The Creeping

I follow Sam through the house, up the stairs, and into his bedroom. My purse is on his bed where I left it and my cell rattles, vibrating against a compact. I snatch it from the bag and glare at the screen, hoping beyond hope that it isn’t Shane calling to chew me out. Taylor. Really, now? It’s been days since the bonfire and no word. Plus, we usually text, so what’s with him calling all of a sudden?

“You should answer it.” Sam surprises me, looking over my shoulder. I avert my eyes, worried that they’ll reveal too much, and fumble for the end button.

“No, that’s okay. I don’t know why he’s calling.”

“I do. Aren’t you going out with him?” He laughs a bit nervously, mostly to himself, when I don’t answer right away. He perches on the edge of his desk. He’s still wearing his UFO shirt, but it doesn’t look silly to me anymore. I take so long to answer because I can’t get over the fact that even though Sam assumes Taylor and I are together, he didn’t bring it up when I was throwing a jealous tantrum earlier.

“No, I’m not.” Thinking about Taylor makes me frown. “We’ve never even been out together. You know, not without a group.”

Sam stares at his socked foot as he taps his toes on the carpet. I crawl back onto his bed, crossing my legs. “I don’t get it then,” he says, shoulders drooping.

I start to get blushy as I realize I’m sitting on his bed. “Don’t get what?” I sound too breathy.

“Everything, really.” He smiles crookedly. “But in this moment, I don’t get why you never seem to have a boyfriend, but I always see you with guys. Granted, the infamous lacrosse or football players at Wildwood aren’t my type either.” He waggles his eyebrows before continuing, “But I see you out with them. And . . . I hear things.” He finishes quietly, eyes intent on my expression.

I pretend to fawn over my polished nails to stall for time. The tactic doesn’t deter Sam, who stares at me unflinchingly, patiently. Always patient. I sigh and admit, “I go on first dates with a lot of guys. I like flirting; guys act really interested when you’re just flirting and you’re still . . . you know, not giving it up. But I don’t have boyfriends.”

“Why not?”

I stare at the ceiling as I answer. “Guys lose interest once you show you’re interested. They only want what they can’t have. Once they get it, they leave. Everyone knows that.”

“I don’t know that,” he says firmly. I risk a quick look at his face when he says it. The crease in his brow is a parenthesis mark.

I shrug, turning my attention back to the ceiling and its whirling fan. It’s safer to stare at. “Then you must be the only person on the planet who doesn’t.”

I’m aware of him moving closer. I resist the urge to run. He stops directly in front of me, his head blocking my view of the ceiling. “Any guy who doesn’t want you because you don’t play hard to get is an ass. Those guys aren’t good enough for you.” I chew my bottom lip. Zoey would totally pitch a fit to know this: I’ve always wondered what it would be like to kiss Sam again. You know, after I’ve kissed handfuls of boys. I wonder if it would still stack up.

For a moment I think I might find out. I’m aware of my bottom lip parting from my top. My phone vibrates again, just as he moves to sit next to me. I glance down to see Dad’s office number on the screen.

“Dad?” I answer, breathless. Sam backs off, leaning against his desk, whistling softly.

“Hey, Pumpkin. I’m swamped at the office but wanted to check in and let you know I’ll be late tonight. Are the police still in front of the house?” Typical. Dad doesn’t even know I’m MIA.

“Not certain. I’m actually at Sam Worth’s house. His mom made dinner and we’re watching a movie.”

“That’s nice, Pumpkin. He’ll make sure you get home safe? Give me a call once you’re back.” The call ends when good-bye is just rolling off my tongue. I can’t help sighing as I toss my cell back into my purse.

“He still works a lot, doesn’t he?” Sam asks.

“All the time. He keeps saying he’ll cut back with Mom gone and all, but you know how it goes. Plus, I think it makes him sad to be home without her.”

“It must be hard for you too,” he says gently.

I wrinkle my nose. “I’m mostly used to it. What else is there to do but accept it? She left us.” My shoulders rise and fall. “Was Harry wearing a sweater-vest at the bonfire?” I change the subject.

One-half of his mouth hitches up. “Yeah. Don’t you remember Harry? He’s been in school with us since the eighth grade.” My fingers knit in my lap as I picture a twelve-year-old in a sweater-vest. “He wore headgear to school every day for two years?” Sam prods. I shake my head. He groans. “Zoey called him Dirty Harry.”

My hand flies to my mouth as I try to smother a laugh. “Oh my God. Dirty Harry is your BFF?” He smiles at the teasing in my tone. “Jeez, I thought he moved or something.”

“Nope. He got rid of the braces, started using dandruff shampoo, and became a Jedi Master at avoiding Zoey.” I cringe and laugh at the same time. “Really,” he says, stroking his chin, “Dirty Harry was not her best work.”