Trade Me (Cyclone #1)

I let out a snort. “Right.”


But as I speak, my gaze strays back to my laptop. I can see the little rectangle where I paused Blake’s video. I saw you the first day we crossed paths, and I’ve been seeing you ever since. That little burn in my stomach comes back.

Stupid. He doesn’t know me.

At that moment, my laptop dings—the two-tone note of a Facebook notification.

It has nothing to do with him, I’m sure. Still, my heart jumps. I stand up and move over to the computer.

“Right,” I say more slowly, and I hope, very sarcastically.

I switch to the Facebook tab. I have a new friend request. My heart thumps as I click on it. It’s from Blake Reynolds. I let out a little gasp.

Confirm. Ignore.

“Right,” I repeat a third time, this time to remind my stupidly accelerating pulse. “Don’t hope too hard, Ma. I don’t have time for any boyfriends at all, let alone a rich one.” I shake my head and push away from the computer. “Is Mabel there? Can I talk to her?”

My mind races as I talk to my sister, though. What does this mean? Why did he send me a friend request?

I sigh. Better question is: Why am I being so dramatic? I don’t let myself think about Facebook for ten minutes. When I finally hang up, I tell myself I should start on homework. I should definitely not think about Blake Reynolds. And I do close the other tab without watching the interview.

But that brings the Facebook tab to the forefront. The request is still pending.

Confirm. Ignore.

Those are my choices. My heart is still beating at an accelerated rate, and I’d like to pretend I don’t know why. The truth is, there’s a part of me that’s following my mother’s wishful thoughts. A rich boyfriend would make things a lot easier for me. If I were the kind of person who could let someone take care of me, that is.

But if there had ever been any chance of that—and there never was—I bashed that over the head for good today.

Confirm. Ignore.

I should just ignore him. Ignore this. He’s nothing but a distraction, and I don’t need more distractions.

But instead of clicking ignore, before I let myself think what I’m doing, I click “send a message” and type out a short sentence.

Does your dad know the meaning of the words “age appropriate?”

He responds a few moments later. He doesn’t ask why I want to know. He knows his life; it’s obvious why I’m asking.

Of course he does, Blake writes. He just didn’t believe it applies to me. And then there’s a box with a question mark—undoubtedly some emoji that my computer is too old to decipher. It could be a smile. It could be an eye roll. It could be anything, and I’m not going to find out what it is. Because I don’t have the money. And—I tell myself—because I don’t care.

It’s not very convincing. I turn away from the computer instead and go make dinner.

The request is still waiting when I come back.

Confirm. Ignore.

I close the tab.

Confirm. Ignore.

Two days later, I still haven’t responded to Blake’s friend request. I don’t know what it means and I don’t have the time or the energy to think about it. Truth is, I’m a little too attracted to him to allow myself any closer. And yes, I understand that Facebook friendship is to real friendship as cigarette lighters are to intercontinental ballistic missiles. But somehow, this seems to represent a line. If I cross it, it will lead to…

Admittedly, whenever I try to map out the progression, it never seems terrible. Step one is Facebook friendship. Step two is unreadable emoji. Step three is probably going to be occasional head nods in each other’s direction, not the destruction of the world as we know it.

But my feelings aren’t logical. Every time I tell myself to accept the request, I cycle back to that memory of Blake looking in my eyes and telling me that I’ve never been invisible to him.

And yes, my attraction makes a little too much sense. Blake has symmetrical features and meets generally accepted standards for masculine appeal. In addition, he’s rich, smart, and powerful. I can tell myself that it’s ridiculous as often as I like, but I’m fighting years of social programming. Even a hint of interest on his part is enough to spark my subconscious desire.

That’s precisely why—logically—I want nothing to do with him. Television and books have all led me to hope, to believe that magic happens. Experience tells me that fiction is fiction and that hope leads to disappointment. Even assuming that he liked me, we’ve already proven that we’re too different to get along in reality. Nobody will ever take care of me but myself, and I can’t let myself believe anything else.

Friendship with Blake is not safe. It’s not even Facebook safe.