He rolled along towards me when I reached the mailbox, and I looked over.
“Hey, Brooke. I was wondering when you’d decide to come out and say ‘hello’,” he said, stopping short of me and kicking his skateboard up into his hand.
Cocky bastard. I flushed and looked down at the mail. Suddenly it was all so interesting: bills and a craft magazine. Craft magazine?
I felt him staring at me and stopped rifling through the mail.
“You saw me?” I asked, not looking at him.
“I especially liked the hand-on-the-hip look,” he replied.
I cringed. “Oh my God. I have to go.”
“Please don’t,” he said, and caught my arm. “I’m only teasing.”
I finally mustered the courage to look at him, and he let go of my arm.
“Why didn’t you just knock on my door?” I asked. “I saw you pass by, like, three times.”
He shrugged and massaged the back of his neck.
“Okay. That’s not an answer,” I said.
He grinned. “You looked busy. Vacuuming.”
I considered him for a moment. “Do you live in this neighborhood?”
“Just down the street.”
Well, that was inconvenient. Everything about this guy was inconvenient, from his incredibly sexy face and hair and eyes and body, to the fact that he went to my school, to the fact that he lived in my neighborhood. How had I not noticed him until today?
“But I’ve never seen you,” he said. “Did you just move here?”
“Well, my dad’s lived here awhile. I moved in with him when my mom moved to California,” I explained.
He looked at me as though he expected further explanation. I don’t know why I wanted to give it to him. It was presumptuous on his part, but for some reason it didn’t bother me.
“My parents divorced when I was in middle school,” I said.
“Jeez, they couldn’t pick a better time?” he asked.
“For real. I was already a frizzy, oily, pimple-ridden mess. You’d think they’d have the decency to wait until high school or something when things started leveling out.”
He grinned.
“Anyway, I went to Hanover High up until last year,” I said. “But I didn’t want to move across country my senior year, so here I am.”
“But it’s still a new school either way,” Ryan pointed out.
“True, but at least the area’s familiar, and I have a good friend from my old high school I still hang out with,” I said.
He nodded.
“So what’s your story?” I asked. “I never see you hanging out with anyone at school.”
He tensed immediately, clenching his jaw the same way he did when I caught him in the stands with my camera at the volleyball game.
“I don’t have a story,” he said.
I shuffled uneasily, unsure what to say. It was obvious I hit a nerve, and I thought better about pressing him. A little indignation flared up, though; after all, he clearly expected me to share with him, but he was unwilling to do the same. I never liked one-sided anythings, especially friendships.
“Sooo, where’s your house?” I asked, trying for something neutral.
“It’s six down from yours,” he replied. “Same side of the street.”
“So we’re practically neighbors,” I replied, and he nodded, dropping his skateboard on the sidewalk.
“I better go,” he said.
I felt the disappointment instantly. We had only begun talking, and there was so much I wanted to ask him, to know about him. Why was he at Beth’s funeral? Why was he a loner at school? He was hot as hell, so I knew looks had nothing to do with it. Why did he stare at me all the time at school? Why did he look pissed at the volleyball game? Why did Cal tell me to stay away from him? Why did he talk to me just now, seemingly happy until I asked him about his story? God, I couldn’t stand not knowing! And watching him glide down the sidewalk farther away from me while my mouth filled with questions put me in a rotten mood for the rest of the day.
***
“Can you believe I used to be a cheerleader?” I asked Lucy as we settled into our seats.
She didn’t know how to respond. I’m sure she wondered why I even mentioned it at all. It was random.
“I mean, I so don’t come across as the cheerleader type, do I?”
Lucy shrugged and gave me a noncommittal smile.
I kept trying.
“I was a flyer,” I continued. “I could do basket tosses all day long, but the Liberty was the hardest for me.”
Lucy shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Do cheerleaders have a type?”
I was surprised and felt slightly encouraged. “Sure they do. They’re sweet and bubbly and smiley.”
She grinned. “So stereotypical.”
I laughed. “Where do you think stereotypes come from?”
She giggled then went quiet. “Not all of them are sweet,” she whispered.