“You did. Lost in my thoughts.”
“Sorry.” His hair drips slightly onto the soft collar of his shirt. Like he hadn’t taken the time to dry off properly. “Where do you want to go? I hear there’s decent meat at Main tonight.”
She tries to imagine the expression on Carrie’s face as she walks into the dining hall with Richard. Haley realizes she’d rather endure tempeh at Lower hall than witness that face.
“Let’s go somewhere quiet,” she says. “I’m still avoiding light and noise.”
“Tell you what,” Richard says. “I’ve got a gift card for the Grille. Let’s use it.” The Grille has cozy, dim booths and great burgers. Jalape?o fries. This is good.
“Are you sure?” she asks. “I don’t want you to have to use up your card . . .”
Richard steers her toward the door. “It’s fine,” he says, “as long as you know: I’m not splitting. This boy eats the whole entrée.”
. . .
She floats. The dress floats. Their words, laughter, like bubbles, float.
Jenny twirls.
“Whoa, girl.” Laughter. The room sways. More laughter. Music.
“Oh, I love this song!” Jenny knows the words. She sings. She’s surprised by her own voice, how it carries, brightly, even the high notes. Soaring song, one of those that connects with a hidden place in your chest. The others join in, girl chorus, singing this one song.
Their blended voices sound unnaturally good in their own ears. They sound like, feel like, stars.
. . .
12
Richard
She has no idea how attractive she is.
This isn’t a word Richard would usually apply to a woman verging on his height, who, if she weren’t injured, could most likely outrun him and bench--press more than he weighs. Who wears no makeup, restrains her reddish--brownish hair in a permanent ponytail, and seems constantly clad in a revolving assortment of hoodies.
But Haley’s got this freckle--sprinkled nose that turns up at the end. And it’s positioned between these round blue eyes that laugh easily at his attempts at humor. And this warm flush that sweeps across her cheeks whenever she says something spontaneous and revealing. Which is often.
Sitting across the booth from her, fake--fighting over the last of the spicy fries, feels like being with an old friend.
Haley picks up one of the last, and biggest, fries.
“What’s it worth to you?” she says, waving it before his face.
“I’ll do your problem sets this week,” he says.
She tilts her head, considering. “Nah. Tempting, but that’s cheating. Plus I need to learn the stuff. Try again.”
He picks up the limp pickle spear on his plate. “I’ll give you my pickle.”
She makes this choking sound, like barely contained laughter. “That is just wrong,” she manages. “Sorry. You’ve got to do better or it’s mine. They’re all mine.”
“Okay,” he says. An idea comes to mind. What the hell. Just ask. “I’ll trade you for an apple. A whole bag of apples. And what might possibly be the best apple pie on the planet. Range Orchards, just a few miles from campus, has pick--your--own and they sell all sorts of stuff: cider donuts, pies. I’ll borrow a car from a friend and we can go this weekend. If you give me the last big fry plus the rest.”
Richard holds his breath. He has no idea why he suggested this. Completely unplanned. He hadn’t even thought of the local orchard where he went with his family last fall during Parents Weekend until just now. Ellen had loved it. “Stop me before I eat another cider donut!” she’d wailed after her third. He’d preferred the pie.
But he realizes that this is something he’d like to do. With Haley.
She doesn’t answer. Instead she gets this . . . look . . . in those eyes, reaches across the table, and next thing he knows she’s feeding him the jalape?o fry in question. She holds it until the last possible second, and is it his imagination or does she brush her fingers against his lips? She pushes the rest of the plate toward him.
“Well,” she says with a sigh, “you drive a hard bargain, Math Dude. I would have fought you for these, but I love apple picking.”
“Somehow I knew that.”
“So we’ll go this weekend?”
“Saturday. It’s supposed to rain Sunday. Can you go Saturday?”
“It’s a date.”
The word hangs in the air between them. He knows it sounds like something she probably didn’t mean . . . but in a way, it is. A date.
He has never gone on a “date” before. Unless you count prom. The one time ever in his young life that he formally asked a girl to accompany him to something.
He has absolutely no idea how this has happened.
“You want anything?” Haley says, holding out her cup. “I’m going to get a refill.”