@BCody17: Long walk with the perfect girl. Best way to end the night.
His next tweet was on Sunday night—late, after he’d gotten home from dinner at our house. He’d tagged a fantasy show on HBO. Something about the mother of dragons? I scroll back through to check again. Nothing about Stacey from Saturday night, or even Dooney for that matter.
Maybe he deleted some tweets?
His Facebook page shows no posts on Saturday, and his Instagram account only has the selfie and the booze. He’s friends with his mom on Facebook, so I assume that’s why he didn’t put up the picture of the bar at Dooney’s.
The thought of Dooney makes me feel sick. I remember him on Tuesday, checking Ben’s phone at my locker.
You sure it’s gone?
What was gone? Ben must’ve deleted something. How could I not have asked? How could I not have noticed? Why wasn’t I paying attention?
I tap back to Twitter and scroll through Ben’s tweets one more time. There’s a new one at the top now: @BCody17: Surprising my girl tonight.
I hate myself a little bit for feeling pleased. I am tempted to tap the star to favorite this, but the memory of Stacey’s scorn stops my thumb on its way to the screen.
As I stare at the phone, trying to make sense of what Stacey said, it begins to ring. The caller ID flashes a name on the screen: BEN CODY.
I take a deep breath, and swipe to answer.
“Hello?”
“There you are.”
“Hey,” I say. Cool. Distant. Busy. Not entirely interested.
He catches it. “You okay?” he asks.
“Just saw your tweet.”
“Dang. Knew I shoulda called you first.” I can hear the Irresistible Grin in his voice. Some things never change. “Whatcha doing tonight?” he asks.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
This can’t wait a moment longer. “On what you deleted from your phone.”
Thick silence hangs in the air between us. It lasts 300 million years. Is this the beginning of the ice age?
“Huh?”
“Dooney,” I say. “Tuesday at lunch, when I walked up to my locker he was looking at your phone. He asked you if you were sure something was gone.” This sentence takes every bit of breath I have. I am winded like I ran a line drill. I gulp for air and forge ahead. “You said it was.”
More silence. If only I’d driven to his house to ask him in person. I need to see his face. I don’t know what he’s thinking. Is this a stony silence? A refusal? Is this how our era ends?
Given enough time, everything changes.
“Oooh, yeah.” A realization. A memory. “I deleted the Facebook pic I posted of the booze. Dooney’s dad was flipping out about all the underage drinking. Yelling at him about getting disbarred and crap.”
I consider this. “That picture is still up on your Twitter and Instagram.”
“Crap. Thanks. I gotta delete those, too,” he says. “Dooney was worried about Facebook ’cause his dad is on there. But good call. Better safe than sorry.” Affable. Not defensive. Easy going. My lungs expand a little. Then he says my name. “Kate?”
“Yeah?”
“Were you worried that I’d posted that pic of Stacey or something?”
I close my eyes and lean my head back against the seat. He told me the truth. Now it’s my turn. I want to explain. I want to tell him about Stacey and what she said about him—get it all out in the open. He was so upset the last time I mentioned Stacey. He’s trying to keep his head down and do what Coach tells him to.
Dad’s voice echoes in my brain: Steer clear.
The look on Ben’s face blurting, Because I love you, flashes in my mind. His surprise as the words flew out, frustrated and fierce and forthright. He’s been patient and up-front with me all week.
Stacey was so drunk she doesn’t even remember what happened. She just told me this herself.
“Maybe a little,” I admit.
“Yeah, I get it.”
A thick, dark shame oozes down my throat and puddles in my stomach. “You do?”
“Sure,” he says. “You’re smart. Don’t wanna date a jerk.”
Tears well up again. This time, they spring from relief, cool and clear. Every time I doubt him, Ben turns out to be better than I expect him to be.
The closer you look, the more you see.
“Sorry for being so . . . weird about it. Wish I could get my mind off this.”
“I’ve got just the ticket,” he says. The grin is back in his voice. “Two tickets actually.”
“What?” I ask, his smile spreading to me, winging its way across the wireless connection.
“Grease! Tonight. Just you, me, and the T-Birds. Maybe pizza afterward?”
“That’s perfect.” You’re perfect.
“Need to ask your mom or anything?”
“Yeah, but she’ll say yes.”