“Um, no. You were the one who resembled a human wrecking ball. I didn’t have a chance.”
I chuckled. It was nice to know that Mr. Grumpy actually had a sense of humor. I stuck out my hand and he looked at me as if I had grown three heads. “Let’s start over. Hello, my name is Maggie Young. Seventeen-year-old self-confessed chocoholic and overall fabulous human being. Pleased to meet you.”
Clayton slowly reached out and clasped my hand in his. His handshake was firm and made those obnoxious butterflies in my stomach take flight at the feel of his warm skin against mine. His smile was wide and genuine, making his brown eyes sparkle. “Clayton Reed, though you can call me Clay. Seventeen-year-old senior and unabashed misanthrope.” He dropped my hand and stood there awkwardly.
“Misanthrope, huh? So you’re a people hater? Well, aren’t you a barrel of fun?” I leaned against his car beside him. We were standing so close that our shoulders brushed against each other. I couldn’t help but notice the tantalizing smell of his cologne, something citrusy and musky all at once. Clay moved marginally so that no part of our bodies touched. I tried to squelch my disappointment. I secretly—and, I hoped, imperceptibly—sniffed myself. All clear: deodorant was still working.
“Can’t say thatfunis a word I would use to describe myself lately. Maybe at one time . . .” Clayton’s words trailed off and he peeked at me through his lashes as if he were embarrassed at revealing anything remotely personal about himself.
“It must have been hard to have to transfer your senior year of high school. I mean, leaving your friends, girlfriend, whatever.” Wow, I wasn’t subtle at all. I cringed at my obvious dig for information. I didn’t want to seem so blatantly eager, but I just couldn’t help myself.
Clayton’s small smile appeared again, letting me know he wasn’t fooled by my conspicuous line of questioning. “It wasn’t that big of a deal. No real friends to speak of. No girlfriend.” He smirked and then looked away. His answer made me sad, though. How depressing to not have any friends, nothing to really tie you to a particular place.
“Well, maybe that will change here,” I said. Clayton looked at me questioningly and I realized that the statement sounded more like a coy invitation. I coughed uncomfortably and cleared my throat. “I mean, making friends and all,” I covered lamely.
Clay nodded. “Maybe.” He didn’t sound at all convinced.
“Did your parents get new jobs or something? Is that why you moved?” I asked. Clayton’s discomfort seemed magnified with my question. I thought it was innocent enough, nothing to incite the reaction I got. Clayton moved a good foot away from me and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jacket. He turned his head away.
“Uh, no. There were just... um... circumstances that required me to move.” The tone of his voice let me know that that particular subject was closed.
“You’re not in the witness-protection program, are you?” I kidded, not wanting to drop the conversation. I wanted to know everything about Clayton Reed. He was going to be my friend, whether he wanted to be or not.
Clay laughed. “Nope. Can’t say that I am.”
“Rock star, then.”
He shook his head.
“Please tell me you don’t have a brain tumor.” By this point Clayton’s laugh was deep. His eyes crinkled at the corners and he seemed genuinely tickled by my questions.
“Brain tumor? Really? Where the hell did you get that one?” he asked, wiping the tears from his eyes after he had finally stopped laughing.
I shrugged. “You should hear the rumors going around about you.” Clay groaned. I playfully nudged his arm. He seemed startled by the physical contact but, for the first time, didn’t pull away.
“That’s what you get for your International Man of Mystery persona, buddy,” I told him.
“Well, I just don’t want people all up in my business, is all. I’m not exactly outgoing, if you couldn’t tell,” Clay conceded, looking at me for a moment as if I were one of those people he didn’t want “up in his business.”
Well, too bad, Clayton Reed, Iwasgoing to beallup in your business. This guy was way too closed off and more than a little sad. I didn’t think anyone could survive on so little personal interaction. Maybe I was being pushy, but something told me that there was a part of Clay that needed this. Someone taking the time to get to know him, and to give a shit.
After a few more minutes of less-awkward silence, Clay turned toward his Beamer. “Well, I’d better head home. Nice meeting you, Maggie.” He pulled open the door and stood there for a moment, as if trying to decide whether he really wanted to leave or not.
I moved away from his car, pulling my book bag onto my shoulder. I gave him a small wave. “Sure. It was nice meeting you, too. Maybe I’ll see you around,” I said noncommittally, although I knew I’d be hunting him down in the hallways first thing Monday morning. Clay smirked at me again, as if he could read my thoughts.
“I’m sure you will.” He started the engine and pulled out of his parking space. He gave a small salute and headed out of the parking lot. I stood there, mute, watching him go. I really hoped he didn’t look in his rearview mirror and see me staring after him like that, but I just couldn’t make myself move. Not until he was long gone.
“Wait! You actually spoke to him? Why did it take you this long to tell me? You should have said something immediately! This is major! What’s he like?” Rachel shot off her questions at a rapid-fire pace as we sat in my kitchen Saturday afternoon. We had just returned from seeing a really horrible romantic comedy, and we were trying to figure out what to do with the rest of our day. I had casually mentioned my conversation with Clay and she had jumped all over it.
I went to the refrigerator and got a soda, tossing Rachel a bottle of water, which she missed and which hit the tile floor with a loud thud. “Nice catch, DiMaggio,” I said sarcastically. Rachel flipped me her middle finger and leaned down to pick up the bottle. Once upright, she pushed it onto the counter and gave me the look that let me know I had a lot of explaining to do.
“Do not evade, Maggie May Young! Answer my questions! I need to know everything about your exchange with Mr. Clayton Reed.”
I perched on the stool beside my friend and slowly popped open my soda can. Then I took my time taking a long drink before setting it down on the counter. Rachel was ready to pop. “C’mon! Stop stalling! Tell me about him!”
It was at that moment that my mother decided to make an appearance. “Tell you about who?” she asked breezily as she took a glass from the cabinet. My face flamed red. I absolutelydid notwant to discuss Clayton Reed in front of my mom. As much as I loved my parents, there were limits to what I wanted them to know. I had stopped talking to my parents about my crushes around the time I had started shaving my legs. It’s not as if they would be weird or overly protective or anything; it was just too embarrassing.
“Claay-ton Reee-eed,” Rachel told her in a singsong voice. I shot her a dark look and she stuck her tongue out at me, whispering, “That’s what you get.”
