. Michael actually had thought the move was kind of cute—the first time. Now that a jar of baby bananas, a jar of baby spinach, and half a jar of baby applesauce were decorating the kitchen, it was getting old. Very old.
“I want kimbie,” Amanda screeched from the next room. Who knew a five-year-old girl who insisted on dressing up like a fairy princess every day could yell that loud? Maybe he should try telling her that fairy princesses had very, very soft voices.
“Dylan!” Michael roared. “Get in here now! If I have to come looking for you, it’s not going to be pretty.”
Dylan stuck his head into the kitchen, careful to stay out of Sarah’s spitting range. “I’m doing my homework. This is my homework time according to the Pascals’ Rascals rules.”
Michael almost believed the kid was serious. Then he saw the little smirk pulling on Dylan’s lips. “The Pascals aren’t here right now,” he shot back. “You’re living under my rules. And I’m giving you a new homework assignment—find out what a kimbie is and give it to Amanda so she’ll stop screaming her little head off. Then put her in her pajamas and put her to bed.”
“How am I supposed to—,” Dylan began.
; “Just do it,” Michael barked. Dylan disappeared.
I should tell the Pascals there are people you can hire to do this kind of thing, Michael thought. People called baby-sitters.
That gave him an idea. Maria seemed like the kind of girl who would get into baby-sitting. He reached for the phone and dialed. Maria answered on the second ring. He wasn’t proud. He begged. And she said she’d come right over.
You can hold out for fifteen minutes until Maria gets here, he told himself. “And you, Sarah, you can get some food down your gullet in fifteen minutes,” he muttered.
Michael used his sleeve to wipe some mushed banana off his forehead, then scooped up another spoonful of applesauce. Sarah giggled in anticipation. He tried to tune out the sound of Amanda’s yelling as he brought the spoon up to Sarah’s mouth. He ordered himself not to yell when the applesauce hit his forehead and started dripping into his eye.
When Maria walked through the door thirteen minutes later, there was one horrible moment when Michael was sure she was going to turn around and walk right back out.
But she didn’t. First she told Dylan to get some crayons and paper and have Amanda draw a picture of the kimbie. It worked. They still didn’t know what it was she wanted, but she was at least quiet and happy.
Then she dragged Michael into the kitchen to deal with Sarah. “Did any food actually make it down her throat, you think?” Maria asked. She reached up and twisted her hair into a ponytail. The gesture pulled her shirt tight against her body—and Michael flashed on Maria’s dream.
That happened way too much lately. Maria would do some completely normal thing, and Michael would get slammed by the memory of that dream. He should never have gone into it. What he saw had totally messed up his head, turning his thoughts about Maria from G—okay, sometimes PG—to NC-17.
Like at lunch yesterday, she insisted that he and Alex eat at least one green thing. He reached over to take a celery stick from her, his hand brushed hers, he noticed her skin felt really soft. And suddenly he was wondering how it would feel to have those smooth hands of hers touching him everywhere.
“If you have to think that hard, I’d say the answer is no,” Maria said.
“Uh, yeah. Right,” Michael answered.
“We should probably wait and see if she feels hungry a little later. She’s too hyped to eat right now,” Maria decided. “I’ll give her a bath. That should help relax her a little.” She grabbed a dish towel and tossed it to Michael. “You can give the kitchen a bath.”
Michael was glad to have something to do that would take his eyes off Maria for a while—even though he could still hear her splashing around in the kitchen sink, talking to the baby.
Why did she have to look so sexy in that dream? Cute. That’s how Maria should look. It’s how she’d always looked before. He remembered how annoyed she’d gotten when he used the cute word to describe her. She thought the word cute should only be used when you talked about kittens or something. He thought the way she got all ruffled up about it was … cute.
That’s how he wanted to think of Maria. He wished there was some way of going into his brain and cutting out the piece that held the memory of her dream. He wanted his Maria thoughts to be able to get a PG rating again.
He scrubbed the table so hard, it made his arms ache, refusing to allow himself even a glance at Maria. Then he moved on to Sarah’s high chair, the kitchen cabinets, and the floor. Sarah had done some throwing before she got to the spitting. The girl had a good arm.
“Okay, she’s done. Can you get me a towel and some clean clothes?” Maria asked.
“Dylan, get us a towel and some clean clothes for Sarah,” Michael called. He decided it was okay to look at her now. She was talking to him. He couldn’t stare at the floor like an idiot. Michael glanced over at her. Big mistake. Sarah had splashed water all over Maria and her shirt now bad some interesting semitransparent spots. Michael locked his gaze on her face.
Maria raised her eyebrows. “I always wanted a little brother,” Michael admitted. “You know, someone to get me stuff when I was too lazy to do it myself.”
“Oh, that’s horrible, isn’t it, Sarah?” Maria leaned down and kissed the baby on the head.
Michael suddenly regretted not going for the towel and clothes himself. Because watching Maria kiss Sarah’s head made him think about her kissing him. And that was completely sick.
