Wrong in All the Right Ways

by Tiffany Brownlee

  My heart almost jumps out of my chest when I see him approach. Last night, the caseworker faxed my parents the paperwork for Dylan to get his license, and in order to take the driver’s test, he had to miss class today. Somehow he found a way to make it back to school for the last two class periods of the day, though. I try my best to hide the smile on my face, but the closer he walks toward me, the harder it is to conceal my excitement at his proximity to me. “What is it?”

  “It’s the audio version of Wuthering Heights. They were out of physical copies—I guess this book really is a hot commodity—but I figured this would be better than nothing, especially since you’re allergic to e-books.”

  “How sweet of you. Thanks.” I grin, taking the thin plastic case from him. When I do, my fingertips caress the inside of his hand, sending a surge of static electricity through my body. It’s so little contact, but even those short seconds of us connecting is enough to hold me over until the next time we touch. “So, how’d your driver’s test go?”

  “See for yourself.” He pulls his wallet out of his front pocket and nonchalantly hands his license to me as if I’m a club bouncer asking for ID. In the picture, his face swells with excitement until it can’t stretch any wider.

  “You passed? That’s great!” I hold back my urge to wrap my arms around his shoulders and give him a hug, so I search my backpack for my car keys to distract myself.

  “Yeah, and do you know what would be a great congratulatory gift?” Dumbfounded, I flip my hair over my shoulder and wait for the response I know is coming. “To let me drive your car home today.”

  “I don’t know, Dylan. This car is my baby. No one else has ever even sat behind the wheel.”

  “All the more reason to try something new.” Again, his dimples make me melt like a Popsicle in the middle of summer, and I have no choice but to hand my keys over.

  I keep trying to convince myself that this is a good idea as we zip out of the school parking lot, but when I see the speedometer inch higher and higher, I have to say something. “Don’t you think you should slow down? You’re going forty in a thirty, you know?”

  “We’ll be okay,” he says, meeting my eyes as we zoom by another car.

  “Are you crazy? Keep your eyes on the road!” I yell, motioning to the bikers in front of us, though in the back of my mind, I don’t want him to stop looking at me. “Please try your hardest not to hit anyone. I’d love a casualty-free afternoon.”

  “Yes, Mommy Dearest,” he laughs. “And I suppose next you’re gonna tell me to put on my seat belt.”

  “You’re not wearing a seat belt?!” I reach over him to pull the belt across his waist, struggling to not seem as if I’m fondling him; though, with my nerves all over the place, I’m sure I’m failing miserably.

  “Emma Ellenburg,” he gasps, peeking in my direction. “We just met a few days ago—not to mention, I’m your foster brother—and you’re trying to undo my pants? And while driving, no less? I am appalled at this kind of reckless behavior, young lady.” He bursts out laughing, causing us to swerve just a little bit.

  “You’re unbelievable.” When I hear the belt click into place, I sit back in my seat and fold my arms across my chest, hoping that the burning sensation in my cheeks isn’t here to stay.

  “I know. Sometimes I amaze myself.” He puts on his left turn signal, cuts off yet another driver, and takes a hard right into a parking lot. I want to tell him something about his improper use of a signal—he should use the right one, not the left, to merge right—but I opt to keep my mouth shut. He’s only going to shove his license in my face as proof that he can indeed drive, though I’m a bit doubtful. “I hear this place has the best frozen yogurt in town. I guess we’ll see.”

  I know all about the Silver Spoon and the famous frozen yogurt they sell beyond the doors of the pink, lime-green, and orange building before me. My family and I used to come here all the time after my softball games, and although it was only a few years ago, it feels like it’s been much longer than that since I’ve set foot inside this place.

  When we enter, the girl at the front counter perks up a bit. She throws back her shoulders and arches her back as she leans over the counter. “Welcome to the Silver Spoon! Just let me know if you want to sample anything.” I know that her hospitable tone is meant for the both of us, but by the way she bites her bottom lip and flutters her eyelashes at Dylan, I can tell that she’s a lot more interested in assisting him than me.

