“No, large,” I said quickly. I was starving. He grinned a little, which reminded me that the girls Kyle Bonham hung out with did not eat large fries. They’d probably cumulatively eaten half an order of fries in the last ten years, which was why they looked like miniature supermodels and I looked like the funny friend. “I like how the large container makes my hands look extra tiny and stunted. It helps me get perspective on life,” I added.
Oh dear god, someone take this shovel away from me so I can stop digging my own fricking grave.
He laughed though, shaking his head slightly. “You’re funny. Okay. One large fry is gonna be four thirty-six.”
I dug in my purse for the money. He counted out my change and went to grab the fries. I could feel my heart rate slowing back to “not having a coronary” speeds.
“There you go,” he said. “I think this is the right size for your hands,” he added, grabbing one of my tiny fingers and playfully lifting the whole arm up in the air.
His touch was like an electric shock tingling up my entire arm. I almost snatched it back; guys don’t usually go around grabbing my hands. Only guys like Kyle—guys who win state sports titles and homecoming king crowns—have the balls to do stuff like that in the first place. I hoped I hadn’t nervous-sweated enough to pit out my shirt.
But somehow I managed to keep it together long enough for him to squint back and forth between my hand and the fry box, measuring the two against each other before finally nodding as though I’d passed muster.
“Yup, looks like a fit,” he said.
He dropped my hand. I tried to breathe again.
“HA.” I forced a laugh. Poorly. “I should go. I have to meet up with my mom.” Awesome, Rachel, add to your intrigue by reminding him you hang out with your mother.
“Enjoy the fries, Rachel from writing,” he said, grinning. “See you tomorrow.”
“Sure.” I gulped, nodding too many times, too fast. “See you around.”
I walked away as slowly as I could force myself to, which was just this side of a sprint.
Breathing hard, I plopped onto a bench near the fountain. That had been disastrous.
But at least I’d gotten my picture. That had been the point, right? To flit something goofy to Monique? I finished typing her handle, then—because of course I’m oh-so-witty the minute actual guys have disappeared—I typed in a hashtag.
Send.
Immediately, I felt a little twinge. What if he saw it? He’d know it was me.
But that wouldn’t happen. Kyle didn’t follow me—maybe ten people did. I flitted all the pictures in the game to Monique, I’d been doing it for months; no one had ever noticed them before. I think the most attention any of the pictures ever got was a single non-Mo luv, and that squirrel vest had been AWESOME. Why would anyone suddenly care about this one?
My phone pinged with the sound that meant I had a reflit.
I opened my feed to see what Mo had said.
@attackoftherach_face tonight’s brain food.
The picture I’d flitted was below. That sweet, goofy half grin lingering around his lips was too adorable. So much so that it had made me feel sassy enough to flit:
@Mo_than_you_know I’m digging what
they’re serving up at Burger Barn today.
#idlikefrieswithTHAT
God, I am such an idiot.
chapter two
KYLE
TUESDAY, 5:00 P.M.
The girls who stepped up to the register looked about thirteen. Middle school age, probably. And they were all giggling.
Jeez, what was with the giggling today? I knew I looked like a tool in this hat, but it had never been noteworthy before. Middle schoolers: utter mysteries.
The ringleader: slick, straight, dirty-blond hair and what had to be fake fingernails. Finally she spoke up, hushing her crew with a wave of one hand.
“Okay, so, um, we’ll take three chocolate quake-shakes, please, and a burger for Lau-rie.” She said it with an exaggerated eye roll. Laurie must be the one in the back with the hunched shoulders, staring at her feet. Girls were so crappy to each other. “And a Diet Coke, please.”
I typed it into the register.
“Anything else?”
“Oh, um, yes, actually,” she said, biting her lip and looking back over her shoulder at her little posse. The group simultaneously giggled and squealed, sort of like a bagpipe laughing. I could see the bands on Ringleader’s braces. She’d chosen bright pink. “I’d like fries with THAT.”
Ringleader burst out laughing and buried her head in the nearest minion’s shoulder. The whole group was giggling louder than ever, whispering “I can’t believe you did it,” and raising their eyebrows at one another dramatically.
Jeez. These middle schoolers: extra annoying.
“That’s gonna be twenty-three eighteen,” I said, trying to make my voice as flat as possible. The less you give middle school girls to work with, the better. I’d learned that pretty thoroughly coaching lacrosse camp last summer. “Soda machine is to the right,” I added, pushing a cup with a plastic lid stuffed inside it across the counter.