Sarah splashed in the water, kicking her pudgy legs. Maria laughed and kissed her again. Michael wondered what it would be like if she did kiss him. And not on the top of his head, either—more like the way she’d kissed that guy in her dream.
Don’t even go there, he ordered himself. It would be way too weird. She was the girl he felt protective of, the girl he liked to tease, the girl he liked to scare when they were watching old horror movies. Kissing Maria would be too much like kissing a little sister.
Dylan wandered into the kitchen and dropped the towel and clothes on the table. “A kimbie is a baseball mitt, if you want to know,” he muttered. “She likes to sleep with it.”
“Good going,” Michael said.
Dylan nodded. He crossed to the fridge, opened it, poked around a little, and shut it. He pretended to be all interested in watching Maria dress the baby, which Michael knew he wasn’t. He got himself a drink of water, drank it, and poured another one.
“Did you need something, Dylan?” Maria finally asked. She picked up Sarah and held the baby cradled against her chest.
Michael stared at Dylan. It was better than looking at Maria. He hoped in a couple more days, the memory of that dream would start to fade and things would get back to normal. He wanted to be able to hang out with her without having … thoughts.
“Um, there’s this dance on tomorrow …,” Dylan said. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.
Michael tried to figure out what the problem was. “Are you afraid the Pascals won’t give you permission to go?” he asked.
“No, they already said I could go. Mr. Pascal’s going to drive me,” Dylan answered. “But I don’t know how to dance,” he confessed in a rush.
Michael shot a glance at Maria and caught her trying not to smile. He tried not to smile back.
“Dancing’s easy. We can teach you,” Maria said. “I’ll just go put the baby down. Dylan, show me where?”
I guess I better go pick out some CDs, Michael thought. He headed to his room—well, his and Dylan’s room. He was serious when he told Maria he’d always wanted a little brother. And not only so he’d have someone who he could make wait on him—that was a bonus.
Getting ready to teach Dylan to dance was giving him this big-brother feeling, a little taste of what it could have been like. Although his brother wouldn’t have been such a dweeb he needed to be taught how to dance when he was, like, thirteen years old. Michael would have made sure of that. If he had a little brother, he would have made sure the kid was able to handle himself.
Michael didn’t know why he was bothering to think about this. He was never going to have a little brother. Or a big brother or a sister or parents.
“Michael, come on,” Maria called from the living room. “I want to shake my groove thing.”
He laughed. Maria could always do that. She could always make him laugh. And that’s what he needed—especially when he was about to sink into a bunch of pathetic thoughts about not having a family. He grabbed a few CDs, then jerked open his middle dresser drawer and snagged a sweatshirt and hurried back to the living room.
“I thought you might be cold. You got all wet,” he told Maria. He threw the sweatshirt to her, and she pulled it on. Good.
Michael popped one of the CDs into the player and cranked it.
Dylan instantly stiffened up. “So what do I do?” he asked.
“Whatever you want,” Maria cried over the music. “That’s the best thing about dancing.” She twirled around the room, giving little hops, doing her happy dance.
Michael attempted to keep his thoughts in li
ne by focusing on Dylan, who looked totally panicked. “Don’t worry, not everybody dances like Maria,” Michael said. “All you have to do is kind of shuffle your feet around.”
“It’s true,” Maria said. “That’s what Michael does. And there are usually a few girls desperate enough to dance with him.”
Dylan laughed. Maria grabbed his hands and pulled him around the room a few times. Michael stepped back and watched. Maria was right about him. He was an okay dancer, but he never got into it the way she did. It’s like the music took her over, from all those springy blond curls to—
Get a grip, Michael told himself. As soon as the song was over he killed the music. “You’ll be fine,” Michael told Dylan.
“But what about, you know, slow dancing?” Dylan asked.
“Even easier,” Michael answered. “you don’t even really have to shuffle your feet. You just kind of hold the girl and sway”
“But”—Dylan lowered his voice, sounding embarrassed—“ but where … where are you supposed to hold her?”
Maria changed CDs and a slow song started up. She turned off the overhead light. “You can’t slow dance when it’s this bright,” she said. She stepped up to Michael. “You can use me to demonstrate.”
He didn’t want to touch her right now. Not with all those thoughts about her wet shirt filling his brain. But he couldn’t think of a way out of it.
“There are a couple of places your hands can go. I usually put mine here,” Michael told Dylan. He positioned his hands in the curve of Maria’s waist.
“A good choice,” Maria said. “The girl might do something like this.” She linked her hands behind Michael’s neck.
This felt … pretty nice. It didn’t feel all wrong and awkward the way he thought it would.
“Is that how far away I should be?” Dylan asked. Any second Michael expected him to pull out some paper and start taking notes.
“Probably to start,” Maria said. “But there are signals that a girl wouldn’t mind being held a little closer. Like she might stare into your eyes.”