  “This one’s on me,” Dylan whispers, handing me a bowl and then turning to the girl. With a glimmer in his eye and a half smile across his pouty lips, he asks, “Can I taste the vanilla bean flavor, please?” Suddenly I don’t feel so special anymore. Obviously, he smiles at all girls like that, not just me. I wipe the look of disappointment off my face and begin to pull the levers of the yogurt machines.

  While I finish making and topping mine in under three minutes, Dylan takes almost ten minutes to perfect his creation, rotating between the yogurt dispensers and the toppings bar several times. When he finally makes it to the counter to pay, mine is already half melted.

  “Together, right?” the girl at the counter asks, frowning.

  “Yeah.” For a sliver of a second, a wide smile appears on my face. His answer makes it seem as if we are a couple. But Dylan recognizes this, too, and adds a bit of clarification. “The yogurt, I mean. She’s my foster sister, so obviously, we can’t date.”

  “Gotcha. Your total is ten seventy-six.” While waiting for the payment, she looks Dylan up and down, the lust in her eyes returning. “I’ve never seen you around here. Are you new? I’m Vanessa, but everyone calls me Nessa.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Nessa. I’m Dylan,” he flirts back, grabbing her hand just like he did mine at our first meeting.

  My eyes burn with envy as I watch Dylan charm his way into Nessa’s heart right in front of me. To spare myself from even more heartache, I retreat to one of the outside tables as he hands her a couple of bills to cover our total.

  “What was all that about?” I ask when he joins me, trying to sound more like a genuinely curious sibling than a jealous wannabe girlfriend.

  “Nothing.” After setting his bowl of yogurt down, he slides his receipt across to me. “Tell me what’s wrong with this.”

  I admire the scrap of paper for a second and then look up to meet his gaze. “There’s no way she’s that dumb. There’s just no way,” I say, suppressing my urge to thrust a fist into the air. Suddenly, I don’t feel so threatened by the girl anymore. The note reads, If you ever need a special friend, followed by 248–633. “How do they expect her to run the cash register if she can’t even count out seven numbers to give to someone?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” He throws his head back and laughs, revealing the perfectly white molars in the back of his mouth. “I guess I’ll add this one to the growing stack of hell-no’s I’ve got at home.”

  His comment reminds me of how popular he is among the girls at school. Not because of his smarts or his painting, but because of his glowing amber eyes, male-model smirk, and thin-but-muscular frame. When changing into my PE uniform for sixth period, I now have to pretend I don’t hear the way the other girls talk about how much they love being around him and listening to his laugh, and how badly they want to run their fingers through his hair and kiss him until their lips grow chapped. It’s nauseating to know that at any moment, he can choose one of them and break my heart into a million pieces.

  “Well, in her defense,” I offer, pushing those thoughts from my mind, “you did take thirty minutes to make your yogurt. She may have gotten all hot and bothered while watching you brew your concoction and forgotten a number.”

  “I did not take thirty minutes.”

  “Okay, twenty.”

  “Five.”

  “Ten. And I’m not going any lower.”

  “Okay, Drew Carey.” He laughs. I pull my spoon from its plastic wrapper, and I’m mid-first-bite when he sticks
his hand in front of my face. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m eating my fro-yo.”

  “But, you’re missing out on the best part,” he says, removing the wrapper from his spoon. “We have to taste each other’s creation and rate it on a scale of one to ten. Winner gets five bucks.” Before I can ask any questions, he’s digging his spoon into my bowl.

  “Hey!” I whine as I take a spoonful from his bowl and bring it to my lips. The vanilla bean yogurt melts in my mouth as I turn the sweet flavors over on my tongue. “Eight. The banana bits are a nice touch, but you should have added some whipped cream on top of it.”

  “I’ll give it to you, Blondie,” he says, licking his spoon. “Eight and a half. Adding strawberries and blueberries to the cheesecake-flavored one? Genius.” He smiles at me again, this time revealing his gorgeous dimples.

  “Thank you.” Now I’m beaming. Since the first time I saw them, his dimples have always been a weak point of mine. “Can I change my prize?”

