“You wish,” she retorts.
“Every day. What about you, Rydell?”
“No thanks,” I say.
He puffs out a breath, acting wounded. “You leave a boyfriend wailing for you back east?”
I grunt noncommittally. Grace’s stool creaks. I can feel both of them looking in my direction, and when I don’t reply, Porter says, “I know what will x this. Quiz time.”
Grace groans. “Oh, no.”
“O-oh, yes.”
I risk a glance at his face, and he’s grinning to himself, scrolling madly on his phone. “A quiz is the best way to get to know yourself and others,” he says, like he’s reading a copy from a magazine.
“He’s obsessed with stupid quizzes,” Grace explains. “He in icts them on everyone at school. Cosmo quizzes are the worst.”
“I think you mean the best,” he corrects. “Here’s a good one. ‘Why Don’t You Have a Boyfriend, Girlfriend? Take this quiz to
nd out why a super girl like you is still sitting home alone on
Saturday night instead of pairing up with the boy of your dreams.’ ”
“Nope,” Grace says.
“I’ll just take this back, then,” Porter says, attempting to snatch the water from Grace’s hand. ?ey wrestle for a second, laughing, and when she shrieks, spilling cold water on her orange Cave vest, I almost get Porter’s elbow in my face. He holds the water over her head, out of reach.
“All right, you win,” Grace says. “Do your damn quiz, already. Better than just sitting here, I suppose.”
Porter hands her water back, settles against the door, and reads from the quiz. “ ‘Your older sister takes you to a campus party while you’re visiting her at college. Do you: (A) dance with her and her friends; (B) skinny-dip in the backyard pool; (C) grab a hottie and go make out in an empty bedroom upstairs; (D) sit alone on the couch, people-watching?’ ”
I don’t bother answering. A young couple comes to my window, so I ip on the mics long enough to greet them and sell two tickets. When I’m done, Grace has chosen answer A.
“What about you, Rydell?” Porter asks. “I’m thinking you’re answer B—secret exhibitionist. If you don’t quit today, who knows. I might just look up on the monitors tomorrow and nd you stripping by the Cleopatra Pool in Vivian’s Wing.”
I snort. “Is that what you’ve been imagining back in the security booth?”
“All afternoon.”
“You’re an ass.”
He holds my gaze. “Scratch that. I think you’re actually answer C. You’d grab a ‘hottie’ ”—he makes one-handed air quotes—“and go make out in an empty bedroom. Am I right?”
I don’t answer.
He’s not dissuaded. “Next question.” He swipes the screen of his phone, but he’s not looking at it; he’s staring at me. Trying to intimidate me. Trying to see who’ll blink rst. “Did you leave DC because (A) you couldn’t nd any hotties to make out with? Or (B) your East Coast boyfriend is an ankle buster and you’d heard about legendary West Coast D, so you had to nd out for yourself if the rumors were true?” he says with a smirk.
“Idiot,” Grace mumbles, shaking her head.
I may not understand some of his phrasing, but I get the gist. I feel myself blushing. But I manage to recover quickly and get a jab in. “Why are you so interested in my love life?”
“I’m not. Why are you evading the question? You do that a lot, by the way.”
“Do what?”
“Evade questions.”
“What business is that of yours?” I say, secretly irritated that he’s gured me out. And who is he anyway, my therapist? Well, I’ve got news for him, I’ve been to two of the best therapists money can buy in New Jersey, once with my mom and once on my own, and neither one of those so-called experts was able to keep me in the chair for longer than two sessions. ?ey said I bottled up my feelings, and I was uncommunicative, and that evasion was a “maladaptive coping mechanism” to avoid dealing with a stressor, and that it was an unhealthy way to avoid panic attacks.
