“I do not.”
He pulls back, taking with him his touch, his scent, his familiarity. Grinning, he looks pointedly down at my hand resting on my thigh. My thumb and pointer finger rub against one another, over and over. How long have I been doing that?
I clench my fist, ceasing my tell, and glare at Finn. He smiles again, and it’s the kind of grin that saysI know what you’re not saying. It infuriates me.
“Get in the car,” I mutter.
Finn closes my door and walks around the back of the vehicle. Our drive is quiet, but my mind is racing.
It’s always been this way with Finn. His presence is like a drug, something highly addictive.
But he’s not the only drug I’m addicted to.
8
Then
“Brady, stop.”His fingers curl into my sides, tickling me again. Through my girlish giggle, I manage to say, “Your mom is going to lose it if she catches us.”
“So?” His fingers freeze, but he doesn’t move them away from me.
I give his shoulder a good, hard shove, and his hands leave my sides. “Soshe hates me.”
“She does not hate you.”
Brady bumps his arm against mine, but not nearly with the strength I just used on him. I look up into his eyes, and he sighs, lifting his gaze to the ceiling.
“Okay, fine. She’s not your biggest fan. But she doesn’thateyou.”
Brady has finally admitted what I’ve always known, but the victory is empty. Rolling over onto my right hip, I push myself up and off his bed.
“We should go. Finn hates when people are late.”
“Finn is always early.”
“He’s punctual.” My defense of Finn is automatic. I spend a lot of my life defending him. To classmates, to teachers, to my mother. Reaching down, I tap Brady’s math textbook. “Do you feel proficient solving linear equations?” That’s what we were doing before Brady decided to take advantage of how ticklish I am.
Brady shrugs. He sits cross-legged on his bed, the navy blue shorts he wears blending into his navy blue bedspread. “As good as I’ll ever be at it.”
Grabbing my lemon yellow backpack off the wood floor, I swing it up onto my shoulder and try to decipher the odd look on Brady’s face. It’s a futile effort. Fourteen-year-old boys are such odd creatures.
“Why didn’t you ask Finn to help you with math?” Of the three of us, Finn is the smartest. He’s also the one with the worst grades.
Brady closes his book but doesn’t answer me. He stands up and pushes his backpack up against his bed with his foot.
Things between Brady and Finn have changed over the last year. They’re still best friends, but something else is popping up too. Competition, for starters. They both behave as if the other is a yardstick by which they need to measure up. As though Brady could ever have Finn’s impetuousness, his ability to see a straight line and bend it into a new object. Finn has no chance of being calm like Brady, of seeing a task and understanding that completing it will lead to somethingmore, and maybe that something isbetter. Finn thinks the world has taken something from him. Brady believes he has something to give the world.
Brady still isn’t answering my question about Finn, so I push further. “My days of helping you in math are going to be over once you go to that fancy private school.” Eighth grade will be done soon, and Brady’s mom and dad decided he’d be better off at the private high school than filing into the public school with the rest of us from Agua Mesa Junior High. “You know they teach a year ahead. And you know what that means. Unless you want a tutor.”
Brady grimaces. The idea of needing a tutor embarrasses him. As it is, nobody knows Brady has trouble in math. Perhaps Finn and I have done too good a job of helping him.
“Finn is the best answer to your problem, Brady. But you know that already.” I grab his hand and pull him toward his bedroom door. “Now let’s go before your mom comes home and finds me in your room and starts getting hives.”
“She’s not allergic to you. She was having a bad day and she gets hives when she feels overwhelmed.”
“And finding someone like me in her home overwhelms her. I get it.” I walk out of his room and down the hall toward the stairs. I’d prefer it if my best friend’s mom liked me, but Brady’s mom is such a handful that I don’t mind it much. It’s easier for me if she doesn’t like me, because it means I’m not subjected to her boring conversation about where the other affluent people of Agua Mesa aresummering. In my opinion, if you call a vacationsummering, you’re spending your money the wrong way.
We’re in the foyer when the door from the garage into the house opens. I run forward, knowing that Brady’s mom needs only to walk the short distance through the laundry room to be in the exact best position to see me. Wrenching open the front door, I rush through and turn around to look at Brady.
