“That is the real answer. His poem was shit and his handwriting was even worse—scribbles, really.”
“Don’t try to be cute now.” I’m angry—pissed. “I can’t believe you did that. I’ve spent the last two weeks feeling like shit because you were getting piles of gifts and I was getting diddly squat. I felt like a lonely loser.”
“Sam—”
He tries to step closer and I hold up my hands to block him. I know it’s a useless endeavor. If he wanted to reach me, my arms would bend like spaghetti noodles.
“Sam…Samwich…Sam and cheese.” Each of my nicknames feels like he’s plucking my heartstrings. He bends so we’re face to face. “I did it because it’s time you and I stop dancing around the obvious, this thing we have between us.”
“You’re not making sense.”
“You’re right. I’ll make myself clear.”
His blue eyes are smoldering and a jolt of fear sparks down my spine.
“Err…or you could just shake my hand, turn, and call it a day?”
He frowns. “What are you scared of?”
I wave off his question. “Oh, lots of things, really. The usual: spiders, roaches, ghosts. Also, losing my best friend because he thinks we should rock the boat.”
“It’s not like that.”
His calm demeanor has me incensed. “What would you call our phone call last night?! Idle chitchat?”
“The exact opposite, in fact. Listen, we’re not going to do the friends-with-benefits thing. We aren’t going to just have sex and keep things casual.”
“Of course. Why would we? That sounds much too easy.”
“When you’re ready, I’m going to ask you out on a date.”
“A date?! I don’t even want to hang out with you as a friend right now! You stole my bears, and my flowers!”
“No. Remember?” He finally sounds exasperated. “I gave you the flowers.”
True, but they burned me up with jealousy so much I tossed them. Now I’m even more angry with him.
I poke his chest and his hard muscle sends a fissure down my finger bone. Great, I’ve probably broken something.
“Don’t try to slip out of this through a technicality, you jerk.”
His hand wraps around mine so I can’t pull it away, and we might as well be in the 1800s because him touching my hand feels inappropriate and intimate and are there nerves in your hand that connect to your groin?
“I’ll buy you a million bears if that’s what you want.”
Good, let’s focus on the real issue. He lied to me and betrayed me, but it’s the conspicuous lack of dime-store bears I’m truly angry about.
“No! Nothing you do can make up for this…this deceit!”
The very edge of his mouth tips up. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Unhand me.”
He steps back and pinches the brim of his nose like he’s trying not to laugh—or scream.
“Clearly you need some time. Do you want to bike together to the carnival in the morning?”
“Absolutely not.”
He steps back and heads for the door. “Then I guess I’ll just see you there.”
Yes! YES YOU WILL!
8
I A N
For the record, I didn’t volunteer to sit in the dunking booth at the Valentine’s Day Carnival. Someone (take a guess) wrote my name in bold on the sign-up form. Conveniently enough, she opted to operate said dunking booth, meaning she’ll get to watch me get drenched dozens of times in between taking tickets and resetting the dunk mechanism.
The carnival officially starts at 10:00 AM. I was hoping the storm from yesterday would preclude the outdoor activities, but probably due to Sam’s voodoo magic, the sky cleared up and the rain gave way to a warm front from the south. It’s sunny and there’s not a cloud in the sky. I’m up on the platform, waiting to be dunked, and Sam is down on the ground chatting with Logan. He brought her coffee this morning. How charming. Oh, and there’s a small teddy bear too. Sam hugs that bear against her chest like she’s never wanted anything more in her entire life. The show is for me.
“Let’s get this party started!” someone shouts near the back of the line.
Yes, there’s a line.
There are so many people lined up to dunk me I’m sure the astronauts can see the queue formation from the space station.
“Kyle, come dunk Coach!”
“Steven! Mr. Fletcher is in the dunking booth!”
Bianca is first up. She’s wearing a teasing little grin, and every time I accidentally look her way, she waves excitedly.
Sam cuts in front of her and holds out a palm impatiently. “Tickets.”
Her bear is forgotten somewhere and Logan is gone.
“How many?”
“Five. Read the sign. Next.”
“Here!” Bianca says impatiently, shoving a pile of tickets at Sam. “Just take them all.”
Sam feeds the tickets into an empty coffee can then hands Bianca three balls.
She’s about to let one loose when Sam cuts in again. “Hey! Scoot back! You’re supposed to stay behind the white line.”
Bianca misses every one of her throws. Her balls land with soft thuds in the grass and when Sam turns to pick them up, she’s wearing a big ol’ smile. Our gazes lock when she comes near the booth to pick up a particularly bad toss, and that smile fades.
“What?”
“You’ve got your work cut out for you,” I say, tilting my chin toward the line.
Her eyes narrow into slits. “You know they just want to see you in a wet t-shirt.”
“Funny, that’s the same reason I wanted to sign you up for the dunking booth.”
“NEXT!” she shouts.
The Freshman Four each take a turn, and not one of them hits the target. The crowd is starting to grow anxious. Like a medieval mob, they want action. They’re out for blood. Sam picks up another round of balls and turns to take them to the next contestant, but then she hesitates, spins on her heel, and studies that target. Her head tilts and I can see her mind at work. “Maybe the people just need a little tutorial.”
She takes one hesitant step toward it.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
Another step.
“Samantha Grace Abrams,” I warn.
It’s no use. She takes one more step then proceeds to feign a huge, slow-motion tumble in which she trips forward and has to break her fall with one thing: the target.
The platform disappears out from underneath me with a quick whoosh and then I drop into the water.
Fucking hell. Warm front or not, it’s still February. The water is cold.
When I surface, Sam’s standing just on the other side of the tank. We’re at eye level. She’s sweet and innocent, a baby lamb.
“Oops.”
“If you step any closer, I’m bringing you in here with me.”
Her eyes widen and she scurries back to the line of contestants.
The dunkings are sparse throughout the rest of the morning, until the Freshman Four subcontract the throwing work out to a few sharpshooting baseball players they were able to find. “Just helping raise money for the education foundation!” they explain, fanning themselves while I clamber back onto the platform. “It’s all for…for the kids.”
Additionally, Sam dunks me at least a dozen times by herself. Any time I grow courageous and toss out a barb or a flirtatious comment, I go under. By the end of my shift, my t-shirt is plastered to my skin. My hair is slicked back. I feel invigorated and refreshed. By contrast, Sam is sweating. Her eyes stick to my wet shirt and then she peels them away slowly. A moment later, they slingshot right back to where they were.
“How you feelin’ down there, champ?”
“Hush up, you.”
A replacement arrives to relieve me of my post: Mr. Jones, the potbellied basketball coach. As soon as we swap places, the platform creaks and the line disperses. People scatter and flee the scene.
“Aw c’mon now!” Mr. Jones teases. “Just ’cause I don’t have washboard abs like Mr. Chemistry Man over there?”
When I reach Sam, she hands me my towel and keeps her focus on the sky.
“Here, cover yourself. You’re indecent.”
“I’m wearing a bathing suit and a t-shirt.”
“Yes, and women have been going into shock all morning at the sight. I’ve heard the first aid tent has run out of beds, so just do us all a favor.”
“Us?”