by Cassie Mae
“It would’ve been computer class,” he says, dropping his gaze back to the cracked asphalt of the path. “Those are font names.”
“Oh my gosh,” I faux gasp, bringing my hand up to my mouth. “Have I met a legit computer nerd?”
“Or a bored kid in keyboarding class. Apparently it’s a requirement to graduate here, and I’m short the elective.”
“So you’re in there with a bunch of—”
“Freshman, yeah. Not to mention I’ve been typing on the home row since I was ten.”
“Well,” I say, “that was the last time I dotted my Is with hearts.”
“Me too.”
He throws me a teasing grin, and it tumbles into my chest and makes my heart go completely bonkers.
And I, no joke, skip. Like one little step, instead of walking, I totally skip it. Oliver’s eyes drift down and watch, and he doesn’t seem to mind this bizarre behavior at all. Good, because I’ve never been the kind of person to spontaneously skip. I’m normally the person who makes fun of those kinds of people.
“Sixteen years, by the way,” I tell him and watch his brow furrow in his cute guy way. “Before our handwriting and font segue, you asked how long I’ve lived here. I’ve lived here my whole life.”
His brow relaxes. “Lucky duck.”
“You move a lot?”
“A fair amount,” he says, shoving his hands into his pockets. His thumbs stay out, and I can’t help but look at that and feel a whooping drop in my tummy, and I don’t know what is wrong with me because he’s seriously doing normal things, and I can’t help but notice and overanalyze.
“I’m hoping this one sticks,” he continues. “But it all depends on…”
His voice suddenly disappears, and I’m stuck here wondering if he just stopped talking or if my ears stopped working. I wouldn’t be surprised since nothing inside my body seems to be functioning the way it’s used to.
“On what?”
Oliver pauses in his steps for just a split second, and his eyes meet mine. He’s got this weird color in them that makes them look brown and green all at the same time. They call that color hazel, but I can see blue in there too. Crystal blue. I’ve only seen those kinds of eyes on one other person (a teacher from forever ago—don’t even remember her name), though I’ve never seen that person look at me the way Oliver is looking at me right now. Like he’s not sure if he can trust me with the information yet.
“On how this coaching job goes,” he finally says. “For my mom.”
“You’re a senior. Don’t you want to move out at the end of the year anyway?”
“Guess I’m a lazy bum who wants to live at home, and that probably won’t change any time soon.” He gives me that gorgeously crooked smile that I swear some guys practice in their sleep. Never thought I’d be falling for one.
Not falling. Just admiring.
“This is weird,” I blurt, shaking my head at my feet.
“I did promise weird,” he says. “But I swear I’m more fun once I get the small talk out of the way.”
“No, no.” I laugh. “Not you weird, I mean, it’s weird walking. I’m usually running everywhere.”
“You are the queen of tangents.”
“Just keeping you on your toes.” My heavens, I skip again.
Oliver looks up at the gates to the cemetery. “How far we got left?” he asks with a note of trepidation.
“Um, like a football field. Maybe less.”
He nods and runs a hand over his jaw. “At the gate, we run?”
I snort. “Think you can keep up?”
“Absolutely not.” He jams his hand back in his pocket. “But don’t take it easy on me.”
Something playful wakes up inside my smile, and I have to stop my feet from running before they’re supposed to. Running with Jamal or Drake always feels like a competition of some type. They don’t let me win, and that’s good because it always pushes me harder. But this, I know this is for fun. He said he’s not a runner, but he wants to run anyway. Like a cat and mouse game. And I kind of want him to catch me. Grab me around my middle and twirl or tackle me or all that other teeny bopper TV show type flirting cutesy stuff.
Then I remember that I’m in yet another one of my overlarge shirts, and that in my old body, yes, that scene is totally okay to be played out, but in this foreign new one… hmm… maybe it’s a good thing that Oliver isn’t a runner.
He gets to the rusty iron gate first, and I get so anxious that I try to run around him. But a gentle, yet powerful arm nearly clotheslines me.