  “It’s contingent upon what you want.” He raises his eyebrows in anticipation.

  Impressed by his correct usage of the word contingent, I lick the back of my spoon and ask, “How about a round of Twenty-Any-Questions instead?” The crinkle in his eyebrows clues me in on the fact that he’s unfamiliar with the game, just as I was with his taste-testing ritual a moment ago. “Ten questions each. Twenty total. And other than the topics we establish as off-limits at the beginning of the game, you get to ask anything you want.”

  With his spoon hanging halfway out of his mouth, he takes a minute to consider the trade before finally saying, “I feel like I’m going to regret this later, but okay. My off-limits topic is my family. Go there, and I’m done with this game of yours.”

  “Fine. No limitations for me. I’m an open book.”

  He spoons yogurt into his mouth and leans back in his seat, waiting for the first question. “Ladies first.”

  “What’s your middle name?”

  “Alexander.” Dylan Alexander McAndrews. It sounds regal, as if he should be part of an imperial family somewhere.

  “Birthday?”

  “April tenth. Greatest date of all time.”

  “Okay, I’m going to kick it up a notch. What is your calling in life?”

  “Come on. Challenge me a little, Em.” Em. I like the little nickname he has given me. “Obviously, I want to be a famous artist one day.”

  “That one was supposed to be a challenge. Are you sure it wasn’t?”

  “Not even in the least. I’ve known what I want to be since I was ten years old.” He stuffs a spoonful of yogurt into his mouth, but not before reminding me how many questions we’ve burned through. “And that was question number four, by the way.”

  “Shoot.” Don’t let his big brown eyes distract you, Emma, I pep talk inside my head. Stay focused. I find it hard to ask him questions when there’s so much I want to know about him regarding his feelings toward me. I’m not one of his off-limits topics, but still, I don’t want to push the envelope. “Okay, how about this one: Who’s your celebrity crush?”

  “Five.” He’s taken to using his fingers to keep track of my questions, and I find it rather odd that he can comprehend dense works, such as Wuthering Heights, but still needs to count on his fingers for something as simple as this. “Selena Gomez. She’s so hot.”

  We speed through the next few questions, where I learn that if he could eat only one food for the rest of his life, it would be pepperoni pizza; that his biggest pet peeve is when people improperly use the word literally for things that are, in fact, not literal; and that he name-dropped to get a passing score on his driver’s license test today.

  “My proctor was in the middle of penalizing me for my crappy parallel parking, which was going to cost me my license. But that was before she saw me wave to your dad. ‘That’s my foster dad, Daniel Ellenburg,’ I told her as we got out of the car. I guess she recognized him because she asked me if I could get her an autograph once we walked back up to the DMV. I agreed, and the next thing I knew, I was standing in front of a blue backdrop, taking my license photo.”

  “Life just isn’t fair,” I whisper, taking another bite of yogurt. I had to take the test three times before I was awarded my license, and to hear that all it took to pass was a name-drop makes my chest burn with resentment.

  Dylan holds up nine fingers in front of my face and grins mischievously. “Okay, Em. You’re down to your last question. Better make it count.” He winks at me, and I feel my pulse pick up.

  Ask it, the voice in my head hisses. You know you want to. “Do you think I’m pretty?”

  “Pretty? No,” he says frankly, getting up to throw his now-empty bowl away. Out of disappointment, my heart rate begins to decline back down to its regular hum, the electricity in my fingertips now gone. I’m a second away from shooting back a cunning retort when he reclaims his seat beside me. He’s so close that I can see my own reflection in his amber irises and feel the warmth emanating from his body. “You’re more like mesmeric. Resplendent. Heart-stopping. Captivating.”

  I open my mouth to say thank you, but nothing comes out. I mean, what am I supposed to say to follow that? Nothing. Nothing I say can match his level of flattery, so I just sit and smile. My mother taught me that not everything needs a response. Sometimes the simplest way to tell someone that you appreciate their words or actions is to smile, which I can’t stop myself from doing now.

