“Screw you,” he sniped. “So you’re saying she’s going to reject me no matter what?”
“That’s not what I said at all.”
He sniffed. “Well, if I worry about it, odds are I won’t ask her out in the first place. And I’ll still hate myself. Happy?”
I clenched my jaw. “Never.”
Teddy shook a finger at me. “No way, Winters. I get to be miserable, too. You don’t get to be the best at everything.”
But tonight, anxiety makes sense. Intellectually, I should be nervous. But do I feel it? Is that the reason I’m still sitting next to a girl I don’t know, running at the mouth about my personal life? Of all things.
The moon peeks at me from behind a stormy cloud.
It’s full. Alluring.
My tongue runs along the tips of my teeth.
It’s an old, old habit.
Jordan slouches over on my right. She thinks I’m ignoring her. This can’t be how she wanted to spend the evening. This can’t be why she came. I mean, I know what she wants. She wants to meet people. Make friends. Be normal. And to do that, she needs me to get up. To tell her I don’t need her to babysit me, either.
I can do that.
I will do that.
I get to my feet. “See you around, Jordan.”
“Sure thing,” she says. Her fingers work to spike her short boy hair so that it stands straight up and down. I don’t think she’s aware she’s doing it, which is kind of endearing, but it also sort of hurts to watch.
“Don’t walk back through the woods by yourself,” I tell her. “I’m serious. Ask Teddy if you can’t find somebody. He’s over there playing cards. He’s got glasses and a black shirt that says ‘Burn Hollywood Burn.’”
This startles her. She looks like she wants to ask why I’m so concerned, then seems to think better of it. Perhaps she remembers the details about the townie’s death and the words the news stations used to describe his killing: “torn apart.” “Eviscerated.” And my personal favorite: “partially consumed.”
She gives me a nod and a weak smile. “Thanks again, Win. I really liked talking with you. Let’s do it again sometime.”
I blink. “Just remember what I said.”
Then I turn on my heel and walk away.
Swiftly.
chapter
eighteen
antimatter
“Don’t you dare get on any rides, Drew! I swear to God, if you puke on yourself, I’ll wring your goddamn neck.” Keith towered Eiffel-tall, backing me against a cotton candy cart. I trembled. This was not my Keith. This Keith had narrow eyes and smelled of hair gel and aftershave. This Keith looked older. Meaner. Wildly unfamiliar.
“I’m not getting on any rides!” I snapped, although I kind of wanted to, just to spite him. Maybe I’d fall out.
“Here, just take this already.” He shoved a handful of bills in my face, then turned and loped over to where Charlie stood waiting in line for the Ferris wheel.
I jammed the cash into the front pocket of my cargo shorts and stalked down the carnival midway, my vision blurred with rage. I had no idea where I was going, but it was Fourth of July weekend and the place was beginning to fill up.
Dusk hovered on the edge of night, but that did nothing to thwart the New England mugginess. As I wound through the crowd, a watery heat clung to me, filling every pore, every fold, every touch of skin to skin. The heavy weight of summer.
The sharp scent of popcorn, sugar, and deep-frying oil made my mouth water as I lurched past the food stands, but I kept walking. I didn’t stop. I didn’t want to eat alone. Keith might be eager to ditch me, but I knew Phoebe would let me tag along with her and her friends. Or she would if I could just find her. My shoes kicked up fairground dust as I trudged around and around the maze of rides and games. This was useless. I couldn’t even text her because she’d managed to ruin her third phone in a year by dropping it in the toilet. Her dad had been seriously mad. Phoebe didn’t seem to care.
“Probably for the best,” she told me. “Those things give you titty cancer anyway.”
I wasn’t a hundred percent sure, but from what I could tell, Phoebe did not have titties.
“I think you mean brain cancer,” I said.
Eye roll. “Whatever.”
I picked up pace as I passed the Orbitron, one of those massive octopus-armed rides. Only this one didn’t just whip around at breakneck speed, the arms actually moved up and down in the air while spinning. Forget puking, I’d probably stroke out if I got on that thing. After that came a cluster of kiddie rides, including one consisting of these alarmingly painted “bumblebees” that should have been shut down for aesthetic reasons, if not racially offensive ones. I paused. Scanned the crowd again.
“Hey, kid.” A gruff voice reached me, stretching from the shadows beneath the bleachers of the pig-racing track.
I ignored it.