I probably should have put on something a little warmer; my denim cut-offs leave little to the imagination, goose bumps included. But I bought them in Hawaii and they’re like my new favorite thing. They still smell faintly like coconut sun lotion.
Then there’s the familiar creak as the fence beside me braces, and a pair of strong, lean arms appear as Dean leans over. Dean who is the star of the school squash team and the country club sweetie. Dean who has shoulders you could moor a boat on, artfully arranged sandy hair and clichéd Hot Boy green eyes. Dean whose attention I should probably be grateful for, but I’m always in the middle of something like this when he decides to make an appearance, and God, it’s irritating.
“You got a nice tan,” he says. Drawls. I’m still getting used to the accent over here. “Hawaii was awesome, right? I told you.”
“It was okay, yeah.” I squint at the camera body through the barely there sunshine and reach for a smaller screwdriver; I keep them lined up beside me in order of size.
“Whatcha doin’?”
“I want to know how it works.”
He pauses. Clucks his tongue between his teeth. “You want me to take a look?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Oh. Okay.” He’s pretending to watch what I’m doing, but mostly he’s just staring at my legs.
Amused, I rearrange them, crossing one over the other.
He blushes, just a little. “You all ready for school on Monday?”
I nod, concentrating on the screw. I don’t know why more girls don’t do this stuff; our smaller hands are perfect for manipulating tiny fixings. I wonder if Dean has a tiny fixing. Ha.
“Finish that project from Mrs Munson?”
“Uh-huh.” I lift the screw from its hole, pulling the black plastic panel away. “You?”
“Kinda. I could use a second pair of eyes, though. You want to get some pizza later or something, and swap papers?”
“I promised my mum I’d have dinner with her,” I say, trying to look disappointed. “Sorry.”
Maybe he’s just trying to be a nice neighbor. English people aren’t as forward; perhaps I’m not used to how things are. But we had cable, so I grew up on a solid diet of Nickelodeon, and I’m pretty sure the Boy Next Door who Paid Attention wanted a lot more than pizza and good grades. Since we moved here last year, I’ve accepted Dean’s invitations twice, and both times his parents were out and he invited me up to his room. This boy’s bed sheets are freaking tartan. Yeah. I don’t think today will be three-times-a-lady, even if being his girl toy would double my number of fake friends.
Still. He’s king of the swift recovery. “Another time.” He shoots me the Colgate smile; you can practically here the little ping! sound as the sun bounces off all that white. “Hey—you missed a whole load of drama while you were away.”
He’s losing my interest and thinks gossip will win it back. I’ll pretend that it’s working because it alleviates the awkwardness. Anything, anything, for that. “Oh really…?”
“Fuck, yeah. You know that business dude who’s been all over the TV and stuff? The one who killed his ma. Or, you know, they said he did—”
I sit bolt upright. “The Lore Corp guy?”
He smiles wider. Nods.
“But they let him go. I read about that.”
Dean leans farther over, his voice low and conspiratorial. “You know why?”
“His alibi checked out.” I swallow a chunk of dry air. It tastes like petals, bitter and new. I don’t know why I sound so defensive all of a sudden, but it’s embarrassing; Dean’s noticed. My cheeks grow hotter as I blink.
“They’re saying his alibi was on this street. Like, he was here when he was meant to be choking his ma—his car was in someone’s drive. I was at the club with my dad last weekend and everyone was talking about it, like, we don’t remember a car like that. And you know my dad.” He rolls his eyes, then glances back at the ridiculous garage on the side of his house. “He likes cars.”