  “I’m obviously reading too much Wuthering Heights. So much that Emily Brontë—and her lavish language—just took over my body,” he confesses as a rosy color rises at the base of his neck. “It’s getting late. I’ll ask you my questions on the ride home. That okay?”

  Anything you want, I swoon inside my head. But what comes out is “Yep. Sounds good.”

  * * *

  A brand-new black Camaro is sitting in our driveway when we arrive home, and it’s pretty obvious who it belongs to, as Matthew is too young to drive, I already have a car, and my mother and father just purchased new vehicles last summer. Leaning on the trunk of the shiny, sleek automobile, my mom waits, twirling the keys around her right pointer finger.

  “Wait, you still have two questions left,” I scream through the window when Dylan jumps out before my car can even stop rolling. But he doesn’t hear me. Too much excitement, I guess.

  By the time I pull the key from the ignition and get out of my car, Dylan is already behind the wheel of his, disturbing the peace as he revs his engine. “We bought this car so you don’t have to rely on others to get around. I know how busy Emma gets with school, and I want you to have another means of transportation. But just because you have this car doesn’t mean that you are allowed to break curfew. It’s still ten o’clock as usual,” my mom shouts over the noise.

  “Yes, Mrs. Ellenburg,” Dylan says, turning on the radio. I find it strange that he calls my mom Mrs. Ellenburg and my dad Daniel, but Dylan seems to be the king of oddities, so maybe this is just another one of his quirks.

  “I’m serious, Dylan,” my mom emphasizes with pointy eyebrows and wrinkles in her forehead. “Break curfew, and you’ll be back to riding with Emma.”

  What’s wrong with that? I ponder, secretly wanting him to come home late so I don’t have to wait too long for his soap-and-paint scent to fill my car once more.

  “Once or twice around the block, Emma?” Dylan begs from the front seat.

  “I have homework to finish,” I say, trying not to sound too eager to be alone with him, though there’s nothing I want more right now. “But once around the block won’t put me behind too much.”

  With my mother still watching, Dylan fastens his seat belt as I slide into the passenger’s seat. “Be back shortly,” he says to her.

  “Okay. Be safe.”

  We ride in awkward silence for a few seconds before he glances at me, his toothy grin almost too big for his face. “I can’t believe your parents bought me this car.”r />
  “Me neither.” The words come out flat and caked in jealousy, but I don’t mean for them to. I just don’t know how to handle my parents spoiling this relative stranger. “First an art studio and now a brand-new car. I wonder what they’ll get you next.”

  Amused, he shakes his head in disbelief. “Most foster kids don’t get their license, let alone their own car, and your parents made both of those things happen in one day. Unreal.”

  “So, the people you were with before us … they didn’t want you to get your license?”

  “Nope. And even though the social worker was fine with it, they were afraid that I’d use it to run away. I don’t blame them, though. That’s how foster kids are portrayed on TV—as if all we care about is rebelling against the system and getting back to our ‘normal’ lives, whatever that means.” Dylan goes quiet for a moment, and I’m not sure if it’s because he needs time to concentrate on his driving or if he’s just deep in thought. “But I’d never do that. Not with you guys, anyway. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. I mean, look at this car!”

  “Yeah, it’s pretty amazing. My parents must really like you.”

  He smiles back.

  “Hey,” Dylan says, “I still have two questions left, don’t I?” He taps his right pointer finger on his lips as he glances over at me. “What should I ask you?”

  “Well, you’ve already asked me about my favorite food, color, and place to go when I’m feeling sad—”

  “Grilled lemon and thyme chicken, purple, and the balcony with a good book, if I remember correctly.”

  “Spot-on. Now how about something a little deeper? There’s gotta be something you’re dying to know about me, right?”

  He turns down his music—I guess so it’s quiet enough to think of a question—and he snaps his fingers when he reaches a good one. “What is your greatest fear?”

  My first thought is to say that I’m afraid of the dark—which, even though I’m sixteen years old, is the complete and honest truth—but then I think of his big brown eyes and my mind goes blank except for one thing: him. “Not being good enough. Rejection, really.” By you, I want to add, but don’t.