“Hang on, there, Antsy Feet, where am I headed?”
I chuckle, settling my hand on his wrist and guiding it back to the side of his body. The touch ignites a fire in the pit of my stomach, and I suddenly can’t remember the question.
“Huh?”
His body moves in silent laughter. “I can’t run without knowing where I’m going.”
“Right-O,” I say with a lame swish of my finger. “It’s just down the street there. The building with the giant coffee cup and cinnamon roll.”
I look back at him, and he’s still looking at me, and he doesn’t stop looking at me for a good five seconds. Then his eyes flick over my head at the bakery.
“Got it.” He nods, then his gaze is back to making me a melted pool of jumping jelly beans. Maybe distraction is his tactic. He’ll be outrunning me for sure if my legs aren’t working.
He gives me a grin, which I imagine I return, but who the heck knows anymore, then he’s totally running past me, his height proving to be his advantage here. I find the use of my limbs and trip my way after him.
Okay… he’s right. He’s not a runner. And he totally needed that cheating head start. I pass him within a couple seconds, and I hear something jangling in his pocket. Keys and/or tic tacs. His breathing is completely scary to listen to for someone not running very fast. Like he’s a smoker. Oh my gosh, he could be a smoker for all I know. Renegade, rule-breaking, smoker who likes to woo girls with his sticky notes and computer talk.
He lets out a deep and throaty laugh as the distance between us grows so wide that I actually run backward to show off. I wait for him at the door to The Rolling Scones, and when he comes up, he bends over and rests his hands on his knees like he’s run a mile and not a football field.
“Well, you aren’t a liar,” I tell him, setting my hand on his rapidly rising and falling back. “You are not much of a runner.”
He laughs through his labored breathing. “Well… take… a look… at me.” He grins at his mass, and it makes me grin too. Like he’s someone who knows who he is and what he’s capable of, yet he still does things outside of the box. If he wasn’t using the wall as a support to stand, I’d probably initiate one of those hugs I’ve been thinking about.
His hand reaches into his pocket, and his eyes search around the place. “Bathrooms?” he asks. I point him in the direction, and he says he’ll be right back. Thank heavens, because it gives me a second to go full-out dork mode and dance a little in the muffin line.
I know this isn’t a date, but in my mind, I’m going to pretend it is.
19
Bra-Shaming
I wake up bright and early on Sunday morning, already grinning from the high I’m on just from chatting with Oliver yesterday. We exchanged numbers—I remembered last minute and had to double back to make sure I got it before he drove away—and minus a couple hours when he was out with his mom, we were basically texting back and forth every few minutes. I rarely have to sit by a phone charger to use my phone without it dying, but I had to last night.
I wiggle into my bra and ready my tape, but I look in the mirror again and twist from side to side, a frown forming in my cheery disposition. I wonder if Oliver had known me last year if he’d notice the difference. If he’d care.
My phone buzzes, taking me out of my mind and back into my giddy state. I fumble for my cell, hoping to see Oliver’s name on the notification bar, but I see Tiff’s inst
ead.
Did you see this? It reads. There’s a picture attached.
My jaw drops clean to the floor. It’s a screenshot of an Instagram account—the Crest Hills Secret Smasher. It’s someone from our school who likes to take pictures of people doing embarrassing things and then tosses it up online. This one isn’t a person. It’s a bra.
My bra.
The caption says, “Guess which track star is packing some serious heat under that extra, extra large shirt?”
Underneath is a stream of comments from the people in our school. People guessing. Most of them are right.
I swallow, getting nothing but dryness, like when you take a pill without water. My throat is closed up, and my eyes are getting gooey, and I quickly clack back to Tiff.
Is there a way to report this???
She responds. Wait… is it yours?
It’s mine. They stole it from my locker. It was on top of my cross country shirt. Can I get it down??
I don’t know… I think there’s a report button. I’ll click on it. And I’m coming over, kay?
I’d tell her no, but we’ve got our double date today anyway. I’d rather talk about this now than have it come up in front of the guys.
Also… I really think I need my best friend.
