“Funny,” I say, “I thought you were.”
Tyler looks almost offended. He clears his throat, shaking his head. “No, there’s a big difference between Jake and me. Girls want me; Jake wants girls. You know, I don’t purposely go out of my way to find other girls. I just kind of bump into them at parties or whatever, maybe flirt a little, sometimes kiss them if I’m drunk and Tiffani isn’t around. That’s it.” He watches my confused expression for a moment while he takes another long drink, and then he finishes off with a sigh. “Jake, on the other hand, is a player. He leads chicks on for weeks and sometimes even months, sleeps with them, and then never talks to them again. Guy does this with like three girls at a time.” He laughs, but it’s a somewhat solemn laugh. “I can guarantee you that the second you put out, he’ll disappear. He always does. Pulls out either the ‘Sorry, I’m not feeling it anymore’ or the ‘I can’t talk to you anymore because my mom’s super strict and says I can’t date until college’ card.”
I stare at him. He’s going to such lengths to scare me away from Jake, but so far Jake’s been the one who’s treated me much nicer. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I am,” Tyler says.
“That’s not a valid reason.”
He only smiles. “Neither was my reason for leaving the restaurant.”
*
As expected, Dad and Ella are livid when they get home that evening. Not only did they have to pay for two wasted meals, they’re also extremely “upset” that we ruined our first family event, according to the pair of them. Tyler is reminded that he’s grounded, and I’m banished to my room for the night. And it’s a long night.
I video chat with Amelia for a while, and she fills me in on all the Portland gossip. Our English lit teacher, Mr. Montez, was apparently caught shopping for rubbers in Freddy’s the other day by some seniors. Mr. Montez is in his fifties, so this information makes me feel nauseated, yet Amelia doesn’t stop laughing for at least five minutes. But other than our teacher’s personal life, there’s not much other news, so we end up discussing college. Amelia’s all set on studying biochemistry at Oregon State University, an hour south of Portland, in Corvallis. Unlike her, I can’t wait to get the hell out of Oregon. I start babbling to her about how great the University of Chicago’s psychology program is, but the chat disconnects while I’m midsentence. The Internet connection has cut out. I stare at my laptop for a few minutes while it tries to reconnect, but it only buffers endlessly and hopelessly. That’s when I hear someone knocking on my wall—the one separating my room from Tyler’s. There are three taps.
With an eyebrow arched suspiciously, I push my laptop to the side and crawl across the floor, cautiously edging my way toward the wall. I don’t know if the knocks are accidental or on purpose, but either way I find myself tapping back. I knock once and wait. Four knocks come back.
I don’t know what the hell Tyler is doing, but I highly doubt he’s learning Morse code, so I figure he’s just determined to irritate me even more than he already has.
“Can you stop?” I ask, my voice loud enough for him to hear me through the walls but quiet enough for Dad not to notice.
“I turned off the Internet,” Tyler’s muffled voice says back, and it sounds almost like there’s laughter stuck in his throat. “Your conversation was giving me a headache. ‘God, Amelia, isn’t Chicago just so freakin’ awesome? School is my favorite thing in the entire world! It’s so great! I love psychology and homework and studying!’”
I glare at the door to my bathroom as I cross my legs and press my back to the wall. “I didn’t even say that.” To express my annoyance, I elbow the wall.
And so he knocks back again, this time repeatedly rapping his knuckles against the plaster for a good fifteen seconds before he pauses to say, “I could do this all night. I heard no one gets any sleep at college, so this is good practice for you. I’ll turn you into an insomniac in no time.”
“Has anyone ever told you how frustrating you are?” I fold my arms across my chest and roll my eyes in aggravation, but somehow I’m almost smiling. I can’t figure out why, to begin with, but when he talks back, I realize I’m smiling at his playfulness. It’s not often that I get to hear it.
“Hmm, I don’t think anyone ever has,” he tells me. I wish I could see past the wall, see his face. Is he smiling like I am? Is he lying on the floor or standing up or sitting down? What do his eyes look like right now? “How am I frustrating? Enlighten me, college girl.”
He sounds like he’s grinning, but I can’t be sure. I just tilt my face up to the ceiling and press my ear to the wall, so that I can hear his soft voice better. His friendliness is rare. “For starters,” I say, “you disconnected the Internet and now you won’t stop knocking on my wall.”