Run. Please.
***
Tiff hasn’t said much of anything since she got here. I think her silence is worse than the barrage of questions.
After giving her physical proof that the rumor isn’t a rumor—and explaining to her that my aunt forced me to buy this bra, never mind that she thought it was “stinkin’ cute!”—she plopped on my bed and seemingly got lost in thought, leaving me to babble about how the letter D has become my enemy.
“What is this?” she asks. I follow her pointer finger to the bright red rash under my braline. I cross my arms, embarrassed enough by just standing here without a shirt on.
“The tape gets itchy when I don’t change it often.”
She raises her eyebrows. “You’re taping them?”
“I can’t run with them… bouncing.” I make a basketball dribbling gesture to try to lighten the mood, but she’s not having any of it.
“You can’t do that anymore.” She levels me with a glare. “I’m not kidding. That looks… really nasty.”
A lump forms in my throat, and I don’t agree with her, don’t disagree with her, just turn around and find my dad’s old plaid shirt and stick my arms in. Taping them is the only way to hide them. Even in the loose clothing, two little bumps showcase themselves in certain positions. I’ll buy cream or something for the rash. I’ll be careful not to get my skin—wear an undershirt or something and tape around that. But the thought of having this picture pop up and then showing at school with them uncaged makes my mouth taste extremely acidic.
I sit on the edge of the bed with on knee up on the mattress and start buttoning the plaid up. Tiff’s mouth turns down.
“Is that why you don’t wear the shirt I bought you?” she asks, tucking her knees under her chin.
“The green one?” I ask, and she nods. “Yeah… it’s way cute, and I love it, but it’s tight.”
“I thought you hated it.”
I shake my head, pulling my other leg up on the bed. It’s my body that I hate in that shirt. That’s not exactly something I’d like to say out loud though. Even to Cayenne.
There’s this strange silent air between us, and I watch Tiff’s expression flicker through so many different moods it becomes entertaining and makes me let out a much needed laugh.
Her eyebrows pinch together at my sudden outburst of amusement. “What?”
“Nothing.” I blow out a breath and ignore the Instagram notification that pings from my phone. They’ve been coming in every few minutes, ever since Lance Young tagged me in his comment. After the first scroll-through of nothing but crude comments and badly photo-shopped selfies from my profile, Tiff tells me to stop looking. We both eye my phone before she has a total spasm and swipes it under my pillow.
“Forget those jerk-monkeys.” She pushes off the bed and swings my closet door open. “Talk about Oliver, and I will get you an acceptable outfit for our date tonight. Because if I have to see you try to flirt in your dad’s hunting shirt, I will burn out my retinas.”
20
The Non-Date
There’s a mixture of relief and panic rolling through my stomach when my phone goes off. Relief, because it was my text message tone and not my Instagram one, and panic because we’re creeping ever closer to “not a date” time, and I’m shaking from toe nails to split ends.
Meet at Rolling Scones? You good with that?
I bite back my smile as I text an “Okay” to Oliver. Gosh, his texting reminds me of his sticky-noting, and the Girl Stomach Zoo starts to have a party.
Oh! And I know I give Tiff so much crap about her obsession with fashion, but I think I’m going to hire her as my personal… whatever they call those people who dress other people. I’m in my own clothes, but she cut out a huge neck on one of my shirts—I gave permission for her to abuse it—and then she added this cinching stuff around the waist. So it’s loosey goosey around the Sharpies and mighty tighty around the hips. I’m wearing a skin-tight racer back tank underneath that helps my bra’s attempts to restrain my chest.
She hid my duct tape, but she didn’t need to. I think I’ll choose breathing instead of adjusting all night.
Fartbucket is planning on driving, and I repeat over and over in my head his actual name so that I don’t slip up. Tiff’s been keeping me distracted and calling everyone who’s involved on that comment thread a funny and original insult, so I secretly vow not to call her boyfriend by the name I’ve given him.
I shake my head, trying to get the thought of that Instagram feed out of it. Every time I see that image in my mind, my bra all zoomed in next to the size on my shirt, I get the sudden urge to blink and blink and blink. My eyelids know when Ginger Cry is coming, and they will stop at nothing to keep it at bay.
A car horn blazes from outside the front room window, and I reserve my opinion about Marcus being so lazy he can’t ring a dang doorbell. Tiff grins, adjusts my shirt so more of my shoulder is exposed, and when she turns around, I push it back to where it was.
“Just shove that stuff to the floor, babe,” Marcus tells Tiff as she opens the passenger side door and finds a bunch of garbage on the seat. My head starts to hurt from keeping my eyes from rolling around.
The backseat isn’t much better in terms of junk. I push all the crap he has over to the seat behind the driver and plop down, hoping there’s nothing that will stick to my butt. After the buckle clicks, I pick up one of the books he has back here, impressed that Fartbucket… I mean Marcus… actually reads.
“Yo, Gee-Gee,” Marcus says, eyeing me through the rearview, “careful with that. It’s not mine. Gotta give it back to Kelsi, and I don’t want to get crap for it being a mess.”
I let out a hollow laugh. “But you’re taking such good care of it.” I drop it back into the messhole next to me. Tiff shifts in the front seat, a fake smile forming on her face.
“You borrowed a book from Kelsi?” she asks, and I can already feel the discomfort of being subject to a lover’s quarrel looming overhead. I quickly throw myself forward till my seatbelt locks, stretching at the radio sitting idly between them.
“Music, please,” I beg. I’m already dying here, and it’s only been three seconds.
Marcus cranks up the volume, and with the bass rocking the backseat, I don’t hear any of the guff Tiff has about this Kelsi girl. Marcus is a lot like me in one aspect—as much as I hate to admit that—and it’s that we have more friends of the opposite sex than that of the same.
Speaking of my “friends,” not a single one other than Tiff has contacted me today. I’m hoping that means they haven’t seen the picture.
The drive isn’t that far, so we’re there before the smell of whatever is dying under the passenger seat can la
tch onto me, and I leap from the car like it is on fire. Marcus walks around, and I’m impressed that he reaches for Tiff’s hand and kisses her sweetly on the cheek. Her grouchy demeanor is gone in an instant as we walk through the front door of Marcel’s yummy bakery.
We take a booth next to the front glass window. Oliver isn’t here yet, and so it gives me extra time to party with my nerves while I try not to look too obvious staring at the parking lot. After I get a pointed smirk from Tiff and an annoyed huff from Marcus from my nails clacking and clacking against the tabletop, I stuff my hands under my butt and try to calm myself.
This isn’t a date. I told everybody that. We’re just hanging out and being buddy, buddy, and it’s totally not. A. Date.
But I’m suddenly worried about my breath because what if there is a kiss at the end of this not-date? I should’ve hit Aunt Heidi up for some of that Orbit.
“I haven’t seen you that red since you almost passed out at regionals last year,” Marcus notes with a hint of amusement in his eyes. I take my fist out from under my butt and shake it at him.
Tiff reaches over him to grab the desert menu sitting next to all the condiments—in Rolling Scones, there isn’t salt or ketchup or anything like that. There are little “topping” shakers, full of cinnamon sugar, sprinkles, crushed up cookies, and many more yummy things I could eat all by themselves. There are also packets of syrup and maple butter and things like that. I pluck up a thing of strawberry jam and tilt it up with one finger, then flick it at my cousin.
“Are we eating here first?” Tiff asks, eyes wandering around the list of cakes, unaware of the jam war I’ve started with Marcus.
“If you want,” Marcus answers, grabbing one of the shakers and pouring some Oreo cookie crumbs into his palm. “Looks like we got some time to kill.”
He gives me an evil smirk and then blows the cookie dust in my direction. I feel the crumbs float down my shirt and lodge themselves in my newly formed cleavage.
I swipe at my shirt and grab the cinnamon sugar. “He’ll be here soon,” I hiss through my teeth, then I crack the shaker like a whip, spraying both him and Tiff in sugar and spice.
